The Tutor's Daughter (37 page)

“Miss Smallwood, I passed your father walking south when I rode back to the house.”

She gaped at him. “If he didn't plan to come here, why would he . . . Why would anyone write a note saying he had?”

He looked at her grimly but did not voice his suspicions.

He saw a chill pass over her. She said weakly, “Well, Lizzie knows where I've gone. As do Julian and Rowan.”

Pain lanced him. Would either of his half brothers lift a finger to help her?

She added hopefully, “And surely someone saw you coming in this direction?”

“Maybe. But I didn't think to tell anyone where I was going.”

“That was not very wise.”

He whirled. “I had other things on my mind,” he snapped. “And may I say, your coming out here today was not wise either.”

She swallowed, and the offended retort he saw building within her fizzled away, unspoken. Her shoulders slumped. “You are right. I came charging down here without thinking it through. Like something you would have done.”

He huffed dryly and returned to his inspection. “Like something I did do.” Why had he not thought to look for the key? To be on his guard?

“Look, let's not argue,” she said. “Let's figure out a solution. We are both of us clever. I am certain we can think of something.”

“You think all you like.” He inhaled deeply. “I am going to pray.”

. . . behold, the four winds of the heaven strove upon the great sea.

—Daniel 7:2

Chapter 24

W
hen the first wave splashed through the westward window, Henry heard Emma gasp from across the chapel. It was soon followed by another whitecap, smacking the slit and sloshing onto the stone floor, wetting her half boots. Henry, who had been banging away at the bricks with a sharp rock he'd found, looked over at Emma, and for a moment both stilled, their eyes meeting in silent understanding. Then he resumed chipping with renewed zeal, and she ran to the door, tried once again to open it, and began yelling for help once more.

Henry's mind whirled with thoughts of what might happen to them if a powerful storm struck during record-breaking tides. On one hand, Henry was ready to accept his fate if need be. He had enough faith in eternal life that he was not terrified by the prospect of death. Then again, he would prefer to live another fifty years first, God willing.

But he was not ready to accept Emma Smallwood's death. Not at the hands of someone of his own family. And not while she had doubts about God. Her fate rested like a heavy burden across his shoulders—heavier than a waterlogged sailor, than six of them—weighing down his heart.

As he prayed, he worked. He believed God heard his prayers but
did not think the Almighty wanted him to sit idly by, waiting for Him to do everything while Henry reclined at his ease. From the Old Testament Henry had gleaned that even when God promised to give His people the land, He still expected them to go to battle. To do the work. So he prayed and continued to chip away at the mortar.

But it was taking too long.

A quarter of an hour later, the water was up to their ankles, streaming through the westward and southern windows in a steady flow punctuated by bursts as waves crashed against the chapel, shaking the building to its ancient foundations.

They'd tried to batten the west window. But the waves pushed aside each obstacle they'd lodged there. Might the violent sea wash away the chapel as it had the rest of the church—and them with it? If the rising water level didn't drown them, that might.

From the other windows came patches of stormy grey daylight. It was unlikely anyone would see their lantern until darkness fell. Would the tower still be standing by then?

Across the chapel, Emma paced through the water, still searching for another way of escape or another tool with which to help him chip at the mortar. He noticed her shiver. Of course she was cold. What an idiot he was. Warm enough from his constant effort, he rose and splashed through the water toward her, removing his greatcoat as he went.

Guessing his intention, she shook her head, protesting, “I'll swim in it.”

You very well might,
he thought to himself but thought it wiser not to voice that dire prediction. “Then here,” he said. “Hold this for me.”

She accepted the outer coat, folding it in her arms to keep it above the water while he struggled out of his frock coat with some difficulty, both from the snug, precise cut and from the numbness of his hands.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, standing in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.

She said, “I am not offended by your shirtsleeves, Mr. Weston. I hardly think propriety is our primary concern at present.”

He held out his frock coat to her. “Wear this.”

“But it's yours. You'll freeze.”

“Nonsense.” He draped it around her, allowing his hands to linger on her shoulders, to bestow what comfort he could. “I am a hardy Cornish lad, while you are a thin-skinned inland lass.”

She looked up sharply, as though offended, then managed a wobbly grin.

Good. She realized he was teasing. How unfortunate that they were only now beginning to understand each other.

She handed him back his greatcoat and laced her arms through the sleeves of his frock coat. “Thank you, kind sir.” She dipped an elegant curtsy.

He chuckled at her plucky courage, her attempt at humor at such a time. He bowed in his best formal address. Rising, hand to his heart, he said, “My honor and pleasure, Miss Smallwood.”

For a moment they looked at each other and a warm cable of attraction held them. Then another wave burst in and doused them both. Icy water penetrated his fine linen shirtsleeves, wetting them through and sending shivers along his skin.

Emma gasped at the shock of cold, and the moment passed. He pulled on his greatcoat and while he worked the fastenings, he insisted she do the same.

Then he returned to his work. He took one more strike at the mortar, and finally a crack appeared. A thrill of success rose up in him only to be doused the next second. For through the crack, water rushed forth in a thin, high-pressure stream. It was too late. Even if he managed to chip away a hole, their way of escape was now completely underwater. The tide had come in, and the stormy waves had raised the water level even higher. In fact, he had just worsened their situation by opening another aperture, albeit a small one, for water to enter their shaky sanctuary.

No doubt noticing the cessation of his chipping efforts, Emma looked over, hope brightening her eyes. She looked from his face down to the shooting leak, and the hope faded. She bit her lip, probably fighting against tears, and his heart ached to see it.

Lord, please help me save her!
How he longed to be her rescuer, her brave knight. To prove he was more than the mischievous troublemaker she remembered and likely still thought him.

Outside the storm worsened. Wind and waves buffeted the stone walls. Water cascaded through the west and south windows with each new wave, and the water level inside the chapel rose to their knees.

Henry sloshed over to the stout, waist-high baptismal font. Its decorative cover was long gone, likely stolen years ago by some young vandal on a dare. Henry yanked a still-sturdy board from a sagging pew and laid it over the top, then gestured Emma over to him. “Come. Let's get you up on the font. You'll be drier there.”

She looked at him earnestly. “Is there nothing else we can do?”

“Not that I can think of. Besides pray that someone sees the light and realizes we're out here.”

“But even if they did, the causeway must be underwater by now.”

“Perhaps not.” He held out his hand to her. “Come.”

She stared at his hand; then her eyes darted back to his face. He guessed why she hesitated. To accept his hand was to accept defeat—that there was nothing to do but wait to drown or be saved. He knew how much Emma Smallwood liked—longed—to be in control. To solve her own problems. She detested feeling helpless, to be at anyone's mercy. He didn't like being at anyone's mercy either, unless that “person” was God. And that's where they were, he realized. Helpless. And at God's mercy.

“Come,” he repeated, remaining where he was, hesitant to walk toward her, to force his hand. He wanted her to come to him. To surrender.

Emma realized there was nothing she could do. For the first time in her life, she acknowledged the problem she faced was outside her control. She had likely been just as helpless at her mother's sickbed, but Emma had never accepted that inevitability. She had never ceased to consult medical books and herbal dictionaries, looking for a cure. She had kept the room spotless, overseen the
preparation of the most healthful invalid meals and beef teas. Plied the apothecary with endless questions, and sought a second opinion from a Plymouth physician when her father had not bothered. Not that any of it had availed in the end, but she had
tried.
Strived.

Now there was nothing she could do to affect the outcome—no second opinions to seek, no books to consult, no father to cajole, no Aunt Jane to call upon. There was nothing to do but pray. Was it hypocritical to turn to God now, when she had done her utmost to be independent, to make her way without Him until this point? She supposed it was. But was that not true of so many deathbed prayers? When one looked upon the prospect of one's mortality and eternity beyond?

She walked through the water, her steps made slow and arduous by heavy, sodden skirts. Her eyes remained fastened on his.

Another wave sprayed through the window, pelting Emma's face. Her eyes filled with tears, too many to be blinked away, and salt water both warm and cold ran down her cheeks. She saw answering tears fill his eyes. And somehow she knew the tears were not for himself but for her.

Reaching him, she placed her hand in his. “All right,” she whispered. “I understand.”

Together, they turned toward the font. Eyeing it, Henry gauged its height. “I shall have to lift you.”

“I'm too heavy.”

“Nonsense.” He put his hands on her waist, its slimness somewhat disguised by the coat of his she wore. He lifted her, a bit of an effort with her waterlogged skirts but accomplished handily nonetheless.

For several moments, she sat atop the font, his hands still on her waist as he stood before her, her hands lingering on his forearms. Her face a few inches above his now that she sat perched on the font. He liked looking up at her.

Had he not always done so?

The water reached the top of his tall boots and ran down inside them. He gave an involuntary shiver.

“You must come up here too,” she said. “You're freezing.”

“There isn't room for two and I'm fine.”

“I insist, Mr. Weston. I shall not sit here as though on some throne while you stand in frigid water. You'll catch your death.”

Her lips parted in chagrin at her unfortunate choice of words. Then she began gathering her skirts around her. “Give me your hand,” she commanded.

“Yes, madam. With pleasure.”

Using his uplifted hand as a brace, she gingerly rose to her feet on the board, untangling her skirts as she did so.

“Careful,” he warned.

She stood, and he was relieved she managed to not fall headlong from her perch. She said, “All right. Your turn.”

He began to protest, “I don't think that is—”

She extended her hand to him. “Please.”

He saw something in her eyes that shut off further objections. He considered various options for ascending the font without knocking her off. This was no time for a game of king of the castle.

His legs were long enough that he could raise one foot to the edge of the font. The water weighed down his other foot, but he thought if he got enough momentum, and levered himself up with his hands, he might make it.

She said, “Take my hand and I'll pull you up.”

“I'm afraid I'll only succeed in pulling you down with me.”

“I have a good stance. Let me help you.” She grinned. “Just try to remain vertical so you don't butt me with your very large head.”

He smirked up at her. “One wonders how I've found hats to fit me all these years.”

“I imagine your hatter is exceptionally well paid.”

He placed his hand in hers but warned, “If I start to fall, let go. Do you hear? I don't want to have to put my back out lifting you up again.”

How ironic that they were teasing each other at such a time. Better than shouting or wailing, he supposed. Yes, much better.

Pushing with his standing leg and bracing arm and allowing Miss
Smallwood to help pull him up, Henry managed to heave himself up to his feet. He overshot the mark a bit and felt Miss Smallwood sway backward. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her safely against him.

“Th-thank you,” she murmured.

He did not let her go but kept his arms around her. What a sight they must make: two tall people standing pressed together atop a font. “Well, we made it,” he said lightly, trying to dispel the tension of the unsaid things between them and the encroaching danger.

“Did we?” She looked down at the rising water, then up to the high ceiling. “One step closer to heaven . . .”

“You do know we can't ascend there on our own power . . . ?” he asked hopefully.

“I do know. I did not sleep through all those Sunday sermons in Longstaple, as you did.”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I am glad to hear it.”

Emma's answering grin fell away as quickly as it formed. She whispered, “I'm sorry.”

“For what?” Henry asked.

“I was not talking to you.”

“Oh . . .” he breathed in awe.

She shook her head. “I should not have joked about heaven. For I am all too aware that I am not all I should be. Not worthy to face God on my own.”

“None of us are,” he whispered. “That is why our merciful God sent His beloved son to suffer and die—to cover our wrongdoing.”

She nodded, though her eyes remained distant, anxious.

He inhaled a ragged breath. “I don't presume to know what you believe, Emma. But I do know that God loves you and forgives you. And if you acknowledge Him as the only one who can truly save you, save anyone, He will. Maybe not here and now in this world. But in the next. Forever.”