The Tutor's Daughter (3 page)

Her father asked the publican if anyone from Ebbington Manor had been in that evening.

The gap-toothed man shook his bald head and said, “No. Now, do 'ee want a pint or don't 'ee?”

“No, my good man, I am simply inquiring.”

The man stared at John Smallwood a moment longer, then went back to wiping the tankard in his hand.

Giving up, her father turned and led her back outside.

Emma looked up one side of the cobbled lane and down the other. The small village curved in a crescent around the harbor. On either side of the inlet, cliffs rose.

Her father asked, “You wrote and told Sir Giles when to expect us, did you not?”

“Yes. Perhaps he forgot. Or something more important came up.”

He shook his head in frustration. “Sir Giles is too considerate to knowingly neglect us. More likely the letter was misdirected, or the coachman he sent for us has been delayed.”

Emma hoped her father was right.

After waiting another quarter hour, they gave up and hired a
youth with a donkey cart to transport them and their trunks to Ebbington Manor.

“Goin' to the big 'ouse are thee?” the young man asked, his accent deliciously different.

“Yes,” Emma replied. “Do you know where it is?”

“'Course I do. Ever'soul in the parish knaws Ebb-ton.” He pointed to the cliff top on the other side of the harbor. There, a red-gold manor house loomed in the twilight.

The brawny youth helped her into the cart. Her father clambered up beside her, and the young man urged his donkey into motion. They left the village, crossed a river bridge, and began slogging up a steep road, ascending the cliff. The wind increased as they climbed, and the temperature dropped. Emma pulled her pelisse more tightly around herself. The path turned at a sharp switchback and continued to climb.

Below, the village and moored boats in the harbor appeared smaller and smaller. The donkey strained and the young man urged until finally they crested the rise and the path leveled out onto a grassy headland.

Again the sprawling stone manor came into view, its rooflines of varying heights, crowned by fortress-like chimney stacks built, no doubt, to withstand the ravages of the westerly gales.

The path before the manor widened into a drive that forked into two.

“The front er the back of the 'ouse?” their driver asked.

“Oh . . .” Emma hesitated, recalling her earlier supposition that their status at Ebbington Manor would be little higher than servants. But how much higher?

“The front, of course,” her father replied, chin lifted high. “I am an old friend of Sir Giles and the Weston family.”

The young man shrugged, unimpressed, but directed the donkey toward the front of the house.

Emma winced at the picture they must have made. Presuming to come to the front door, not in a fine carriage but in a donkey cart. She wondered what snide comment Henry Weston might have to say about that.

“Perhaps we ought to have gone to the back, Papa,” she whispered. “With our trunks and all.”

“Nonsense.”

Closer now, Emma could see more detail of the house. The stone exterior shone a mellow, pinkish gray by twilight, with newer Georgian sash windows in one section, and older mullioned windows in another. The front door was massive and medieval—dark oak with black iron scrollwork and fittings.

No servant hurried out to meet them, so while the young man helped her down, her father alighted, strode up to the door, and gave three raps with his walking stick.

A minute later, the door was opened a few inches by a manservant in his late fifties.

“Yes?” he asked, squinting from her father to the donkey cart and trunks behind him.

“I am Mr. Smallwood, and this is my daughter, Miss Smallwood.”

The servant blinked. “Are you expected?”

“Yes. I am here to tutor the younger Weston sons.”

Face puckered, the man regarded her father, chewing his lip in worry.

“Who is it, Davies?” a woman asked from behind the door, her voice polished and genteel.

The servant turned his head to reply. “Says his name is Smallwood, my lady. Says he's the new tutor.”

“Tutor? What tutor?”

At the incredulity in the woman's tone, Emma's stomach churned. She opened her reticule to extract Sir Giles's letter as proof of their invitation. She had not thought she would need it.

The manservant backed from the door, and his face was soon replaced by that of a handsome gentlewoman in evening dress, though Emma noticed her hair was somewhat disheveled and she held the door partially closed.

She said, “Mr. Smallwood, is it?”

Her father removed his hat and bowed. “John Smallwood. And you are Lady Weston, I presume. We have not met in person, but
I have had the pleasure of hosting your sons Henry and Phillip at my academy in Longstaple.”

“My stepsons. Yes. I recall hearing your name.” Her countenance rippled with several emotions, there and gone too quickly for Emma to catalog. Then the woman forced an apologetic smile. “I am sorry. We were not expecting you.”

Emma felt her cheeks heat. She could not distinguish her father's countenance in the dim light but did hear his tone grow mildly defensive. “Were you not? But Sir Giles requested that my daughter and I tutor your younger sons here in the comfort of your own home.”

One arched brow rose. “Did he indeed?”

“Yes. We wrote back to accept more than a fortnight ago.”

Emma added, “And sent word of our travel plans.”

Lady Weston flicked a look at her but addressed her father. “He must have forgotten to mention it.” She glanced over her shoulder, then said, “Unfortunately, you have come upon us at an inopportune time.” She glanced to the waiting trunks. “But I cannot in good conscience, I suppose, ask you to return another time, considering the hour. . . .”

Her father stiffened. “We are very sorry to inconvenience you, my lady. Perhaps this young man will not mind taking us back down to the village. . . .”

Another voice rose from behind the door. A low male voice. “What? Who? . . . Good heavens. I quite forgot that was tonight. . . . I know, but it cannot be helped.”

The door opened farther, and there stood fifty-something Sir Giles in evening attire, though his cravat was missing, exposing the loose skin of his aging neck as it draped into his shirt collar.

“Mr. Smallwood. Please forgive the rude reception. My fault entirely. I am afraid communication is not one of my strong points, as dear Lady Weston is forever reminding me, and with good cause, I fear.” He ducked his head apologetically and looked up from beneath bushy eyebrows. “Please do come in.”

Her father turned to her. “You remember my daughter, Emma?”

The baronet's eyes widened. “This is little Emma? Why, last I
saw her she was no bigger than this.” He stretched forth a hand, chest high.

“Yes, well, children do grow up. As no doubt Henry and Phillip have as well.”

Behind them their driver cleared his throat, and her father turned, digging into his purse. But Sir Giles pulled a crown from his pocket and said, “Allow me.” He tossed the silver coin to the driver. “Thank you, Tommy. Good night.”

The youth caught it handily. “Thank '
ee,
sir.”

Her father bent to pick up his smaller valise, but Sir Giles stayed him.

“No, no. Leave them. Our steward shall have them delivered up to your . . . uh, rooms . . . directly. Well, not directly, but do come in.” He held the door open.

Her father gestured for Emma to precede him.

Emma entered the vast two-story hall, trying not to gape. The hall was clearly quite ancient, unlike the modern windows of the side wings she had seen from outside. The hall's darkly paneled walls were hung with crossed swords and shields.

Sir Giles led the way over the flagstone floor to an open door across the hall. “Do come into the drawing room here.” He turned to his wife. “My dear, would you mind terribly calling for tea and something to eat? I am certain Mr. and Miss Smallwood must be hungry after their long journey.”

Lady Weston's smile was brittle. “Very well, my dear.” She turned back. “Any preference as to which rooms I have made up?”

Sir Giles appeared embarrassed, no doubt wishing he might have spared his guests the realization that no rooms had yet been prepared for them. He escorted the Smallwoods into the drawing room, gave them another apologetic look, and asked them to excuse him for just a moment.

Even though Sir Giles closed the doors behind him, Emma heard a few words of the tense conversation beyond.

“ . . . north wing.”

“No way to foresee . . .”

“ . . . nothing about a young woman . . .”

“For now.”

A moment later, Sir Giles stepped back into the room. Emma pretended to study a framed map of Cornwall on the wall.

Sir Giles smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Tea and refreshments shall be arriving soon. Might I offer either of you a glass of something while we wait?”

“I wouldn't say no to a cheerful glass,” her father said.

Emma added, “I shall wait for tea, thank you.”

Sir Giles unstopped a crystal decanter and poured two glasses of brandy. “I imagine it has been quite a taxing day for you. First the journey, then a slapdash reception. I do hope to make it up to you.”

John Smallwood said, “Think nothing of it. We only hope we did not presume in coming.”

“Not at all. Not at all. I am only surprised and delighted you would come.”

“But . . . did you not receive our letters in reply?”

“Oh . . . uh . . . yes. But, well, they reached me at a busy time, and I'm afraid I was not able to give them my full attention. But all shall be taken care of now that you're here.”

Sir Giles carried a glass to her father, then said, “You will be glad to know we have not neglected the boys' education entirely. The local vicar has been tutoring them in Latin and Greek, so they are not
complete
savages.” He chuckled awkwardly.

Her father smiled. “I am glad to hear it.”

Sir Giles carried his own glass to an armchair, where he settled himself comfortably against the cushions. “You mentioned Henry and Phillip.”

“How are they?” her father asked. “Will we be seeing them while we are here?”

“Yes. Phillip is away in Oxford, but he will return home at term end. Henry has just left for a few days on . . . em, family business, but he shall be returning soon.”

Her father beamed. “Excellent.”

Emma forced a smile, even as her stomach knotted at the thought.

Such a trip as we had into Cornwall. . . . If you could have followed us into the earthy old churches . . . and into the strange caverns on the gloomy seashore, and down into the depths of mines, and up to the tops of giddy heights, where the unspeakably green water was roaring.

—Charles Dickens

Chapter 3

E
mma and her father were left alone to eat a light supper. Then the housekeeper appeared to lead them to their rooms, candle lamp in hand to light the way.

“You are to have rooms in the south wing,” Mrs. Prowse said as they crossed the hall to a simple Georgian staircase, another addition to the far older main hall.

When they reached the half landing, her father paused, looking up. Emma followed his gaze as he surveyed the soaring ceiling striped by ancient roof timbers, massive and black as pitch.

He asked the housekeeper, “How old is the manor?”

Mrs. Prowse turned and swept her arm in a wide arc. “The hall itself dates back three hundred years. Originally it was all there was to the house, save for side wings for kitchens and stables. But over the centuries additional wings and floors have been built on.”

Ah,
Emma thought. That explained the uneasy marriage of Medieval, Tudor, and Georgian architecture she had noticed, both in the exterior and now interior as well.

The middle-aged housekeeper led them up two flights of creaking stairs, pausing to light the candle lamps at each landing. “The north wing lies in that direction,” she said, with a jerk of her chin. “You are not to venture there.” She turned in the opposite direction and guided them down a long corridor, its floor slanting after years of warping and shifting.

She halted before a door midway along its length. “You are to have this room, Mr. Smallwood. And Miss Smallwood shall be around the corner at the end of the next passage.”

Her father frowned. “May we not be closer?”

Knowing how much trouble the housekeeper and her maids had likely already been put to, Emma hurried to say, “It's all right, Papa. We shall find each other easily enough.”

Mrs. Prowse nodded her approval, then continued officiously, “You haven't your own man, I take it, Mr. Smallwood?”

“No, I'm afraid not. But I shan't require much help.”

“Our footman, Jory, will valet for you. And you, miss. Traveling without a maid, I understand?”

“That's right.” At home, Mrs. Malloy or their maid, Nancy, had helped her dress. And Emma had taken care of her own hair.

“Then I shall send up the second housemaid to assist you.”

Emma felt a twinge of unease, as she always did when acknowledging she needed anyone's help. But she did. Stays laced up the back, as did most of her frocks. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Mrs. Prowse started to turn away but then lifted a finger. “Oh, and before I forget. You are both to take your meals in the steward's office from this point forward. Mr. Davies shall be expecting you.”

“I see. Thank you.” Emma realized she had been correct to foresee their status at Ebbington Manor as little higher than the servants. But she felt no pleasure at being right.

Emma bid her father good night and followed the housekeeper around the corner and down a narrower passage. Glancing up, Emma noticed old portraits high on the walls, their many pairs of eyes glaring down at her in the flickering candlelight. A shiver crept
up her neck, and Emma suddenly shared her father's wish that their rooms were closer together.

When Mrs. Prowse opened a door near the end of the passage, Emma stepped inside the room and was pleased to see a candle glowing on the bedside table and a modest fire burning in the hearth.

“Do let me know if you need anything,” the woman said, a hint of kindness in her voice.

“Thank you,” Emma said once more, feeling like a parrot who knew only one phrase by rote. She added a smile to warm her words.

Assuring Emma the maid would be up soon to attend her, the housekeeper took her leave, closing the door behind her.

Emma stepped farther inside and surveyed the room. Her trunk sat near the wardrobe, but she hadn't the energy to begin unpacking. She'd had the foresight to pack a nightdress, comb, and tooth powder in her hand luggage and would make do with those for the night.

She had only just set these things out on the washstand when a quiet knock sounded. Emma turned. “Yes?”

The door creaked open and a girl's head appeared. “May I come in?”

Emma was surprised the maid would bother to ask. “Of course.”

The young woman grinned impishly, bouncy dark ringlets framing her charming, freckled face. She wore no apron, and her ivory gown seemed too fine for her station.

Emma said bluntly, “You don't look like a housemaid.”

The girl curtsied. “I thank you, miss. For I am not a housemaid.”

Emma's face heated. “Forgive me. It is only that the housekeeper said she would send up the housemaid directly.”

“Did she? Good. I was afraid the old thing wouldn't think to do so and you'd be left to fend for yourself. So I thought I would pop up and see if you needed any help. I haven't a lady's maid either. The housemaid attends me as well.”

“I see.” Emma waited for the young woman to introduce herself, but she merely stood there, smiling sweetly. A pretty girl, Emma thought. Probably seventeen or so. Several years younger than herself.

Emma took the matter in hand, saying, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Miss Emma Smallwood.” She raised her brows expectantly.

“Oh!” the girl exclaimed. “Do forgive me. How silly I am. I am Lizzie. Lizzie Henshaw.”

Emma waited for her to explain her connection to the family. When she said nothing, Emma prodded, “And you are . . . ?”

The girl gaped. “You've never heard of me?” She huffed. “Those boys. I shouldn't wonder. I am Lady Weston's ward. I thought you'd know. I've lived here for more than three years now. Phillip never mentioned me?”

“Not that I recall.”

Seeing the girl's crestfallen expression, Emma hastened to add, “I have not seen Phillip for nearly three years, so he very well may have mentioned you and I simply forgot.”

Lizzie shrugged in easy acceptance. “That's all right. If he did mention me, it was probably full of teasing and jokes. Always likes to tease me. But that's how young men are, I suppose.”

Lizzie cocked her head to one side, dark eyes glinting. “That reminds me. Have you met the twins yet?”

“No.”

“Your father will have his hands full with those two, if I don't miss my guess.”

“Oh? How so?”

“They're not accustomed to sitting in the schoolroom all day. At least not since their governess ran off with the drawing master. And that was years ago now.”

“I thought Sir Giles mentioned a Latin and Greek tutor?”

“Mr. McShane?” The girl nodded. “The vicar comes a few hours each week. And handsome he is too. Though a bit . . . well fed.”

“But is he a good teacher?”

Lizzie wrinkled a freckled nose. “I wouldn't have any idea about that, would I? I walk by the library now and again to take an eyeful, I confess. But most of what he says is so much gibberish to me.”

How sad,
Emma thought. Though she knew things like Latin
were “so much gibberish” to most females. And that men—and the majority of women —preferred it that way.

Lizzie continued. “But otherwise, the boys have been allowed to run wild for the most part. Worse than their elder brothers, they are.” She shrugged. “But as I said, that's how boys are.”

“Well. I suppose we shall meet them tomorrow.”

Another knock sounded, and a diminutive housemaid entered in mobcap and apron. She dropped a curtsy, then hesitated at seeing Lizzie in the room.

“Were you looking for me, Morva?” Lizzie asked.

“Ess, miss. I be in yer room, waitin' for thee. Her ladyship told me to see to thee first.”

“Well, never mind that,” Lizzie said. “Attend Miss Smallwood first. I am in no hurry, whereas she must be exhausted.”

The young housemaid bit her lip.

“Go on.” Lizzie gestured toward Emma. “And if Lady W. fusses, just tell her I commanded you most imperiously.”

The maid's brow puckered. “Most what?”

Lizzie paraphrased, “Blame me.” She opened the door, then turned back to wink at Emma. “I shall see you in the morning, I trust?”

“Yes. I should think so.”

“I hope we see a great deal of each other.” Lizzie smiled. “I for one am very glad you're here.”

Emma smiled stiffly, the girl's innocent words jabbing her throat—I
for one
am glad you're here.

Within minutes the housemaid had helped Emma undress and left to assist Lizzie. Though tired, Emma decided to write in her journal, as she usually did before blowing out her bedside candle at night. She thought it might settle her. She sat in bed, smoothed the bedclothes over her legs, and situated her small, portable writing desk on her lap. Uncorking the inkpot, she dipped her quill and wrote.

How very disconcerting to arrive at Ebbington Manor after careful planning only to find ourselves unexpected and, apparently,
unwanted guests. Had we not already let our house, I would have been tempted to turn right around and return home. But it is no longer our home, at least not for the next twelvemonth.

Hopefully, Lady Weston will come around to our being here. If only the younger Westons might take a liking to Papa as Phillip and even Henry Weston did as boys. I do hope Papa will rise to the occasion after his months of gloomy apathy. For if the Weston sons speak highly of their new teacher, that, I think, would go a long way in warming Lady Weston to the idea of an in-residence tutor. Not to mention the tutor's daughter. Tomorrow will be an important day. I must do what I can to help Papa make a good first impression.

Our cool reception has been salved somewhat by two unexpected consolations. One, Henry Weston is not present at the moment. And two, an unexpected young woman is. Her name is Miss Lizzie Henshaw. Lady Weston's ward, she said. I suppose she is the daughter of some relation of Lady Weston's, likely orphaned to have come to live here, apparently permanently. I don't believe Phillip mentioned her arrival. I wonder why.

At all events, Lizzie seems the most pleasant of the lot, or at least the only one truly glad to see us. She is several years younger than I. Still, I hope we might be friends. I would enjoy having a female friend, I think. It is not my habit to make quick judgments of anyone's character. But early indications seem quite—

A strange howl reverberated through the door and up Emma's spine. She froze, quill in hand, heart pounding. There it came again, a high-pitched wail like an ailing child, or a frightened woman, or . . . a ghost. She told herself not to be silly. There was undoubtedly a simple, earthly explanation for the unearthly sound.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut, listening. She heard no answering cry of alarm, but distant footsteps padded rapidly down the corridor. A servant, she guessed. But why would he . . . or she . . . be running unless something was wrong?

Emma reminded herself that she was no longer in their modest
household with only Mrs. Malloy and Nancy to look after them. Here at Ebbington Manor, there would be a whole army of servants busy about the place at all hours, lighting fires, bringing water, and who knew what all. It didn't necessarily mean that anything was amiss.

Did it . . . ?

Plop
.
A drip of ink landed on her journal page, barely missing her white nightdress. It was enough to shake Emma from her fear-induced stupor. She quickly blotted the ink and stowed her writing things neatly away. Then she forced herself to blow out her candle and close her eyes.

But it was quite some time before she calmed down enough to fall asleep.

In the morning, Emma rose and washed with cold water left in the pitcher from the previous night. She then dressed herself as best she could, checking her watch and hoping the housemaid would arrive so she could finish dressing and get an early start on the day.