The Tutor's Daughter (39 page)

Soon after, two carriages rattled onto the beach. The Westons' landau, driven by their coachman, followed by the two-wheeled cart, driven by the groom.

Sir Giles hopped down from the landau, looking more spry than Henry had seen him in years. Henry guessed he had heard the bell and ordered the carriages. Now, surveying the sodden lot of them—and the assembled, gawking crowd—the baronet took charge. Ignoring their protests and urging haste, he herded his sons toward the family carriage.

Henry allowed his father to lead him into the landau, his half brothers arguing and Julian's eyes flashing dangerously—though one eye was sure to be black-and-blue before long.

He tried to catch Emma's attention across the way, but she was deep in earnest conversation with her father. Henry would have to talk to her later. Assuming she would ever want to speak to him—to any Weston—after this.

Emma was relieved to see her father alive and well, when she had feared him in danger but a few hours before. He held her tightly, and she embraced him in return.

“Thanks be to God, Emma. Are you all right?”

“Yes, Papa.” She noted his flushed face and labored breathing with concern. “Are you?”

“Now that I know you're safe, I am.” He panted to catch his breath. “I was partway to Upton before I suspected I'd been tricked. I hurried back and when I found that forged letter in the schoolroom and no one else, I feared the worst. I alerted Sir Giles and ran down while he called for the carriages.”

He held her a little away from him, anxiously studying her. “What happened?”

Emma glanced at the curious onlookers and hovering groom. “I shall tell you later. All right? When we're alone.”

He followed her gaze, and the groom quickly ducked, feigning interest in the harness. “Very well.”

Emma looked across the way. Henry was being led into his family's landau, fussed over by Sir Giles. Henry glanced in her direction and their eyes met across the distance. She saw his lips move but could not make out his words over the shouting of his brothers and the roar of the wind, increasing once more. She shrugged and shook her head, meaning
I can't hear you.
Who knew how he interpreted the gesture. He lifted a hand, in salute or in farewell, his face downcast in regret.

Seeing Henry join his family in the fine landau, leaving her and her father to ride alone in the cart, felt like a splash of cold water in her face, waking her from a vivid dream to stark, grey reality.

Realization seeped into Emma like water oozing through a hundred cracks in the wall of her being.
He would never be
allowed to marry you.
Surveying the dozen yards between them, she knew what separated them was far more than physical distance. Henry Weston was the son of a baronet, and his likely heir. He would be Sir Henry after his father's death, and she would still be plain Miss Smallwood, tutor's daughter. No birth of distinction, no connections, no wealth. The line of demarcation between them was clearer than any actual line drawn in the sand.

Henry's damp coat hung on her, as heavy as chain mail. Her
knees trembled under its weight. Emma thought of all that had passed between them in the chapel. The way he had looked at her, held her, kissed her. The words he had said. But that had been when he'd thought they would not live to see another day.

Fingers of misgiving kneaded her spine. Had it all been runaway emotion?

She wondered what he was feeling now. Embarrassment? Regret? Might he feel he had inadvertently committed himself to her when he had hoped, perhaps even planned, to marry Miss Penberthy or some other wealthy young lady like her? The last thing Emma wanted was for Henry to feel trapped, obligated to her out of duty alone. She wanted his genuine, unreserved love or nothing at all. Seeing him now, seated with his family, Emma thought the latter the most likely eventuality.

Across the harbor, waves battered the chapel with renewed fury. Emma shivered, wind cutting through her wet clothes like a knife. Noticing, her father removed his coat and draped it around her.

As he helped her into the waiting cart, a terrible rending shuddered through her. A violent cracking, as though a frozen pond had been struck by a mighty fist.

She turned and saw the beleaguered chapel lean and then keel over, crashing into the water with a great splash. The hungry waves licked it, consumed it—and in a matter of moments, buried it beneath the water. Gone forever.

Around the harbor people stared, stunned. Emma looked at Henry in the landau and saw his gaped mouth. His grief.

Poor Henry,
Emma thought. He'd loved that place. How disappointed he must be.

She inhaled deeply. At least he was alive.

And so am
I,
she reminded herself. And that was enough. It was time to be thankful.

And to start living.

The lofty pine is oftenest shaken by the winds; High towers fall with a heavier crash; And the lightning strikes the highest mountain.

—Horace

Chapter 25

M
indful of Henry's admonition to wait to discuss the matter in private—and aware of the coachman's curious looks and listening ears—the Westons were a somber, silent party on the ride up the cliff.

They reached the manor, shivering and spent. Lady Weston and Phillip were there to meet them, all concern. Sir Giles, ignoring the questions and protestations tumbling one over the other, shepherded his sons inside and called for hot baths for all.

“Very well, Father,” Henry allowed. “But afterward, we need to talk. All of us.”

The Smallwoods arrived in the cart, and before they went their separate ways, a meeting with all involved was set to commence in two hours' time.

As she stepped past him on her way inside, Emma solemnly handed back his coat, folded away and all but ruined, like his hopes.

At the appointed time, they all assembled in the drawing room, some begrudgingly, some eager to learn what had taken place, and why. Henry was somewhat surprised to see both his half brothers
enter the room of their own volition. True, Henry
had
instructed the footman, Jory, to keep an eye on Julian, just in case. But apparently he came under no duress. Was he so convinced of his own innocence—or his ability to prove himself so?

Lady Weston sat in her customary chair; Sir Giles stood behind her. Emma Smallwood and her father shared one settee, while Lizzie and Phillip shared the other. Rowan and Julian each took armchairs of their own. Henry stood by the fire, hand on the mantel. The only Weston absent was Adam. But Henry was only too happy to spare him what would no doubt prove a trying confrontation.

Without accusing anyone, Henry began by giving a summary of the day's events: The forged note Miss Smallwood received. Mr. Smallwood walking in the opposite direction to the Upton cemetery. Henry following Miss Smallwood to the chapel and both being locked in—and would have been swept away when the chapel fell, had Rowan not reached them in time.

When he finished his summary, he turned to Julian. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” Julian asked, eyes wide in faux innocence, one of them shadowed by a burgeoning bruise.

“You know very well what. Lock us in the chapel.”

Julian crossed his arms. “I didn't do that. Rowan did.”

Rowan frowned. “That's a lie, Julian.”

Julian turned his head and pinned Lizzie with a look. “Tell them, Lizzie. Tell them who did it.”

Lizzie wrung her hands. She bit her lip, glancing from Henry to Phillip and then nervously back at Julian. She whispered, “You did.”

Julian's face contorted. “You unfaithful—”

Foul words seemed about to follow, but Henry quickly silenced him with a stinging grip to his shoulder.

Changing tack, Julian shrugged. “
If
I did, it was only meant to be a joke.”

“A joke?” Henry exclaimed. “To lure Miss Smallwood down there just as the tide and a storm were coming in?”

“Well, I couldn't know
when
she would go, could I? Or how bad the storm would be.”

“Are you going to tell me you did not change the times in my tide book, that you did not write that note, mimicking Mr. Smallwood's handwriting, telling Emma he was going to the chapel when you knew very well he was not?”

“I didn't give her the note.” Julian jerked his chin toward his brother. “Rowan did.”

Rowan threw up his hands. “Well, how was I to know it wasn't real? Lizzie told me Mr. Smallwood had given it to her on his way out. She asked me to deliver it since I was going up to the schoolroom anyway. I had no idea what the letter was about. I didn't suspect forgery—not until Miss Smallwood told us her father had written to say he'd gone to the Chapel of the Rock.”

“But
you
sent her father to Upton on a wild goose chase,” Julian insisted.

Rowan nodded. “I admit I lied when I told him I'd seen several graves with the name Smallwood in the Upton cemetery, and gave him a map with a few wrong turns to lengthen his trip. But that is all I did.” He glanced at the tutor. “Sorry, Mr. Smallwood.” He looked back at his brother with a frown. “I thought the plan was to buy ourselves an afternoon without lessons. I had no idea you tampered with the tide table. Or took the chapel key. Had I known everything you planned to do, I would never have gone along with even that much.”

“Do you expect anyone to believe that?” Julian scoffed, with a covert glance at his mother. “You admit to getting the old man out of the way. And failed to tell Henry about the forged letter. And yet you expect everyone to believe you had no part in the rest? Ha.”

“I believe him,” Lizzie said quietly.

Julian glared at her. “Turning against me now—is that it?” His lip curled. “I had thought to spare you in this little mock trial of Henry's, but if that's how you're going to behave, then forget it. Let's tell everyone how you knowingly gave Rowan a forged note to deliver, for I knew he would suspect it if it came from my own
hand.” He glanced at the others. “It was not my first forgery, you see.” His eyes glinted with a strange pride.

“But I never thought you would take it so far,” Lizzie said. “That you planned to trap her there until . . . until it was too late.”

Lady Weston, Henry noticed, had sat rigid and uncharacteristically silent throughout the testimony. Now she suggested hopefully, “But, Julian . . . surely you meant to go back out and unlock the door. But the water rose too high before you could do so. Is that not right?”

Henry heard the restrained desperation in her voice, but Julian made no reply.

Lizzie turned plaintive eyes toward Henry. “We had no idea you might go out there too. Or I never would have gone along with it.”

He looked at her, incredulous. “It was acceptable to lock Miss Smallwood in the chapel, but not me?”

Lizzie ducked her head. “I don't say it was right. But she is nobody to us.”

Henry noticed Emma flinch at the words. Angry indignation mounted on Mr. Smallwood's face, and in his claw-like grip on the arm of the settee, where he sat beside Emma. She apparently noticed as well, for she laid a restraining hand on his.

Lizzie continued, “When I realized Julian still intended to go through with it, I rang the warning bell, hoping to stop him and bring help.”

“Why did you do it, Julian?” Mr. Smallwood asked, expression thunderous. “What has my daughter ever done to you?”

Julian huffed. “Interfere—that's what. Sticking her nose into private family affairs. Eavesdropping. Pointing out incriminating notices in the newspaper, forcing Mamma to suspend . . . certain activities. Causing Phillip to come home midterm and . . . confuse a particular young lady. . . .”

“That's not true,” Phillip protested.

But Julian went on, undeterred, “Turning Henry's head, when he is meant to marry Miss Penberthy or someone like her. Ringing Henry's dashed bell. Mr. Teague does not appreciate that tower
one bit. It was he who suggested that a warning to Miss Smallwood would serve as a warning to Henry as well.”

“Mr. Teague?” Sir Giles's face puckered. “What has that reprobate to do with her? With any of us?”

“Far more than you know, Papa. Or would want to know, I'd wager.” Julian turned to his mother. “Would you not agree, Mamma?”

Lady Weston stared back at him, face pale. Slowly she shook her head. “Julian . . . you cannot think I wanted this. I . . . I never thought you capable of such . . . deviousness.”

One brow arched high, he challenged, “Are you not impressed?”

“Impressed?” Again she shook her head. “I am shocked. Disappointed. Afraid for you. When did you become so coldhearted? So . . . unscrupulous?”

“Oh, don't be modest, Mamma,” Julian said with a wicked grin. “We all know you deserve the credit, coming from a long line of West Country smugglers, as you do. Wouldn't Grandfather Heale be proud?”

Her mouth fell ajar. “Ungrateful, spiteful boy. My papa devoted his life to overcoming my grandfather's reputation, to bring our family up in society. And he succeeded. Now, that is enough. I will hear no more of this.”

“What is the matter, Mamma?” Julian asked archly. “Afraid Papa will learn of your dealings with your friend, Mr. Teague?”

Lady Weston's eyes sparked with anger. “He is not my friend, Julian. As you well know. We are business partners at best.”

“Business partners?” Sir Giles repeated, incredulous. “What sort of business would you have to conduct with a man like Teague, who everybody knows to be an infamous wrecker?”

Julian said, “Oh, he may have been a mere wrecker in his younger days, but he is far more now. Much more sophisticated.”

“Teague—sophisticated? Bah.”

“He no longer merely helps himself to cargo but instead has become a dealer, finding profitable markets for things that would bring only a fraction of their worth here in our poverty-stricken
parish. But in Bristol or Bath or even London . . . ? My, what people are willing to pay.”

“But I still don't see what that has to do with us.”

“Why, Papa, I am surprised you don't know. Mamma is Mr. Teague's patroness. She lends her name whenever he finds something particularly valuable among the cargo or taken from some half-drowned shipowner or his lady—say jewels, or a fine watch, or precious metals of some kind. A man like Teague trying to sell these things would, of course, raise suspicion of theft, given his unfortunate reputation. But when he produces a letter on the stationery of Lady Violet Weston, explaining that unfortunate circumstances have forced her to seek a buyer for a few of her family heirlooms, and would said buyer promise the utmost discretion to avoid embarrassing her husband, Sir Giles, Baronet? Well, that opens doors and purses which might otherwise remain closed to Derrick Teague.”

Sir Giles stared at his wife, shock slackening his facial muscles, making him look older than his fifty-odd years.

“Is this true, madam?” he asked. “Can it be? Do I know my own wife so little?”

Lady Weston lifted her chin. “If it is true, it is your fault as much as mine. If you were not so ineffectual as head of this family, I might not have been driven to it. Where do you think the “family money” I've poured into the Weston coffers has come from all this time?”

He grasped for an answer, sputtering, “Your . . . dowry or . . . marriage settlement. I don't know.”

“Both depleted long ago, thanks to your mismanagement. I had to think of my boys, didn't I? As younger sons, they would have nothing to secure their futures, if not for the money I've brought into this house. You ought to be thanking me instead of castigating me.”

Sir Giles slowly shook his head. “No, madam, I cannot thank you for being in league with a known criminal. For dragging my family's good name to the level of a Teague.”

Julian smirked. “It's ironic, isn't it, Mamma? You, the
fine
lady, so desperate to climb the social ladder, to secure prestigious marriages for your sons. All to further distance yourself from your
grandfather's crimes. And what do you do? Jump into the very gutter you claim to despise.”

Shame suffused Violet Weston's otherwise pale face. She clasped her hands and said stiffly, “A mother does what she must for her children.”

She turned to her husband with a feigned casual air. “I would think twice before considering legal action against either Teague or me. For if I am ruined, you are ruined with me. No one would believe a woman raised such sums without her husband's participation and
superior
knowledge.”

It was likely true. And Henry could not stand the thought of his innocent if naive father being punished—further damaging the Weston family reputation—for something he had no part in beyond, perhaps, willful ignorance or neglect.