The Tutor's Daughter

by Julie Klassen

  Emma felt bile burn her own throat.

  “Sea gulls began circling and swooping down to take what they might,” Henry continued. “Then the wreckers began to appear, like sneaky crabs creeping forward on the sand, rejoicing at gold coins found in a corpse’s pocket, a silver watch, or a gold ring wrenched from cold fingers.”

  Again Henry shook his head. “Agents were dispatched and were soon busy saving as much of the cargo as possible—and staving off the attacks of the wreckers. About a thousand casks of butter were gathered and locked into our local fish cellars. Mr. Bray arrived and stood guard as our acting constable. Eight stout men approached and said they came for butter, and butter they would have. They were all noted wreckers, Derrick Teague among them. A fight broke out.

  “I was worried about the one lad who’d survived, for because of him the butter washed ashore was not fair game under the common law. So I grabbed his arm and half-dragged, half-carried him up to the house.” He exhaled roughly. “It was the worst night of my life.”

  Emma ventured quietly, “You saved him, at least.”

  “That’s all I did.” Henry’s mouth twisted. “I should have done more.”

  Her heart ached for him. “But you were young,” she soothed. “Only a lad yourself.”

  “No, I was nineteen. A man. Or at least, I should have been.”

  “But you said yourself there was little anybody could do. To risk your life under those odds . . .”

  “We all of us die, Miss Smallwood,” he interrupted. “But we don’t all of us make our lives count for something. How much better to die saving another soul than to stand safe on shore and do nothing while others perish? I promised myself then and there that the next time I was in that situation—and I knew there would be a next time, living here at a place infamous for shipwrecks—that I would not hesitate to act.”

  Emma’s gaze remained glued to Henry Weston’s profile, fascinated and moved by the emotions playing over his face. “Well. You are acting now. And I for one am very impressed.”

  “Miss Smallwood, impressed?” He gave her a sidelong glance, green eyes shining. “That is one for the history books.”

  The next day, Henry was surprised but pleased when Miss Smallwood came out again to view the work on the warning tower. She was followed by Rowan and Julian, who had the day off from their studies because their tutor had gone with the vicar to a lecture sponsored by the Royal Geographical Society of Cornwall. Of the young people at Ebbington, only Phillip and Lizzie were not among them. And Adam, of course. How he wished Lady Weston would relent and allow his older brother a bit of freedom. Henry would not give up until he had convinced her, or at least his father, to do so.

  For now, however, he would be satisfied with the progress on the tower. The risers, supports, and observation deck were finished, and the estate carpenter was busy fashioning the railings.

  “Good morning, Mr. Weston,” Emma greeted him. “How goes the work?”

  “Very well, thank you. I have ordered the bell from a nearby foundry, but it is not yet ready. Otherwise, we are on schedule for completion by week’s end.”

  She smiled at him. “Excellent.”

  Her praise lengthened his spine, and her smile did strange things to his heart.

  Beside her, his half brothers squinted up at the bell tower with distaste.

  “Looks like a guillotine frame to me,” Rowan said.

  Julian added, “Or a hangman’s gibbet.”

  So much for praise. Yet Henry had to acknowledge the justice of their comparisons—there were fundamental similarities. The structure was fairly rudimentary: a tower of wooden scaffolding, with a ladder to reach its deck ten feet from the ground.

  When the bell arrived, he would mount it on the deck in a rocker stand. Henry pointed upward and explained where the bell would be positioned and how it would be rung.

  Rowan asked, “Why not just run a rope to the ground?”

  Henry had considered that. He explained, “I want a person standing on the observation deck to be able to sound the bell from up there as well. But perhaps I shall bore a hole and run a rope down so it might be rung from either the deck or the ground. Good idea, Rowan.”

  Rowan lifted his hands in defense as though accused of wrongdoing. “Wasn’t my idea.”

  “Don’t make the rope too long,” Julian said darkly. “Or you’ll hang us all.”

  Henry was taken aback. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Miss Smallwood frown. He asked, “What do you mean by that?”

  Julian shrugged. “You know there are some who won’t take kindly to the idea.”

  “Wreckers, you mean?”

  “Many of our neighbors view shipwrecked cargo as their right.”

  “I realize that, but lives are more important.”

  Julian sniffed. “Depends on whose life, I suppose.”

  Irritation shot through Henry. He scowled at Julian. “How so? In God’s eyes all lives are equally important.”

  “That’s one interpretation,” Julian said. “I just hope you don’t bring down trouble on the rest of us with that contraption.”

  Henry was jolted by his brother’s words. He hoped they weren’t true. Noticing Miss Smallwood’s troubled look, he said, “If there are consequences, I hope they shall fall on me alone and not the rest of you.”

  Julian slanted him a look, the sunlight glinting off his eyes turning them icy blue. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  Rowan, his gaze trained on the tower, said, “You are familiar with the other name for a gallows?”

  Henry frowned at this apparent change in topic. “Which name are you referring to?”

  Rowan made no answer, but Miss Smallwood quietly supplied, “A derrick.”

  Derrick . . . the word resonated in Henry’s mind. The given name of the area’s most infamous wrecker. Derrick Teague.

  A short time later, Julian and Rowan announced their intention to make the most of their day off by jaunting into the village. They invited Emma to join them, but she politely declined. The two strolled eagerly away, leaving Emma and Henry standing in awkward silence, watching them go.

  Emma was about to excuse herself and return to the house when the donkey cart rumbled up the cliff road. As it passed the boys, Rowan turned and pointed in their direction. The driver waved his thanks and steered toward them, carrying neither passenger nor visible delivery.

  Henry called out, “What is it, Tommy?”

  The young man pulled a letter from his pocket and waved it in the air. “A message for a Mr. or Miss Smallwood.”

  As the youth reined in the donkey, Emma stepped forward. “I am Miss Smallwood.”

  He handed down the note, and Emma instantly recognized the handwriting.

  “It’s from Aunt Jane.”

  Henry withdrew a coin from his pocket and handed it to the driver.

  “Thank you,” Emma acknowledged, her eyes glued to the message as she unfolded it. “I shall repay you as soon as I retrieve my reticule.”

  “No matter. I hope everything is all right.”

  Emma skimmed the letter and looked up at him in astonishment. “She is at the Stratton Inn this very moment. Good heavens.”

  As the donkey cart rattled away Emma read the letter again more slowly.

  Hello my dears,

  I have made an unplanned trip into Cornwall, to escort one of my pupils home (her mother is ailing and sent for her). As I was in the area, I thought I would attempt to see you.

  I understand from your letters that unexpected guests are not always welcomed at Ebbington Manor, so I have decided it would be unwise to arrive unannounced. Therefore I shall await you here. My return coach departs at two this afternoon. If you are unable to get away, I shall understand perfectly. But if you are able, I should dearly enjoy seeing you for even a brief visit. Either way, know that I am well and missing you both.

  All my love,

  Jane

  Henry asked, “Why did she not come here?”


  “She did not wish to arrive unannounced. To presume . . .”

  “Meaning you told her how you and your father were received when you arrived?”

  Emma bit her lip. “I am afraid so.”

  “Jane Smallwood would be very welcome, I assure you,” Henry insisted.

  “Thank you.” Emma consulted her chatelaine watch and frowned. The lecture her father had gone to with the vicar was several hours away. They would not return until late that afternoon. “Her coach leaves in three hours,” Emma said. “If I wait for Father to return, I shall miss her.”

  “Come.” Henry gestured. “Let’s make haste to the stables. We shall go in my curricle.”

  Emma began to protest, “That is very kind of you, but—”

  “No buts, Miss Smallwood. You must see your aunt. In fact, I would very much like to see her again myself. If you don’t mind, I shall stay just long enough to say hello, and then leave you ladies to visit.”

  “Of course, if you like. I am certain she would be happy to see you as well.”

  A short while later, Emma and Henry were on their way to Stratton in the open, two-wheeled curricle pulled by a pair of sleek roans. Ten or fifteen minutes in the smart, lightweight carriage brought them to their destination.

  At the inn at the top of the High Street, Henry gestured for a hostler to take the reins and hopped down to give Emma a hand.

  Behind them, the door to the inn opened, and Jane Smallwood stepped outside, apparently having seen them arrive. “Emma!” She beamed and walked forward, arms outstretched.

  Emma entered her embrace and felt tears prick her eyes. She had not realized just how much she missed her aunt.

  Aware of Henry behind her, Emma turned. “And you remember Mr. Weston.”

  “Of course I do.” Jane Smallwood smiled. “How good to see you again, Henry.”

  “And you, Miss Smallwood. You are looking well, I must say. How are you?”

  “Very well, I thank you. Better now that I am with my dear niece again. Thank you for bringing her.”

  “My pleasure. I am only sorry Mr. Smallwood has gone out for the day. Can you not stay longer? You would be most welcome at Ebbington Manor. . . .”

  “Thank you, no. I’ve left the other girls in the care of my maid and Mrs. Malloy—you remember Mrs. Malloy?”

  “Yes, a very capable woman.”

  “Indeed. But she has her duties as cook-housekeeper for my brother’s tenants, so I cannot ask her to stay on longer. But thank you just the same.”

  “Very well. I will leave you two to visit.” Henry turned to Emma. “And, Miss Smallwood, do feel free to tell your aunt about Adam. I trust her discretion.” He drew himself up. “I shall return at two o’clock to see you off and collect Emma.”

  Jane smiled once more. “That is very kind of you, Henry. Thank you.”

  Her eyes shone with speculation as she watched the tall young man walk away.

  “Well. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Yes,” Emma said. “Mr. Weston is full of surprises.”

  “Is he?” One of Jane’s thin brows rose high.

  Emma hurried to explain that she was merely referring to all of Henry’s endeavors, describing his warning tower and his work with the village council.

  “Very impressive, yes,” her aunt agreed, opening the inn door for Emma. “The two of you are getting on better than you predicted, I take it?”

  “Yes, I suppose we are.”

  The two ladies entered the inn and took seats at the table where Jane had left her carpetbag and cloak. Jane ordered refreshments from the innkeeper, then asked Emma, “And who is this Adam Henry mentioned?”

  Emma leaned close and confided all she knew about Adam Weston. She ended by saying, “I thought of writing to tell you about him but was not sure I should, in case the letter might be misdirected. I haven’t even told Father.”

  Jane nodded. “I am surprised Lady Weston thinks they shall be able to keep him a secret after everything that has happened.”

  “It is unfortunate she wishes to do so.”

  “Yes. What does Phillip say about it?”

  Emma had mentioned in one of her letters that Phillip had returned from Oxford. She replied, “He says he feels trapped between what Henry wants for Adam and what Lady Weston wants.”

  Jane’s eyes were distant in thought. “I can imagine. How strange to be reunited with a brother he never knew.”

  The two Miss Smallwoods went on to speak of other topics. Emma shared details about her father’s marked improvement in spirits, and Jane, in turn, shared news from Longstaple—their tenant, Mrs. Welborn, had asked her unmarried sister to stay with her, to help with the children. And Mr. Gilcrest had sold the forge for a larger one in Plymouth.

  “I am sorry to hear it,” Emma said, thinking that with his departure went any hope of his cousin and Jane’s former admirer, Mr. Farley, returning to Longstaple. How unfortunate.

  The innkeeper brought tea and a light meal, and their discussion moved on to other things. The time flew quickly, and all too soon, Jane’s coach was called.

  Henry appeared as promised and carried Jane’s bag out to the coach. “I was telling Emma she ought to ask you to Ebbington Manor whenever you might be at liberty to visit. Please do consider yourself invited, Miss Smallwood. You would be most welcome.”

  “Thank you, Henry. I shall consider it.”

  Jane hugged Emma and climbed inside the coach. The few outside passengers took their seats, the guard climbed up on the rear and blew his long horn, and the horses pulled in tandem. As the coach moved down the lane, Jane waved from the window and Emma waved back, tears blurring her vision.

  She stared after the coach until it disappeared, aware of the man waiting patiently beside her but unwilling to turn until she had blinked away all her tears.

  Finally, Emma sighed and turned, forcing a smile. “Shall we go?”

  Henry laid his palm before her, and she placed her hand in his. And unless she was mistaken, he held her hand several moments longer than absolutely necessary to simply help her into his curricle.

  When a wreck took place—it might be within a stone’s throw of the land—in many cases the sailors perished beneath the very eyes of those on shore who could do no other than stand as helpless witnesses of the tragedy.

  —A.K. Hamilton Jenkin, editor, An Account of Wrecks

  Chapter 20

  The next day, a fine June morning, Emma decided to join her father for his early walk along the coast and tell him all about her visit with Aunt Jane. When she went downstairs, however, Mr. Davies informed her she had just missed her father, but if she hurried, she might yet catch him. Thanking the steward, Emma hurried out into the passage and nearly ran into Henry Weston in riding clothes.

  “Good morning, Miss Smallwood,” he said, removing his hat. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “I was hoping to catch my father and join him for his walk.”

  Henry opened the door for her. “I shall walk with you as far as the stables.”

  As they crunched across the gravel path, Mr. Weston turned his head to look over the garden wall toward the coast. He stopped in his tracks.

  Emma turned, following his gaze. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Henry pointed to the horizon. A horizon no longer broken by a wooden tower.

  His jaw clenched. “Pardon me.” He turned and strode out the garden gate and jogged across the headland. Emma hitched up her skirt and ran after him.

  Winded, sides aching, she caught up with him as he neared the tower. Or what was left of it.

  Splintered posts and planks lay haphazardly on the ground.

  Surveying the damage, Emma panted to catch her breath. “Did the wind knock it over?”

  Henry kicked at a fallen post. “See this? Marks from a saw. No wind did that. Unless it was one of your nefarious wind gods.”

  Emma shivered. “Why would anyone do such a thing? Simple vandalism, o
r . . . ?”

  Henry shook his head, expression hard. “No. Other motives were at work here.”

  “What motives?”

  “Greedy wreckers, I’d wager.” He yanked off his hat and ran an agitated hand through his hair. “You heard what Julian and Rowan said yesterday.”

  Heavy dismay filled her at the loss of all his work and plans. “Yes, but I still can’t believe anyone would truly object to saving lives.”

  “Remember that cargo from wrecks is often considered free for the taking when there are no survivors. So any effort to save life is viewed by some as depriving the poor of what is regarded as God’s grace to them.”

  “Can people really be so heartless, poor or not?”

  He picked up a severed chunk of wood and hurled it off the cliff. “Apparently.”

  Taking in the stern set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes, she asked tentatively, “What will you do?”

  Henry Weston inhaled through flared nostrils, clearly trying to master his anger. “I shall report this to our constable, Mr. Bray. Though I doubt there is anything he can do. Then I will rebuild.”

  News spread quickly across the estate. Members of his family and clusters of servants and tenants ventured out to see the damage, going away with somber faces, whispered warnings, and “Did I not tell you this would happen?”

  Henry had sent a groom with a message for Mr. Bray. The grey-haired constable rode his horse across the headland an hour later. Reaching the point, he dismounted and grasped Henry’s hand. He surveyed the scene, shook his head, and said he would do what he could, though he offered little hope of the perpetrators being identified or brought to justice.

  When the constable turned to remount his horse, Miss Smallwood walked over and stood beside Henry.

  He glanced down at her, self-conscious to have her witness the failure of his project he’d been so proud of the day before. He’d not thought to post guard. He had truly believed Julian and Rowan had exaggerated the risk. He looked away from her concerned, gentle eyes. Instead he watched Mr. Bray ride away toward the cliff path. He nodded in the man’s direction. “There goes the bravest person I know.”