Phillip frowned. “There is no call to malign Lizzie.” Then he asked, “How . . . does Emma feel about you?”
Henry fidgeted. “She barely tolerated me when I was in Longstaple. We get on better now, mostly because of our mutual interest in Adam. But don’t worry—I don’t flatter myself it’s anything more than that.”
Henry thought of the way Emma had looked at him, clung to him on the beach. He blinked away the image, as well as his irrational reaction. If Phillip was worried or jealous, he certainly didn’t show it.
Sir Giles shook his head. “Be that as it may, there are now hard feelings between her and Lizzie—and Lady Weston, I fear. She was not happy I invited Mr. Smallwood here in the first place. And after this . . .”
“He has done nothing wrong, and neither has his daughter. Please do not allow her to dismiss them unjustly.”
Sir Giles sighed. “Easy to say, my boy. Difficult to accomplish.” He rose. “I shall see what I can do to smooth her feathers.”
When he left them, Henry looked at his brother, who was gazing out the window lost in thought. He said, “I must say, Phillip. I am surprised by your lack of loyalty to the woman you supposedly love.”
Phillip winced, but his focus remained distant. “I want to believe her, I do. But . . . I’ve never known Miss Smallwood to behave dishonorably.”
Henry stared. Realization . . . confirmation . . . washed over him. Phillip had revealed the true object of his affections, misguided though they were. The relief Henry felt was tainted by the knowledge that Phillip’s choice would likely lead not only to his own unhappiness but also to further discord between him and Lady Weston.
Henry left Phillip ruminating in the library. He crossed the hall and turned down the back passage, thinking to have a word with Mr. Davies before setting out to visit the rescued sailors himself.
He was none too pleased to see Derrick Teague leaving through the rear door beyond the steward’s office. Henry recognized that greasy, dark red hair from behind. What possible business did that man have at Ebbington Manor? Had he met with Davies, or someone else?
Henry called after him. “Mr. Teague.”
The man glanced over his shoulder but did not stop.
Henry caught up with him on the path outside and matched his stride. “What were you doing here?”
The man smirked. “Just paying a call.”
“On Davies, or someone else?”
Teague’s eyes glinted. “Be that thy business, lad?”
“If it involves Ebbington Manor or the Weston family, then yes, it is.”
“Thee don’t rule the roost, do thee, lad? So don’t give thyself airs.”
Anger rushed through Henry at the man’s insolence. “If you will not tell me, I shall have to return to the house and ask around to learn whom you spoke with and why. I had better not discover you have been threatening anyone of my family.”
The man looked more amused than alarmed, which disconcerted Henry.
Teague said, “Careful, lad. Thee may not like what ’ee find.”
Henry fisted his hands, barely resisting the urge to strike the man. “Good day, Mr. Teague.” He turned and stalked back into the house, and into their steward’s office.
Davies looked up from his desk when Henry entered.
“What did Teague want with you?” Henry asked.
The steward’s mouth formed a silent O for several seconds before he replied. “Oh, he comes by now and again.”
“Why? What business has he with you? With any of us?”
“Aw, you know Teague.”
“No, I don’t. Enlighten me.”
Davies shuffled the papers on his desk. “The man always has some scheme in mind, or something to sell. Most of it pure stuff and nonsense. I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you.”
“But I do worry, Davies. And your words do not reassure me. Name one thing we have bought from Derrick Teague.”
“We’ve bought nothing.”
Henry stared into the man’s face. Davies might be telling the truth, but he was clearly uncomfortable. Something was not right.
“Good,” Henry said. “I don’t want us doing business with that man.” He decided to leave it at that for now. He would talk with his father, and have another look at the estate books, before pushing Davies further.
But first he wanted to visit the rescued sailors and make certain they had everything they needed. Davies would wait. He hoped Teague would as well.
Guessing his intention, Davies said, “By the way, sir. Do take heed along the shore. I’ve never seen such high spring tides, and so late in the season. You saw how rough the water was yesterday. I think we’re in for a powerful storm before long, and serious trouble with it.”
Henry had never known the steward to be wrong in his reading of foul weather. “Thank you, Davies. I shall keep an eye on the sky, and the tide.”
Henry thought of calling for his horse, but after what Major had been through the previous day, Henry decided the animal deserved a rest. He would walk instead.
As he strode across the headland, bristling with yellow gorse, Henry reviewed what he knew about Derrick Teague.
Mr. Teague had been in trouble with the law more than once for his wrecking activities, Henry had learned from Mr. Bray.
Mr. Bray often acted as salvage agent for companies who owned ships or their cargo. After a wreck, they authorized Bray to cellar as much of the cargo as could be salvaged and sold, sometimes at a reduced price, say, in the case of grain that had gotten wet, or casks that had cracked on the rocks.
A few years ago, a ship carrying a cargo of wheat had struck the chapel rock. Mr. Bray had collected the landed sacks of wheat and stored them in the stone-and-brick cellars built under the cliffs for that purpose. The ship was dashed to shatters soon after the wheat had been taken out of her. Thankfully, the crew had been saved.
People from throughout the parish had been offered the wet wheat at a low rate. Only three shillings per bag. Mr. Bray had assured everyone that, when the grain had been washed, dried, and new winnowed, it still made fine bread.
But Mr. Teague and a friend of his—a man with a very bad character—weren’t satisfied to buy the wet wheat at a low rate like everybody else. They broke into the cellars and stole a cartload of sacks. But the thieves were found out.
Teague turned king’s evidence against his friend, and the man was sent to Bodmin jail. For some reason Teague had been allowed to pay for the wheat he’d taken and let off without punishment. It was neither the first nor the last time the man had avoided consequences for his crimes.
Turning down the cliff path toward the harbor, Henry thought of all the losses along these shores and exhaled deeply. He thanked God again for enabling him to rescue the sailors this time. He was eager to see how they fared.
As Henry approached the Ebbington cellars where the men had been sheltered, he noticed all seemed quiet and peaceful. Good. He knocked on the cellar door, producing a scrambling of many feet and the mutterings of several men in a foreign language.
“Who ees eet?” a man asked, in obvious alarm.
Henry frowned. This was not the welcome he’d expected. “Henry Weston,” he replied. “We . . . em . . . met yesterday when your ship went down.”
The door opened a tentative inch. Eyes nearly black appeared, framed by hair as dark as his own. “Ah! Meestah Weston!” The golden-brown face broke into a smile, showing two gold teeth, and the door opened wide in welcome.
This man—the leader and, as Henry soon discovered, owner of the ill-fated ship—was the only one among them who spoke English, albeit somewhat broken English. He explained that they had been harassed during the night by men wanting to take what few belongings they had managed to salvage from the wreck—three large woven sacks, two of oranges and another of lemons, as well as several casks of port, which the excise man would be sure to take an interest in.
“He say he keel us if we don’t give heem”—he gestured t
oward one of the casks—“pipe . . . ?”
“Cask.”
“Jes. He take two.”
“Who was it?”
“I don’t know hees name. Big man. How do you say cabelo vermelho . . .”
“Red hair?” Henry prompted.
The man nodded vigorously. “Jes.”
Teague, Henry guessed. He did not relish another confrontation with the man but knew one was necessary. Henry had not risked his life to save these men only to have them killed by a greedy wrecker.
They spoke a little longer about the men’s plans to return to Portugal as soon as a ship might be found. Bray, it appeared, had offered to assist them. Satisfied the men had all they needed for the time being, Henry stepped to the door to take his leave.
The men warmly thanked Henry again with embraces and even kisses to his cheeks, which Henry bore with a grimace and relief that no Englishman was there to witness their enthusiastic gratitude. The men insisted he take one of the sacks of oranges as a small token of their appreciation. Not wanting to offend their pride, he agreed and thanked them.
He wondered if Miss Smallwood liked oranges.
But first he went to call on Mr. Teague.
He knew the man lived in one of the cottages lining the harbor but did not know which one. He asked a lad in knee breeches, who pointed to the last cottage on the row, set apart from the others, white with a thatched roof.
Praying for wisdom, Henry knocked on the door.
Teague opened it with a lift of his brows. “Well, well.”
“Mr. Teague.”
“Weston.” The man smelled of port, his teeth stained purple.
Henry began, “I understand you paid a call on the sailors recovering from shipwreck and near drowning.”
“Oh? When was ’ee down to see that lot? Surprised ’ee’d soil yer fancy boots.”
Henry ground his teeth and forced a calm tone. “I have just come from there. Those men are staying in our cellars as our personal guests. It was kind of you to pay a call. Very neighborly, I’m sure. But if you pay another, I shall be obliged to pay a call on our new excise man—who, I understand, is not as easily bribed as the last.”
“Only taking my due, wasn’t I? I didn’t take it all.”
Henry longed to call the man a thief, to remind Teague that not only had the crew survived but the owner of the cargo as well. But in Teague’s bleary-eyed, belligerent state, Henry decided it would be unwise to provoke him further. He would never change the man’s mind about right and wrong. And the threat of the excise man was likely the only warning Teague would take to heart.
Henry began the return trek to Ebbington Manor. The walk up the cliff path seemed more arduous than he ever remembered it. He supposed his strength had been sapped during yesterday’s rescue, and his leg muscles had yet to recover. The sack over his shoulder did not help matters.
Finally reaching the house, Henry wanted nothing more than to go upstairs and fall back into bed. When Lady Weston hailed him from the drawing room as he passed, he stifled a groan.
“Hello, Henry. How is the hero of the hour?”
“Fine. I have just been down to see the sailors.”
“You needn’t have done so. Davies would have gone down for you. They are in good health, I trust, thanks to you.”
“Yes, but no thanks to Mr. Teague.”
Lady Weston’s brows shot up. “Mr. Teague?”
“He stole from them during the night—and from us, come to think of it, as he forced his way into the Ebbington cellars.”
She stared at him. Looked about to say something, but then noticed the sack slung over his shoulder. “You didn’t confront him, I hope, or demand back whatever it was he took?” Her fingers fiddled with the lace at her throat.
“I did confront him. But he was already drunk on the port he’d stolen.”
“Then what is in the sack, if I may ask?”
“Oranges—a gift from the sailors.” Remembering his manners, he asked, “Would you like one?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No thank you. Too messy to peel. And I don’t care for the white membrane.”
“Very well.”
Henry turned to go, but she called him back.
“Henry?”
He faced her once more and saw her hesitate.
She said, “Have a care with Mr. Teague. He is not a man to be trifled with, or threatened lightly.”
Henry was not certain whether to be touched by her concern or suspicious of it. “My threat was not a light one, madam. It is very real, I assure you.”
Leaving her, Henry went in search of Miss Smallwood.
He found her upstairs, sitting at her father’s desk in the schoolroom.
“Miss Smallwood.”
She looked up in surprise, and if he was not mistaken, pleasure.
“Mr. Weston. How fare the sailors?”
He tilted his head to one side, curious. “How did you know I’d gone to see them?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “I suppose I assumed.”
He wondered if she realized she had just paid him a compliment.
“They are all but recovered, I’m happy to say. Though exhausted.” He decided not to trouble her with the tale of the theft. He lifted the canvas sack from his shoulder and set it on the desk, extracting an orange from within.
“Do you like oranges?”
“Of course. Who does not?”
“Lady Weston, actually. She doesn’t like the white membrane between peel and fruit.”
“It does take time to remove. But I find many of life’s pleasures are that way. A bit of effort adds to the enjoyment.”
He smiled at that. “Here.” He handed her several. “It’s only right I should share them with you, since you did your part in ringing the bell.”
She shook her head. “I shall accept two. One for my father and one for myself. Oh . . . May I take one to Adam? Unless you prefer to do so yourself.”
That she thought of his brother prodded warmth in his chest.
He handed her another orange, holding on to it as she reached out to accept it. For a moment, they both held the fruit, their fingers touching around the orange—the fruit of his labors.
“Thank you,” she said, with a slight wrinkle between her brows as she looked down at his hand, still holding the orange.
“Thank you,” he echoed, stressing the final word.
Looking at her soft green eyes and the curious curve of her sweet mouth, he suddenly wished he might peel an orange then and there and feed Emma Smallwood section by section and kiss the juice from her lips. . . .
Steady on, Weston, he admonished himself, and turned to deliver the rest of the produce to the kitchen.
Emma took an orange to Adam, helped him peel it, and then enjoyed watching his delight in eating it. Afterward, she encouraged him to wash his sticky hands, then played a game of chess with him. She was impressed at his skill. Henry was evidently a good teacher.
Later, she took the other orange to her father and was relieved to find him in better spirits than she’d expected or hoped for. He told her that he’d had a good long talk with Sir Giles and was happy to report that the business with the tower had been cleared up, for the most part, and they faced no imminent threat of dismissal. Sir Giles had also told him about his eldest son, Adam, assuming Mr. Smallwood had likely heard rumors if not the whole story by that point. Her father confessed himself shocked to learn there was another Weston, though empathetic as to the reasons he had not been told before.
Offended on Adam’s behalf, Emma bit back the retort burning on her lips, reminding herself that it had long been commonplace to conceal any imperfect members of one’s family.
When their conversation tapered off, her father suggested they play a game of chess together. Emma had to confess that she’d given her set to Adam and had, in fact, just played a match with him.
“But he would play another, I am certain, Papa. Shall I take you to his room and introduce
you?”
Her father hesitated. “Thank you, my dear. I should like to meet him, but . . . I am conscious of my hostess’s preferences in this matter. I don’t wish to offend.”
She huffed. “Very well, Papa. But it is your loss.”
He looked up, taken aback by her crisp tone. “Emma.” Hurt shone in his round eyes.
She sighed, feeling guilty. “It is only that I know you would like him, Papa. Adam is the sweetest-natured young man I know. He is very talented and a good chess player already, though he has only recently learned the game.”
“Is he indeed?” her father said, impressed, though he did not change his mind about meeting him.
She was disappointed in her father, she couldn’t deny it, but nor would she say so aloud. Not when he was doing so much better.
She squelched the desire to stalk off in a fit of pique. Instead she steeled herself and suggested a game of backgammon.
He met her gaze. Apology and forgiveness were exchanged in wordless understanding born of long and deep familiarity.
“Backgammon?” he said, the ember of hurt in his eyes sparking into interest. “Now you are speaking my language.”
She smiled and feigned enthusiasm, although she cared little for the game. Sometimes that’s what you did for the people you loved.
That night, Henry awoke with a start.
Someone loomed over his bed, repeating, “Henry? Henry? Henry?”
Henry had been deep in a dream, and it took his mind a few seconds to realize Adam stood above him. Bright moonlight shone through the windows, illuminating his brother’s pale face and wide eyes.
“What is it?” Henry sat up and swung his legs from the bed. “What’s wrong?”
“Emma.”
Henry’s heart lurched. “Emma? What’s happened? Is she all right?”
Adam shook his head gravely.
Henry leapt to his feet, grabbed his dressing gown, and stepped to the door. “Where is she?”
Adam ducked his head, sheepish, perhaps remembering that Henry had asked him not to go into other people’s bedchambers, especially at night.
“In her room?” Henry prompted.
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