The Tutor's Daughter (26 page)

Phillip grimaced. “Lady Weston had hoped to limit the news to family. And a few trusted servants.”

Emma said quietly, “And I am neither.”

He looked at her quickly, regret wrestling with discomfort. “Forgive me, I didn't mean . . .” He sighed. “This has all been very difficult. Very unexpected and strange. It should be a happy time, reuniting with one's long-lost brother. And it is for Henry, in a way. But I never knew Adam. And Lady Weston and Henry have gone to war over what should be done about him, and I . . .”

“You feel trapped in the middle.”

He looked at her, relieved at her understanding. “Yes.”

“What does Sir Giles say about it?”

Phillip bleakly shook his head. “Very little. He is caught as I am. Trying to appease Lady Weston and make peace with Henry. A nearly impossible task. Mostly Father retreats to his library and drinks brandy.”

Emma thought of her own father and his former lethargic melancholy—which was lifting, thankfully, since coming to Cornwall. She wondered what it would take for Sir Giles to find his way again as well.

Emma returned to Adam's room that afternoon. She knocked softly on his door and was surprised when it was opened not by Mrs. Prowse, but by Henry Weston.

“Oh. Hello.”

“Miss Smallwood. Come in.” He opened the door for her. “Adam is enjoying the dominoes you gave him. As you see.”

She glanced over and saw Adam at the table, head bowed in concentration. She said, “I am glad of it. I brought a little something else, if you don't mind.”

“Not at all.” He gestured her inside.

She slowly approached the table where Adam sat, his hands moving over the rows and columns of dominoes. He wore a different waistcoat or she might have thought he'd remained in the same position since she'd last seen him.

“Hello, Adam. You mentioned you liked biscuits. So I've brought you mine from tea.”

She unwrapped a small cloth bundle and set it on the edge of the table, out of the way of the dominoes. His eyes landed on the two ginger biscuits, and his hand, fluttering over the tiles, hesitated. He looked up at her in question.

Sitting there in the sunlight from the window, his eyes shone china blue, his pale skin was smooth, his features delicate—high cheekbones, straight nose, full mouth.

“For me?” he asked shyly.

“Yes.”

“Don't you want them?”

“I don't eat many sweets. You go on. I brought them for you.”

He reached for a biscuit and then, as if suddenly remembering something, looked back up at her—not quite directly but almost. “Thank you, Miss . . . ?”

“Miss Smallwood. Or you may call me Emma, if you like. Since I've been calling you Adam.”

“Emma . . . That's my mar's name. Emma Hobbes. Pa calls her Emma or Em or sweetheart.”

It was as many words as Emma had yet heard Adam speak all together. She noticed Adam spoke of the woman in the present tense and wondered if he understood his mar was gone for good. She hoped the mention of his adopted mother's name would not upset him or spur another fit.

But as she watched him nibbling on one of the biscuits, he seemed perfectly at ease.

“Emma. Emma . . .” He said it with no apparent distress, not as a chant, but rather as though he were tasting each ginger-spiced syllable—“Emm-ma . . .”—and finding it delicious.

She glanced up and found Henry Weston looking at her. Their eyes met and held in a moment of mutual relief and pleasure.

Someone knocked softly on the door, and Henry tore his gaze from Miss Smallwood's.

Mrs. Prowse entered, carrying her mending basket. “Oh, hello, Miss Smallwood. Mr. Weston.” She hesitated. “I was just coming to sit with Adam for a while.” Her uncertain gaze shifted to Miss Smallwood. “But if . . .”

“I was just leaving,” Miss Smallwood said, answering the woman's unspoken question.

“Thank you, Mrs. Prowse.” Henry smiled reassurance at the woman. “Your timing is perfect, for I was about to leave as well.” They both bid Adam farewell, and then Henry walked Miss Smallwood to the door and opened it for her. “Where are you off to now?” he asked her, oddly reluctant to part company.

“To the schoolroom.”

He nodded and walked beside her down the passage. “And how are Julian and Rowan getting on?”

“Very well, I think.”

They walked together as far as the stairs. Down the corridor, Mr. Smallwood stepped from his room, wrestling a stack of books into one arm, freeing his hand to shut his door.

Before Henry could react, Emma said, “Excuse me,” and hurried toward her father. He really should have helped, but instead he watched her go. Despite his best efforts, he could not help but notice the subtle sway of her hips as she strode away with her long-legged stride—head high, shoulders back. What excellent posture. What a long, elegant neck.

Henry . . .
he silently warned himself, such thoughts catching him unaware. He recalled the scene in Adam's room. Of seeing his brother smile shyly up at her. His heart warmed at the memory. And the gift of dominoes—how had she guessed he would so enjoy them?

Miss Smallwood relieved her father of several books to lighten
his load. He said something to her, and she smiled in return. She had good teeth—a charming smile.

Henry would like to make Emma Smallwood smile like that. He would have to make it his aim next time they were together.

But then he remembered Phillip, his confession of love for a lovely girl of humble circumstances, someone he had returned to Ebbington to see. Henry sighed and tried to swallow the bitter lump of disappointment lodging in his throat.

Later that afternoon, Emma sat in the lone chair in her room, reading her volume of Cornwall history.

A knock sounded, and she called, “Come in.”

Lizzie opened the door and poked her head in. “May I join you? I long for female company—preferably a female who doesn't require me to go blind over needlework all the day long.”

Emma nodded and rose, offering Lizzie the chair. “You may read with me, if you like.” She gestured toward the stack of books on her side table, crowned by her teacup and the
eau de cologne.
She'd only recently set it there, deciding that since she was not able to wear the scent, the bottle should at least serve a decorative purpose.

Lizzie crossed the room, pulling a quarto-sized periodical from behind her back. “I feared you might be reading. So I've come prepared.” She held forth the latest volume of
The
Lady's
Magazine,
or
Entertaining Companion for the Fair Sex, Appropriated Solely
to Their Use and Amusement.

Emma rolled her eyes but could not help sharing the impish girl's grin. She sat on her made bed and leaned over to pick up a travel diary. “At least tuck it inside this, so I can pretend you are reading something worthwhile.”

“Don't be a snob, Emma,” Lizzie said, in mock severity. “This very respectable periodical contains foreign news, home news, and poetical essays.”

Emma quirked one brow. “Yes, but do you read any of that?”

Lizzie shuddered. “Heavens, no. I only read it for the fashion
copperplates. Oh, and the descriptions of what the royal princesses wore on the queen consort's birthday.”

Amused, Emma lifted her own book. “I have been reading about the history of Cornwall. Twice now I've come upon the name John Heale of Stratton. Apparently an infamous smuggler.” Emma chuckled. “Lady Weston's maiden name was Heale, was it not? I wonder if she is related to him.”

Lizzie snapped, “Better not let her hear you say that.”

Emma was stung by the girl's sharp tone. She had thought Lizzie would enjoy the little joke, since she was forever taking jabs at Lady Weston. Now her conscience chastised her. She ought not to have lowered herself to common gossip.

“You're right. I'm sorry.”

Lizzie forced a little laugh. “All that reading will be the death of you.”

“What?”

The girl's hard demeanor melted, and her dark eyes sparkled playfully. “Oh, Emma. You know how much I like to tease you. Your reactions are priceless, honestly. If only you could see yourself!”

How changeable Lizzie Henshaw was, Emma thought. She wasn't sure what to think.

Voices from outside snaked in through the open casement window. Curious, Emma rose and crossed the room. Looking down, she was puzzled to see Julian in the rear courtyard talking with the red-haired Mr. Teague. What could he have to talk about with that man?

Lizzie tossed her magazine onto the chair and joined her at the window, wearing a mischievous grin. “Are we spying?”

But when she looked down, her grin fell away. She murmured, “Foolish fellow.”

Emma wasn't positive which male she referred to, but Lizzie didn't clarify.

Emma whispered, “I was not spying. I heard voices and simply wondered who it was.”

Abruptly, Teague glanced up. Seeing her in the window, he
stopped speaking midsentence, and raised a hand to halt Julian's reply. Julian followed Teague's gaze as the man stared up at her with narrow, menacing eyes.

Lizzie tugged her away from the window. “Careful, Emma,” she said under her breath. “Care killed a cat.”

Shaken by Teague's malevolent glare, Emma slowly registered Lizzie's words. “That's . . . from
Much Ado About Nothing,
I believe. Have you . . . read Shakespeare?”

Lizzie sent her a sidelong glance. “What do you think?”

Emma sat back on her bed, but Lizzie wandered idly across the room. She picked up Emma's teacup from its place of prominence on the side table. “Why do you keep this here?”

“It was a gift from my mother,” Emma replied, then added tentatively, “Did your mother leave you anything?”

“My mother?
Pfff
.” She muttered under her breath, “Not unless you count
him.
”

“Pardon me?”

“It's pretty, to be sure.” Lizzie set down the cup, her eye drawn to something else. For a moment her hand hovered midair above the table. Then she picked up the decorative bottle of
eau de cologne
sitting as unused as the cup.

The girl said, “I had one very like this. Given to me as a gift.”

Emma mused, “I suppose it was a popular scent and all the shops carried it.”

Lizzie stared at the small bottle of yellow-green liquid. Quietly, she asked, “Did Phillip give this to you?”

Emma hesitated. She did not want to lie, but nor did she want to give Lizzie the wrong impression. “Yes, but only as a parting gift. A token of friendship. Nothing more.”

“Yes,” Lizzie murmured, eyes vaguely focused. “Phillip is thoughtful that way. . . .”

Emma added, “Of course I have not worn any scent—not since your warning about Lady Weston's nose.”

Lizzie nodded, eyes lingering on the bottle. “Yes. One must be very careful what one does under that particular nose.”

This is the time, yours is the happy hour, Improve your minds from learning's pleasing flow'r. . . .

—John Fenn, schoolmaster, 1843

Chapter 17

T
he next day, while her father lectured on Homer, Emma noticed Julian's and Rowan's eyes glazing over. She found her attention wandering as well. She thought about what else she might give Adam to help him pass the time, to help her establish a friendship with him, and to learn what his other interests and capabilities were. She knew he liked to read, and wondered if any of the books they had brought along might appeal to him.

She rose and ran her fingers across the spines of their books on the schoolroom shelf. One slim volume caught her eye. It was a recently published diary of a soldier who'd served with Lord Wellington during the Peninsula War. She had read it because she enjoyed the author's descriptions of Spain and Portugal, though Adam might find the battle details more interesting.

But then she recalled the fits Adam sometimes experienced. The violent beating of his own head. Might he damage other things when upset? She would have to ask Henry. For now she would hold off on giving him a book.

She thought next of her chess set with the missing queen. In the midst of cleaning out the schoolroom cupboards, she had found a marble-and-ivory chess set, dusty from disuse. She considered taking
him the entire set, but its thick marble board and stout ivory pieces were very heavy. Besides, she wasn't sure the family would approve of her moving valuable things about the house. Instead, she decided to borrow only the white queen to temporarily complete her set. She left a neatly penned note in the schoolroom cupboard, explaining where the borrowed piece had gone and promising to return it. A queen I.O.U.

With eager anticipation, Emma excused herself, taking the queen with her. She went down to her own room to retrieve her chess set, and then carried both to Adam's room.

Reaching it, she knocked and, hearing a vague reply, tentatively pushed the door open with the chessboard. Adam, she saw, sat reading in his armchair.

She crossed the room, placed the game on the table, and began setting up the white pieces. Adam came over and watched with interest, but his attention was immediately snagged by the mismatched queen. He picked it up and set it aside.

“I'm sorry, Adam. But we need that.”

He shook his head. “Not the same.”

“I know. I'm afraid the original queen was lost.”

Adam sat down in the chair opposite and began gathering up the black pieces. She wondered if he already knew how to play. Perhaps Mr. Hobbes had been a keen chess player as well as a “bone stick” player, but somehow she doubted it.

She watched Adam's intent movements as he picked up each piece and then placed it with those it matched. A pawn with other pawns. Two rooks. Two knights. The king and queen. But instead of the customary positions for the game, he set the eight pawns into two ranks of four, flanked by the knights and bishops.

Battle lines.

At the rear, king and queen stood surrounded by their rooks. Safe within their castle walls.

Emma bit her lip, not wanting to criticize. She asked, “What sort of game are you playing?”

“War,” he said. Then Adam stunned her by launching into stilted narration. “The allied army marched west along the north bank of
the river, right into the mousetrap set by the French commander, cutting the allies' line of retreat . . .”

Adam moved the pawns and knights forward; then he grabbed the king and placed him at the front. “The allies tried to form an advance,” he recited. “Suddenly, the king's horse ran off with him.” Adam moved the king in a violent lurch.

“Moving a king to the front?” Emma asked skeptically.

“King George the Second. The last British monarch to lead his troops into battle.”

“I see.” Emma sat back in her chair. “My goodness. I had no idea you were so keen on military history.”

But Adam continued to move pieces and narrate battles without taking much notice of her. Emma glanced over at the battle drawings she had seen there before. Perhaps she should have guessed.

Giving up on the notion of a formal game, Emma left him and wandered downstairs, thinking to help herself to a cup of coffee from the urn in Mr. Davies's office.

She nearly ran into Lizzie coming in the rear door, wearing no gloves as usual and flushed as well. “Oh! Hello, Emma,” she said, louder than necessary.

Emma caught the door as it closed and glanced out. She saw a man retreating behind the stables—though which man she could not tell—and in front of the stables, Henry Weston dismounting his horse.

She looked back at Lizzie in concern. “Are you all right? You look”—
Nervous? Guilty?
Emma settled for—“upset.”

“Do I?” Lizzie fumbled with the ribbons of her bonnet. “I'm fine, I assure you. A bit of an argument with the twins. Nothing new there.”

Emma glanced at Lizzie's bare hands. “You really ought to wear gloves.” She looked more closely. “You've got something beneath your nails.”

“Have I?” Lizzie stretched the small palms and short fingers before her, then turned them over to regard her fingernails. “Probably just a bit of dirt. I was . . . cutting flowers for Lady Weston earlier.”

It didn't look like dirt to Emma. It appeared more red in hue. But then, she was unfamiliar with Cornish soil.

Lizzie looked up and said brightly, “Well, I had better go wash them then.” She turned to go.

At that moment, Henry came in the rear door, breeches and hessians splattered with mud. Not reddish at all, Emma noticed.

“Hello, Miss Smallwood,” he said.

“Mr. Weston. Good ride?”

“Excellent.”

“Good.” She added, “By the way, I hope you don't mind. I took a chess set to Adam.”

“Chess? Really?” His lip protruded in thought. “I would have guessed that game beyond his ability.”

“Actually, I think the game well within his grasp but outside his interest. He transformed the pieces into battle lines and acted out the battle of Dettingen.”

“The battle of Dettingen?” Henry repeated, frowning in thought.

Emma nodded. “Seeing him reminded me of your toy sol . . . I mean, your miniature—”

“Miniature military figures,” he supplied. “I wonder . . .” He winced as though in pain. “I have a vague memory of playing soldiers with someone when I was young. I see pale fingers lining tin soldiers one after another in rows. I don't think it was Phillip. He never cared for war games. Perhaps it was Adam.”

“What age would Adam have been?”

“Six or seven, maybe. And I must have only been two or three. And a child of that age has no interest in neat rows of soldiers; only in dashing them about or putting them in his drooling mouth. How that must have vexed him.”

Henry shook his head, then snapped to attention, looking at her with eyes alight. “Thunder and turf. I'll wager those soldiers were Adam's to begin with. Why on earth did they not send the things with him? He might have had that pleasure at least.”

“I don't know . . .” Emma murmured, at a loss.

“Come with me.” Henry turned abruptly and strode toward the stairs.

She followed after, hitching up her skirt hems and trotting up the stairs to keep up with him.

One flight up, Henry turned down the corridor. At a door midway down, he stopped. “Wait here.”

She was glad she warranted enough propriety to be asked to wait outside. Yes, Lizzie had shown her Henry's room briefly on her “tour,” but mere tutor's daughter or not, it would not do for her to enter a man's bedchamber with him inside.

Would it not?
her mind whispered, thinking of how freely she had entered Adam's room. But somehow entering Henry's would be a different matter entirely.

Henry reappeared in his threshold a moment later, allowing the door to swing open behind him. The faint scent of bay rum came with him. She glimpsed mahogany furniture, a massive four-poster bed, burgundy bed curtains, and as much clutter as when she had seen the room last.

In his hands, he held two rectangular cases she recognized. He'd brought them with him to Longstaple and had insisted no one touch them. Now he handed her one of the cases eagerly. “Let's take these up to him.”

From within the bedchamber, an affronted valet beseeched, “But, sir, your clothes . . . the state of your boots!”

Henry looked down at himself, as if suddenly recalling his muddied state. “Dash it, you're right. I've no doubt spread more than enough mud about the place already.” He looked at Emma. “You go up, and I shall join you as soon as I can.”

She shook her head, handing back the case. “I would not give these to him without you for the world. But I should like to be there to witness it.”

“Of course you shall. All right. Give me twenty minutes.”

His valet protested, “Half an hour, at least!”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Half an hour, then. Meet me outside Adam's door. All right?”

“I look forward to it,” she said evenly, though inwardly she felt as giddy as a girl on her birthday, anticipating a special treat.

He smiled at her, and her elation increased severalfold.

Emma floated away down the corridor. When she reached the stairwell, she was startled to find Lizzie lurking on the steps.

Lizzie peered over Emma's shoulder, then looked pointedly at Emma's no doubt flushed face. “I saw you talking to Henry. What were you two doing up here?”

“Hmm?” Emma murmured. “Oh, nothing, really.” Emma licked dry lips and changed the subject. “Did you get your hands clean?”

Lizzie eyed her speculatively, but Emma made an effort to keep her expression impassive. Looking everywhere but the girl's too inquisitive gaze, Emma lifted one of Lizzie's hands to inspect it.

“It's clean now,” Lizzie said, pulling her hand away. She curled her hand into a fist as though to keep the offending fingers from view. Sheepishly, she said, “It was only a bit of rouge.”

“Ah.” Emma lifted her chin in understanding. “You don't want to get that on your white frock.”

“No,” Lizzie agreed. “Don't mention it. All right?” She added on a little laugh. “I want him to think me a natural beauty.”

“Who?”

“Why, everyone, of course!” Lizzie grinned.

What a singular creature the girl was. Emma was more accustomed to young men, with their more straightforward manners and easygoing ways. Though there were always exceptions. Henry Weston came to mind. No, he had not been easygoing, not an easy pupil to share a house with at all.

Emma hoped Lizzie would leave now that she'd satisfied her curiosity. But the girl remained where she was and asked, “And what are you going to do now?”

Before Emma could answer, Phillip's voice called up the stairwell, “Lizzie? Are you coming?”

His footsteps tattooed up the stairs. “There you are.”

His gaze landed on Emma. “Oh . . . and Miss Smallwood. Perfect. Mother longs for a game of whist. Will you be our fourth?”

Emma's mouth opened, but she hesitated to reply. Had Phillip wanted to ask her, or did he feel obligated to because she happened to be there? Emma had enjoyed spending time with her old friend, but at the moment the prospect held little appeal. Partly because she was intimidated by Lady Weston, and partly because she would rather not jeopardize her meeting with Henry and Adam. A game of whist could easily last longer than half an hour.

“Thank you, Phillip, but I cannot join you now. You two go on. No doubt Julian or Rowan would be happy to play.”

A crease appeared between Phillip's brows. “They are still in the schoolroom.”

“Oh. Right. Well, I am on my way there now. I shall see if they are finished for the day and send them down as soon as may be.”

It was not a lie. She
was
on her way to the schoolroom—but only for a few minutes to check on her father before meeting Henry.

Lizzie continued to watch her, something very like suspicion glittering in her eyes. “Perhaps I shall come up with you,” she began. “Unless . . . you don't wish me to?”

Emma forced a smile. She knew, instinctively, that to refuse Lizzie would only fan her suspicions. “Of course you may come along. Though I thought you found the schoolroom a dead bore.”

Lizzie said, “True. But Julian will be happy to see me. Rowan too, of course, if he isn't in one of his dark moods.”

“As you like,” Emma said officiously, hoping to hide her disappointment. Emma was surprised at herself, how unwilling she was to share the upcoming rendezvous. Though neither Lizzie nor Phillip had shown a great deal of interest in the newfound family member.

Emma turned and started up the stairs. Lizzie followed.

Phillip called after her, “Don't be long, Lizzie. You know Mother will be vexed if we keep her waiting.”