The Tutor's Daughter

by Julie Klassen

  Fragments of words penetrated the chapel door. Followed by the clear peal of a bell. Clang, clang, clang.

  The warning bell.

  Henry and Emma looked at each other, eyes locking. Then Henry gripped her arms. “You stay here.”

  Henry jumped down into the thigh-high water. Clearly some of it had drained out through escape routes too small to do Henry and Emma any good. Even so, the cold water stole his breath.

  Gritting his teeth, he slogged to the door, noting that the water level had risen nearly to its latch. Reaching it, he banged on the upper part of the door with his fist. “Open the door! We’re trapped in here!”

  He paused. Listened.

  “Not so close to the breakwater!” Julian’s voice. “What are you doing?”

  “We have to reach the door.” Rowan’s lower voice.

  “You’re going to get us both killed.”

  “Give me the key.”

  “Let’s go back.” Julian’s voice rose. “The waves are too high!”

  “Not yet. Give me the key.”

  No answer. Henry held his breath.

  “Dash it, Julian,” Rowan growled. “Give me the key.”

  Crack—the sound of a blow. Fist upon flesh, followed by a thud.

  What was happening? Finally there came the sound of metal scraping against metal. A key turning in the lock.

  Henry raised his hand to the latch. What awaited beyond? A wall of water? Glancing over his shoulder to assure himself Emma still stood atop the font, Henry jerked the latch and felt it give. The door pushed inward by the force of the water, which rushed in up to his waist but no higher. Relief swamped him. Thank you, Lord!

  Outside the door, where steps normally led down to the rocky path, now flowed choppy water, compliments of the storm and spring tides. Though the waves were still heavy, it seemed the storm had subsided. The sea covered the causeway so that the distinction between harbor and open sea was barely discernible. And there in the harbor, partially protected by the breakwater, rocked a small fishing boat. Rowan stood in the bow, legs spread wide. Behind him, on the floor of the boat, Julian struggled to his feet.

  Rowan sat down at the oars and pulled hard.

  Glancing past the boat to the shore, Henry saw Derrick Teague standing there arms akimbo, Major tossing his head, and Lizzie running headlong down the sand road toward the beach. Had she rung the bell?

  Henry called, “Rowan, thank God you’ve come.”

  Rowan fought the waves to maneuver the small craft back to the door of the chapel.

  From behind Henry came the sound of a splash, and he turned to see Emma wading toward him. Henry met her partway, taking her hand and leading her to the door.

  Outside Rowan struggled against the waves to keep the boat close. Straining against the oars, he said, “Julian, throw Henry the rope.”

  “Julian . . . !” Derrick Teague called from shore, warning in his voice.

  “Throw me the rope,” Henry commanded, stretching out his hand.

  Julian looked from Henry, back to Teague on shore. He appeared torn, his loyalties divided. He looked instead at his twin. “You hit me!” he shouted, rubbing his jaw.

  “It’s less than you deserve,” Rowan snapped. “Now throw the rope!”

  Instead, Julian launched himself at Rowan headfirst, knocking his larger brother against the prow.

  “Stop it, Julian!”

  The boat quickly moved away from the chapel.

  Julian snarled, “Nobody hits me, jackanapes.”

  Rowan cocked his fist back and punched him again.

  Julian reeled and lost his balance. He toppled backward off the boat, splashing into the churning water.

  On shore, Lizzie screamed, hands pressed to her cheeks.

  Rowan paled but sat at the oars once more and rowed hard back to the chapel.

  Julian’s head appeared above the surface, sputtering and cursing.

  Keeping an eye on Julian, Henry said to Rowan, “Miss Smallwood first.”

  Struggling to keep his balance as the vessel lurched in the waves, Rowan stood and tossed Henry the mooring line himself, his face tense. “Come on,” he called. “This is only a lull in the storm. The worst is yet to come, according to Davies. Let’s get out of here.”

  Henry hurried to comply. Holding the rope and bracing his leg against the doorjamb, Henry extended his other hand to Emma. “In the boat, Emma.”

  “But, what about Julian?”

  “First, you get in.”

  Emma took his hand and extended her other to Rowan, awkwardly half climbing, half falling into the boat.

  “I’ll kill you for that, Rowan,” Julian yelled, though he was clearly struggling to keep his head above water.

  Henry climbed in behind Emma. The boat rocked violently, even though the water in the south side of the harbor was somewhat less violent than the open sea beyond. Henry took the oars, trying to keep the boat from facing broadside in the waves.

  “Throw the rope to Julian,” Henry ordered between gritted teeth.

  Rowan shook his head, face white. “He might capsize us. Intentionally.”

  “We have to save him,” Emma cried.

  Rowan looked at Henry for a decision.

  Henry nodded and yelled to Julian, “Hang on. We’ll tow you to shore.”

  Lips tight, Rowan threw the rope to Julian. Julian grasped it and pulled his head higher out of the water.

  Julian’s weight added more burden, but Henry rowed with all his might, muscles straining, lungs burning.

  The boat nearly capsized more than once, then finally scraped its belly against sand.

  “Praise God,” Henry sighed.

  “Amen,” Emma echoed.

  Probably drawn by the bell, villagers appeared along the harbor, Mr. Bray among them.

  Derrick Teague strode into the surf, grasped the struggling Julian by the arm, and hauled him up onto the shore. Scowling, he tossed Julian onto his back as so much flotsam. “Botched that, didn’t ’ee, lad.”

  Julian coughed and rolled to his side, waterlogged and hacking but safe.

  Henry helped Emma from the boat, then paused where he was, resting his hands on his knees, panting in exhaustion. He glanced over at Teague, saw the man glare at him and fist his weathered hands. Henry doubted he had the strength to fight the man at present.

  Teague took a step toward him, but Mr. Bray gripped his shoulder.

  Teague jerked free and wheeled on the old constable. “What?”

  Bray said gently, “I was only going to thank you for helping the lad. Why not go home now while you’re ahead?” The constable said it kindly, yet there was a tenor of steel beneath his words. The men’s eyes locked.

  Teague looked away first. “That’s right. I was helpin’ the lad. Remember that.” He turned and stalked away.

  Lizzie ran to Henry, splashing through the surf, heedless of her gown. “Oh, Henry! I saw the light in the window and your horse on the beach. That’s when I rang the bell. I was so worried, knowing you were trapped inside.” She threw her arms around him.

  Henry knew the girl looked upon him as an older brother and resisted the urge to put her away from him. Instead he awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Well, thankfully Rowan managed to reach us in the boat.”

  Henry glowered over her head at Julian and shouted, “What the devil were you thinking, Julian? You have a lot of explaining to do.” Seeing the crowd gathering, Henry added more quietly, “But we shall wait and have it out in the privacy of our own home. Understood?”

  His brothers nodded, but Lizzie continued, almost desperately, “I never thought it would come to this. Never!”

  Mr. Smallwood jogged onto the scene, face flushed, breathing hard. Had he run all the way from the house? His anxious eyes riveted on his daughter. “Emma!”

  Good, Henry thought. Her father was there. She would be safe while he dealt with the chaos that was his family.

  Soon after, two carriages rattled onto the beach. T
he Westons’ landau, driven by their coachman, followed by the two-wheeled cart, driven by the groom.

  Sir Giles hopped down from the landau, looking more spry than Henry had seen him in years. Henry guessed he had heard the bell and ordered the carriages. Now, surveying the sodden lot of them—and the assembled, gawking crowd—the baronet took charge. Ignoring their protests and urging haste, he herded his sons toward the family carriage.

  Henry allowed his father to lead him into the landau, his half brothers arguing and Julian’s eyes flashing dangerously—though one eye was sure to be black-and-blue before long.

  He tried to catch Emma’s attention across the way, but she was deep in earnest conversation with her father. Henry would have to talk to her later. Assuming she would ever want to speak to him—to any Weston—after this.

  Emma was relieved to see her father alive and well, when she had feared him in danger but a few hours before. He held her tightly, and she embraced him in return.

  “Thanks be to God, Emma. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Papa.” She noted his flushed face and labored breathing with concern. “Are you?”

  “Now that I know you’re safe, I am.” He panted to catch his breath. “I was partway to Upton before I suspected I’d been tricked. I hurried back and when I found that forged letter in the schoolroom and no one else, I feared the worst. I alerted Sir Giles and ran down while he called for the carriages.”

  He held her a little away from him, anxiously studying her. “What happened?”

  Emma glanced at the curious onlookers and hovering groom. “I shall tell you later. All right? When we’re alone.”

  He followed her gaze, and the groom quickly ducked, feigning interest in the harness. “Very well.”

  Emma looked across the way. Henry was being led into his family’s landau, fussed over by Sir Giles. Henry glanced in her direction and their eyes met across the distance. She saw his lips move but could not make out his words over the shouting of his brothers and the roar of the wind, increasing once more. She shrugged and shook her head, meaning I can’t hear you. Who knew how he interpreted the gesture. He lifted a hand, in salute or in farewell, his face downcast in regret.

  Seeing Henry join his family in the fine landau, leaving her and her father to ride alone in the cart, felt like a splash of cold water in her face, waking her from a vivid dream to stark, grey reality.

  Realization seeped into Emma like water oozing through a hundred cracks in the wall of her being. He would never be allowed to marry you. Surveying the dozen yards between them, she knew what separated them was far more than physical distance. Henry Weston was the son of a baronet, and his likely heir. He would be Sir Henry after his father’s death, and she would still be plain Miss Smallwood, tutor’s daughter. No birth of distinction, no connections, no wealth. The line of demarcation between them was clearer than any actual line drawn in the sand.

  Henry’s damp coat hung on her, as heavy as chain mail. Her knees trembled under its weight. Emma thought of all that had passed between them in the chapel. The way he had looked at her, held her, kissed her. The words he had said. But that had been when he’d thought they would not live to see another day.

  Fingers of misgiving kneaded her spine. Had it all been runaway emotion?

  She wondered what he was feeling now. Embarrassment? Regret? Might he feel he had inadvertently committed himself to her when he had hoped, perhaps even planned, to marry Miss Penberthy or some other wealthy young lady like her? The last thing Emma wanted was for Henry to feel trapped, obligated to her out of duty alone. She wanted his genuine, unreserved love or nothing at all. Seeing him now, seated with his family, Emma thought the latter the most likely eventuality.

  Across the harbor, waves battered the chapel with renewed fury. Emma shivered, wind cutting through her wet clothes like a knife. Noticing, her father removed his coat and draped it around her.

  As he helped her into the waiting cart, a terrible rending shuddered through her. A violent cracking, as though a frozen pond had been struck by a mighty fist.

  She turned and saw the beleaguered chapel lean and then keel over, crashing into the water with a great splash. The hungry waves licked it, consumed it—and in a matter of moments, buried it beneath the water. Gone forever.

  Around the harbor people stared, stunned. Emma looked at Henry in the landau and saw his gaped mouth. His grief.

  Poor Henry, Emma thought. He’d loved that place. How disappointed he must be.

  She inhaled deeply. At least he was alive.

  And so am I, she reminded herself. And that was enough. It was time to be thankful.

  And to start living.

  The lofty pine is oftenest shaken by the winds; High towers fall with a heavier crash; And the lightning strikes the highest mountain.

  —Horace

  Chapter 25

  Mindful of Henry’s admonition to wait to discuss the matter in private—and aware of the coachman’s curious looks and listening ears—the Westons were a somber, silent party on the ride up the cliff.

  They reached the manor, shivering and spent. Lady Weston and Phillip were there to meet them, all concern. Sir Giles, ignoring the questions and protestations tumbling one over the other, shepherded his sons inside and called for hot baths for all.

  “Very well, Father,” Henry allowed. “But afterward, we need to talk. All of us.”

  The Smallwoods arrived in the cart, and before they went their separate ways, a meeting with all involved was set to commence in two hours’ time.

  As she stepped past him on her way inside, Emma solemnly handed back his coat, folded away and all but ruined, like his hopes.

  At the appointed time, they all assembled in the drawing room, some begrudgingly, some eager to learn what had taken place, and why. Henry was somewhat surprised to see both his half brothers enter the room of their own volition. True, Henry had instructed the footman, Jory, to keep an eye on Julian, just in case. But apparently he came under no duress. Was he so convinced of his own innocence—or his ability to prove himself so?

  Lady Weston sat in her customary chair; Sir Giles stood behind her. Emma Smallwood and her father shared one settee, while Lizzie and Phillip shared the other. Rowan and Julian each took armchairs of their own. Henry stood by the fire, hand on the mantel. The only Weston absent was Adam. But Henry was only too happy to spare him what would no doubt prove a trying confrontation.

  Without accusing anyone, Henry began by giving a summary of the day’s events: The forged note Miss Smallwood received. Mr. Smallwood walking in the opposite direction to the Upton cemetery. Henry following Miss Smallwood to the chapel and both being locked in—and would have been swept away when the chapel fell, had Rowan not reached them in time.

  When he finished his summary, he turned to Julian. “Why did you do it?”

  “Do what?” Julian asked, eyes wide in faux innocence, one of them shadowed by a burgeoning bruise.

  “You know very well what. Lock us in the chapel.”

  Julian crossed his arms. “I didn’t do that. Rowan did.”

  Rowan frowned. “That’s a lie, Julian.”

  Julian turned his head and pinned Lizzie with a look. “Tell them, Lizzie. Tell them who did it.”

  Lizzie wrung her hands. She bit her lip, glancing from Henry to Phillip and then nervously back at Julian. She whispered, “You did.”

  Julian’s face contorted. “You unfaithful—”

  Foul words seemed about to follow, but Henry quickly silenced him with a stinging grip to his shoulder.

  Changing tack, Julian shrugged. “If I did, it was only meant to be a joke.”

  “A joke?” Henry exclaimed. “To lure Miss Smallwood down there just as the tide and a storm were coming in?”

  “Well, I couldn’t know when she would go, could I? Or how bad the storm would be.”

  “Are you going to tell me you did not change the times in my tide book, that you did not write that note, mimicking Mr.
Smallwood’s handwriting, telling Emma he was going to the chapel when you knew very well he was not?”

  “I didn’t give her the note.” Julian jerked his chin toward his brother. “Rowan did.”

  Rowan threw up his hands. “Well, how was I to know it wasn’t real? Lizzie told me Mr. Smallwood had given it to her on his way out. She asked me to deliver it since I was going up to the schoolroom anyway. I had no idea what the letter was about. I didn’t suspect forgery—not until Miss Smallwood told us her father had written to say he’d gone to the Chapel of the Rock.”

  “But you sent her father to Upton on a wild goose chase,” Julian insisted.

  Rowan nodded. “I admit I lied when I told him I’d seen several graves with the name Smallwood in the Upton cemetery, and gave him a map with a few wrong turns to lengthen his trip. But that is all I did.” He glanced at the tutor. “Sorry, Mr. Smallwood.” He looked back at his brother with a frown. “I thought the plan was to buy ourselves an afternoon without lessons. I had no idea you tampered with the tide table. Or took the chapel key. Had I known everything you planned to do, I would never have gone along with even that much.”

  “Do you expect anyone to believe that?” Julian scoffed, with a covert glance at his mother. “You admit to getting the old man out of the way. And failed to tell Henry about the forged letter. And yet you expect everyone to believe you had no part in the rest? Ha.”

  “I believe him,” Lizzie said quietly.

  Julian glared at her. “Turning against me now—is that it?” His lip curled. “I had thought to spare you in this little mock trial of Henry’s, but if that’s how you’re going to behave, then forget it. Let’s tell everyone how you knowingly gave Rowan a forged note to deliver, for I knew he would suspect it if it came from my own hand.” He glanced at the others. “It was not my first forgery, you see.” His eyes glinted with a strange pride.

  “But I never thought you would take it so far,” Lizzie said. “That you planned to trap her there until . . . until it was too late.”

  Lady Weston, Henry noticed, had sat rigid and uncharacteristically silent throughout the testimony. Now she suggested hopefully, “But, Julian . . . surely you meant to go back out and unlock the door. But the water rose too high before you could do so. Is that not right?”