The Tutor's Daughter (25 page)

“I asked if there was anything I could do to help. But she was clearly eager for me to go. I was about to oblige her when something crashed in the next room. She ran in and I followed her. I saw a young man sitting amid broken glass, banging his head and muttering nonsense. It was clear he was not right in his mind. I was repulsed, I admit, and quickly took my leave.”

Henry shook his head in regret. “I should have suspected. Guessed. But I did not. Perhaps I simply did not want to acknowledge the evidence of my eyes.”

He paused to gather his thoughts. And to swallow his guilt once more. “I put it from my mind, and years passed. But then, three or four weeks ago, Mrs. Hobbes wrote to my father. I've been handling all of the estate correspondence for some time, so I read the letter myself. In it, Mrs. Hobbes acknowledged she had agreed to care for Adam discreetly, as her own. But she could not do so much longer. She was dying.”

Henry risked a glance at Miss Smallwood and saw her listening intently, fern green eyes large and sad. He continued, “The name Adam struck a chord with me. And I realized the young man Mrs. Hobbes referred to—the young man I had seen—was my older brother, whom I had assumed dead. I was shocked, as you can imagine. And yet . . . not completely. Lingering questions and memories surfaced, and began snapping into place like puzzle pieces.

“In her letter, Mrs. Hobbes also referred to my visit a few years before and explained that I had seen Adam at his worst. Any change unhinged Adam, and Mr. Hobbes's death was a big one. She insisted Adam was usually quite sweet-natured, but she worried what her imminent death would do to him.

“I confronted my father with the letter, and he admitted the truth. He wanted to wait, to try to find another caretaker elsewhere. But Mrs. Hobbes had asked us to come quickly, for she feared what
the local authorities might do with Adam after she died. Her last wish was to make certain Adam was never sent to a lunatic asylum or workhouse.

“So I went charging off to make certain that didn't happen. A man with a mission at last. I even took a physician friend of mine with me. I was glad I did, for we found Mrs. Hobbes already dead and ended up having to sedate Adam to remove him from the house after she had been buried.

“I brought him home to Ebbington. I wanted to put him in his old room and arrange a caregiver for him. But Lady Weston insisted that he be kept in the little-used north wing away from the family. She wanted him to be locked in as well, but I battled against that. She relented on that point but still insists another situation be found for him, and that he not be kept at Ebbington Manor a day longer than necessary. And so, on that errand, I asked Mrs. Prowse to oversee Adam's care and left for a few days, to close up the Hobbes's house and interview possible replacements for the kindly couple. To no avail. When I returned, I was baffled to discover you and your father installed in the house. And my stepmother none too pleased about it either.”

“She made little secret of that fact,” Miss Smallwood said. “Now at least I understand why.”

Henry sighed. “I have judged my father as unfair and unfeeling, but I know he did what most upper-class people would do in this situation. There are no decent institutions for people like Adam. And a lunatic asylum, workhouse, and poorhouse are grim fates indeed. We can be glad Adam was spared any of those.”

“Yes.” Miss Smallwood nodded, then looked upward in thought. “I still wonder about the open windows in his room the night of the storm. Mrs. Prowse wouldn't have left them open.”

Henry agreed. “I have been thinking about that too.”

She squinted in concentration. “Surely whoever it was could not have known what it would do to Adam—how it would throw him into a fit.”

Henry frowned. “Or perhaps they did know. And did it for precisely that reason.”

“But why?”

“To scare off the Penberthys, perhaps.”

“But who would want to do that?”

He shook his head regretfully. “I can think of several possibilities, unfortunately.”

Miss Smallwood nodded. “So can I.”

Care killed a cat.

—Shakespeare

Chapter 16

E
mma, regretting her first meeting with Adam Weston had been an unhappy one, decided to brave the north wing again, this time by daylight. She wanted to take him something as an olive branch. A token of friendship. Acting on a hunch, she brought down a tin of ivory dominoes with ebony pips from the schoolroom. She wondered if he might play a game with her, or at least enjoy playing with them on his own. She had seen little source of diversion in his room, though, of course, she had not checked every drawer and cupboard.

She made her way to the end of the north wing and knocked softly on his door. A sound from inside suddenly ceased. A rocking chair? The door opened a few inches, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Prowse, appeared. Emma realized she had barely laid eyes on the woman since she and her father had first arrived. Now she knew why.

“Ah . . . Miss Smallwood. How did you know where to find me? You're not to be in here.”

“It's all right, Mrs. Prowse. I know about Adam.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Do you now? Then I suppose you'd better come in.” Mrs. Prowse held the door for Emma, then shut it quietly behind her.

Adam was sitting in an armchair near the window. She was surprised and pleased to see him reading a book. He glanced up timidly
when she entered but, after apparently assuring himself that she meant no harm, resumed reading.

Emma quietly explained to Mrs. Prowse about the storm, hearing Adam's cries, and coming to investigate.

The housekeeper nodded, mouth downturned. “Yes, Master Henry told me about that night, though he didn't mention your part in it. And sorry I was to hear it too. I've been looking after Adam as much as I could amidst my other duties, but then my father fell ill, and I had to go and see him.”

“I am sorry to hear it. How did you find him?”

“Very bad, I'm afraid. Had an apoplexy, poor soul. But at least I was able to see him and help a bit.”

Emma nodded her understanding.

“That's why I wasn't here that night, “ the woman continued. “Had I been, I would have come to check on Adam and sit with him during the worst of the storm.”

Emma lifted the tin in her hand. “I brought some dominoes for him. Unless . . . Has he a set already?”

Mrs. Prowse turned to look around the room. “Not that I've seen. Don't know as he'll have any interest, but kind of you just the same.” The housekeeper hesitated. “You . . . know not to say anything about him, right?”

“I do. Though I think it a pity.”

“As do I.” Mrs. Prowse inhaled deeply. “I knew Mrs. Hobbes very well, though she was Miss Jones when she worked here. We stayed in touch over the years. Very fond of Adam she was. Like a son to her and Mr. Hobbes. God rest their souls.” Tears brightened her eyes.

Emma felt she ought to squeeze the dear woman's hand but hesitated, and the moment passed.

Mrs. Prowse wiped at her eyes and drew back her shoulders. “Well, I had better go down and check on things.”

Emma nodded. “I'll see you later.”

When the door closed behind the housekeeper, Emma stood with the tin in her hands, observing Adam, waiting for him to look up at her.

He did not.

She looked around the room instead, noticing several drawings pinned to one wall. Battle scenes. Soldiers engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Gruesome yet impressively realistic. Had Rowan done these or had Adam?

Gently, she said, “Good afternoon, Mr. . . .” She paused. She wanted to treat him with all the respect she would give any other Weston. But did he even recognize that surname as his, or had he grown up as Adam Hobbes? She decided to use his Christian name, something she would not usually do, at least until invited. “May I come closer, Adam? I have brought you something.”

Finally, he looked up, his blue eyes skittering from her face to the tin in her hand.

“Biscuits?” he asked hopefully.

A little bubble of mirth tickled her stomach. “Do you like biscuits?”

He nodded.

“Perhaps next time I shall bring you some. But today I've brought dominoes. Have you ever played?”

Slowly, she crossed the room, watching his face to make certain he showed no signs of alarm. His expression remained rather static, so it was difficult to tell what he was thinking or feeling, but she saw no obvious distress. Emma walked to a small table and chairs placed beneath another window. A stack of drawings lay there, similar to those on the wall. She set the tin on the table beside them.

“Come and see,” she offered, keeping her gaze on the tin, removing the cover and setting it aside.

Adam appeared beside her, staring down at the tiles. “Bone sticks,” he murmured.

“Dominoes,” she corrected.

“My pa, Mr. Hobbes, likes to play bone sticks.”

He slid into a chair and began pulling from the tin domino after domino, lining them up in ascending order: 0–0, 0–1, 0–2, 0–3 . . . then moving on to the 1–1, 1–2, and so on, until all twenty-eight were arranged.

“Shall we play?” Emma asked, but he didn't appear to hear her.

As soon as he had arranged all the dominoes once, he began rearranging them, this time in ever-widening rows, like the branches of half an evergreen tree: the blank domino followed by a row of two dominoes (0–1 and 1–1). Below that a row of three (0–2, 1–2, 2–2), and so on.

Watching Adam Weston, head bent, tongue tip protruding, fingers flying, Emma felt a smile quiver on her lips. Noticing his small hands, she wondered if Adam might have been the one to come into her room and leave behind the handprint. If so, she could understand why Henry Weston had told her she needn't be afraid.

After observing Adam a few minutes longer, Emma gave up on playing a game but left content, hearing the
click-click
of ivory tiles follow her from the room.

Standing in the drawing room that afternoon, Henry ran frustrated fingers through his hair. “I don't understand why he has to remain in his bedchamber.”

Lady Weston looked up from her customary chair. Phillip sat nearby, fiddling nervously with the antimacassar on the arm of the settee. Across the room Rowan and Julian sat at an inlaid game table, playing draughts.

She said, “And I don't know how to make myself any clearer. I do not want him growing accustomed to the place. To life here. It will only make it that much more difficult for him when he leaves for his new situation, which will be very soon, I trust. I am only thinking of him.”

“Only him?”

“Well, of course I am concerned for Rowan and Julian. That's why I have asked them not to spend time with this particular half brother. They are not so young that I fear they might come under the influence of his less-developed behaviors, but I have every right to be concerned for their future prospects. The longer he is here, the more likely it is that the whole parish—nay, the whole county—
will know of him, and that, I assure you, will not help any of your marriage prospects.”

“But most of the servants must know by now, I imagine, which likely means it's halfway across the county already.”

“Only Mrs. Prowse and your valet are allowed in his room. Both very trustworthy and discreet. Mr. Davies knows, of course. The other servants have merely been told that an ailing relative has temporarily come to stay. But if he were to begin roaming the house and the grounds . . . ? Besides, I don't want Lizzie finding out. You know that girl can't keep a secret.”

Lady Weston turned toward Julian and Rowan. “Nor do I want either of you telling Mr. Teague. He would find some way to use the information against us and to his profit no doubt.”

Henry frowned, perplexed. “What has Teague to do with Rowan and Julian? With any of us?”

She lifted her chin. “He is about the place a great deal. An acquaintance of Mr. Davies, I believe.”

“Davies? I thought he had better sense.”

Lady Weston narrowed her eyes. “There is no call to criticize. What we need is to take care of this situation—and quickly, before it gets out of control. Later, if you and Sir Giles decide to bring Adam back here after all four of you boys are married, I shall raise no objection, I assure you. But until that time, I really must insist.”

Julian spoke up from across the room. “I'm afraid Lizzie already knows.”

Lady Weston shot him a fiery look. “Does she? How?”

“I told her after the Penberthys left. I didn't think it was still such a secret. Especially since Lizzie is practically one of the family.”

Lady Weston gave an unladylike snort. Seeing the males of her family gape at her in astonishment, she quickly yanked a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. “I beg your pardon.”

That evening, Henry ate an early dinner with Adam in his room. Mrs. Prowse served them before going downstairs to her own meal.
Henry confided in the housekeeper that he had hoped Adam might begin taking his meals with the family but Lady Weston had refused.

Mrs. Prowse considered, then replied gently. “It's probably for the best, sir. I don't think he'd like it, sitting there in that big echoing place, at that long table, with everyone staring at him, and with so many forks to choose from, so many rules, so many courses and different foods. Really, he prefers the same dinner over and over again: Soup, bread, chicken or fish. . . .”

“Peas,” Adam said. “I like peas.”

Mrs. Prowse nodded. “Right, love. Peas.” To Henry, she said, “I think it would upset him, his order of things, truth be told.”

Henry sighed. “You are probably right. Still, I hate the thought of him being cooped up in here all day. Alone, except for you and me.”

“And the occasional visit from Miss Smallwood,” Mrs. Prowse added, sending Henry a telling look. “I take it Lady Weston doesn't know about that?”

He shook his head.

The housekeeper nodded. “And a good thing too, I imagine.”

Emma strolled with Phillip through the garden the next morning after breakfast. The garden was even more colorful now in late May, with more flowers blooming almost daily it seemed. Birdsong beckoned amid the morning-fresh air, damp with dew. White mayflowers clustered shyly, while poppies tilted their bright orange bonnets, coyly waiting to be admired.

She pointed out a red bell-like flower and asked Phillip to identify it.

But he only murmured, “Hm? Yes . . . beautiful.”

How quiet and distracted he was. This wasn't the Phillip she knew. The easygoing friend of old. Emma no longer harbored any romantic notions about Phillip, but still she hoped nothing was seriously wrong.

Taking the matter in hand, she said gently, “I can't imagine what it must be like, to learn you have an older brother you never knew.”

Phillip turned toward her, a deep crease between his brows. “Oh. That's right. Henry mentioned you knew.”

Emma didn't like Phillip's look of displeasure—or the fact that she had put it there. She added, “I haven't told anyone. Not even my father.”