The Tutor's Daughter (34 page)

“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.

Adam nodded.

“Is she ill?”

Adam made no reply but followed along as Henry hurried down the corridor and up the stairs. Passing the landing, he grabbed the candle lamp left burning there without missing a stride.

His stomach twisted.
Lord, let
her be all right.
He had so hoped all the strange suspicions reeling through his head were wrong. Overwrought. Surely no one would do her any harm. Not for ringing an alarm bell. Not in revenge for a single slap. . . . Surely not. But as revenge for the resulting loss of a rich wreck? A chill ran over him.
Please,
God, no.

Reaching her room, Henry saw that Adam had left the door ajar.
Unless someone had been in there since Adam came to wake him. Or was in there even now. . . .

Henry pushed open the door. All was still. Light from a full moon illuminated the room—Miss Smallwood's bed and the prone figure upon it, bedclothes bunched at her waist. Stepping nearer, the light from his candle lamp fell on her white nightdress. And the blood-red stain on her chest.

His heart hammered against his breastbone. For a moment he stood, paralyzed, staring at her pale face, so still. The large stain like a red blossom on her breast. Grief and anger punched him in the lungs so hard, he could barely draw breath.

In the next moment he dropped to his knees beside the bed and reached for her wrist. Closing his eyes to concentrate, he felt the soft
ta-tomb
of her heartbeat.
Thank
you, God.

He opened his eyes, just as she opened hers and focused on his face in a dreamy vagueness. Was she barely conscious? Weak from blood loss?

“Emma, who did this?” He reached for the neckline of her nightdress, determined to see how bad the wound was.

When his fingers touched the linen, her hand flew up and caught his wrist, eyes snapping wide and alert.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

He pointed to her chest. “You're bleeding.”

She looked down at herself and, seeing the large stain by candlelight, gasped and sat up, her own hand going to her chest. She pulled her loose neckline forward and looked down to her skin beneath.

She shook her head. “I'm fine. I'm not hurt.”

“Thunder and turf!” Henry exploded. “What is going on here?”

Behind him, Adam whimpered.

She huffed. “Don't yell at me. You're not the one waking up to find a man looming over your bed.”

“Actually, I was. Adam came to wake me.” He gestured toward his brother cowering in the threshold, then turned back to Emma. “Sorry. But you gave me a devil of a shock.”

Using his candle lamp, Henry lit the candles on Emma's side
table and washstand. That's when he saw the blood-red handprint on the wall.

“What on earth . . . ?” He gingerly touched a finger to the red substance and found it thick, viscous. . . . He lifted it near his nose and sniffed. No acrid smell of blood.

“Adam?” Emma said toward the door. “It's all right. I am not hurt. I am perfectly well.”

Henry glanced over his shoulder and saw Adam straighten and take a tentative step forward.

Emma held out her hand toward him. “I'm fine. I'm not hurt. See? It's not my blood. Probably just paint. A trick, that's all.”

“Trick?” Adam echoed in confusion.

“A joke. But not a very funny one.”

Adam shook his head. “I don't like tricks.”

Nor do I,
Henry silently agreed.

In the morning, Henry asked Miss Smallwood to wait downstairs and directed Morva not to clean Miss Smallwood's room, nor move the stained nightdress from the bed. Then he bade Lady Weston, Sir Giles, Phillip, Julian, Rowan, and Lizzie to join him there.

Miss Smallwood had wanted to keep it quiet, to handle the incident her own way—by not reacting. But Henry could not stand by and do nothing. A line had been crossed, and he had had enough.

Apparently his stepmother agreed. She looked around the room at the red handprint and stained nightdress, listened to Henry's description of events, and threw her hands in the air.

“This is the outside of enough! Really, husband, I must put my foot down. I warned Henry what might happen if Adam was allowed to wander about the house at will. And look at this! Bloodstains in Miss Smallwood's room. A clear threat if ever I saw one. Really, I must insist we put more effort into making other arrangements for him elsewhere. Perhaps Mr. Davies might be given the assignment. He might very well succeed where Henry has failed. And until then, I must insist that Adam's bedchamber door be locked at night. For
his own safety as well as ours. No harm was done this time, but who knows what his faulty mind and violent fits might occasion the next? Shall we all be murdered in our beds?”

Sir Giles's shoulders slumped. He appeared grieved indeed.

Henry hurried to defend his brother. “Adam did not do this. It is not the sort of thing he would conceive of. His mind works very literally, not in pretense. Besides, he was terrified when he came to wake me.”

“And how did he know of it, if he didn't do it?”