The Tutor's Daughter (40 page)

Emma's mind reeled with all the new information. She felt terrible for Sir Giles, for Henry, for them all.

Henry faced his stepmother. “And I would think twice, Lady Weston, before threatening Sir Giles. Consider, my lady—your precious Julian nearly succeeded in killing Miss Smallwood and me today. If anyone ought to be considering legal action, it's—”

“Not intentionally,” Lady Weston interjected.

“Oh? The tampered tide book and forged letter contradict you.”

“No one will believe you. I will simply tell them you've always held a grudge against my natural-born sons.”

Rowan stood, eyes blazing. “Then
I
shall give evidence against Julian,” he said. “I'm tired of protecting him, of covering for his escalating wrongdoing. First the trouble at school, then the pranks on Miss Smallwood—the letters, the drawing, the blood—and now this.”

Dismay widened Lady Weston's eyes. She pleaded, “But, Rowan, he's your brother.”

“So is Henry, but Julian nearly killed him today. Along with Miss Smallwood, who has been nothing but kind to us since she arrived. I have been on Julian's side—the wrong side—long enough.”

“Me too,” Lizzie echoed.

“Oh, shut up, Lizzie,” Lady Weston snapped. “Or shall I tell everyone why you are really here, in my house, as my ward?”

Lizzie paled and immediately pressed her lips tight.

“What do you mean, Mother?” Phillip asked. “She is your cousin's daughter.”

“My cousin? Ha. I might be very distantly related to her jade of a mother, but Mr. Teague is no cousin of mine. But he has become my keeper. Once we had . . . worked together for a time, he realized he held leverage over me. With his newfound wealth, he wooed Lizzie's mother. But she left him after only a few months, leaving the girl behind. He pressured me into taking Lizzie in, to give her every advantage—and keep her happy—or he would expose me. I only said she was a relative to explain her presence here.”

Lizzie hung her head in shame.

“So what if she is Mr. Teague's stepdaughter?” Julian exclaimed. “I knew it and I still love her. And I won't have you being cruel to her, Mamma. We are promised to each other, and when we're older, we plan to wed.”

Lady Weston's brows rose. Incredulous, she blurted, “Love her? Love Lizzie Henshaw? Marry her? I won't hear of it.”

Emma digested this revelation as well.
Julian
was the younger brother Lizzie had once promised herself to—not Phillip, as she'd first thought. Emma supposed Julian was less than two years younger than Lizzie, but he had always seemed even younger—until today. Emma supposed that what at fifteen and seventeen seemed a gulf, at thirty and two-and-thirty would be a trifle hardly worth mentioning.

Lizzie sniffed. “Well, that's fine with me, Lady Weston. For I don't love Julian anyway. Another Weston has won my heart.”

Lady Weston turned brilliant, angry eyes on the girl. “Your heart? I don't think you have one, you little fortune hunter. Do you think I would allow any Weston to marry you—the daughter of nobody, stepdaughter of a thief? How dare you even think such a thing? The Westons will marry young ladies of good birth and breeding.”

“That's for him to say. Not you,” Lizzie insisted, looking away and feigning an interest in the candle chandelier.

Lizzie's former words echoed once more through Emma's mind:
“I fear I have fallen hopelessly in love
with . . . an older Mr. Weston.”
And when Emma had asked if this older brother returned her affections, Lizzie had said,
“I think so. Oh, I dearly hope so.”

So Lizzie loved Phillip. Not Henry. But the realization brought little comfort. Emma had been foolish to ever believe it of Henry. A man like Henry Weston would no more marry Lizzie Henshaw than he would marry her, Emma Smallwood.

The seconds ticked by, but Phillip did not declare his love for Lizzie. Had the girl misread his feelings? Or was Phillip reticent to speak up in the presence of Lady Weston, or even Emma herself, whom he had allowed the others—if not Emma herself—to believe he'd been interested in romantically?

This is becoming very awkward,
Emma thought.
They cannot want us present to hear all this.

She tugged on her father's sleeve. Their eyes met in silent message.

John Smallwood rose, stood erect, and spoke with impressive firmness. “You must excuse us. These are private family matters, and we prefer not to be involved. And considering what Emma has suffered today, I think it best if we prepare to depart without delay.” He offered Emma a hand and helped her to her feet.

Sir Giles began to sputter in protest, but her father lifted his hand.

“No, Sir Giles. I will not stay and have my daughter subjected to further danger or insult.” John Smallwood's once meek, subservient tone was notably absent. “If either of us is needed to present evidence or written testimony, I trust you will let us know.”

Sir Giles bit a worried lip and then cleared his throat. “May I ask for your mercy, my friend, in allowing me to handle this in my own way, without bringing in the law? Rest assured, Julian will face consequences. But I don't wish the reputation of my other sons to suffer for his wrongdoing.”

Mr. Smallwood considered this. He looked at Emma, and she nodded.

“Very well,” her father said. “You may count on us for discretion. In the meantime, if we might trouble you for a carriage to take us into the village first thing in the morning? That is, assuming you can assure my daughter's safety one last night. Or shall we leave before nightfall?”

Emma was in agreement about not bringing charges against Julian Weston, but she doubted she would sleep well until they had put many miles between them.

“Of course, of course,” Sir Giles said, regretful and considerate at once. “I shall personally guarantee Julian gives no one any further trouble. In fact I shall post guard outside his room to make certain there is no more nighttime mischief. Then tomorrow I will decide what is best to be done with him.”

Julian sneered. “Oh, really, Father, I hardly think that's necessary.” He looked to Lady Weston. “Mamma, tell him.”

But Lady Weston only shook her head, refusing to meet Julian's eyes. Her momentary outburst had faded, leaving only shaken disillusionment in its place. She looked ten years older. A wilted flower, its head suddenly too heavy for its fragile stem.

Emma felt the same way. Legs weak, she wrapped her hands around her father's arm for support and walked with him from the room.

She noticed with both relief and sinking sadness that not one other soul objected to their departure.

It was surprising, really, how quickly their weeks at Ebbington Manor could be packed away into trunks and valises. Morva came in to help Emma with her frocks and undergarments, while Emma stowed her books and gold-rimmed teacup. Henry's valet, Merryn, had been sent up to assist her father, because the footman who usually did so had been assigned to stand watch outside of Julian's room.

The schoolroom took the most time—extricating their own texts, maps, and papers from those belonging to the Westons.

After an uneventful night, Emma rose early, relief and dread
mixing in her stomach, making her queasy. She thought,
This is
the morning we leave Ebbington Manor forever.

Morva arrived and helped her dress. Then Emma excused herself, leaving Morva to finish packing and close up the trunk.

Emma walked down the corridor, passing a cot still set up across Julian's door, though the footman had already risen. She turned into the north wing, feeling none of the trepidation she had once felt, only sadness and loss at the thought of never seeing Adam again. Probably not Henry either.

She knocked softly.

“Enter.”

Her heart lurched. Not Adam's soft voice—Henry's.

So early? She hadn't anticipated that. Emma doubted she had the courage to face him at the moment. She turned away, thinking to spare them both the awkward encounter, the stiff, polite farewells.

Behind her, the door opened—more swiftly than she'd expected.

“Emma . . . um, Miss Smallwood.”

She winced, then forced a neutral expression as she turned back.

Henry stood in the threshold, looking expectant yet guarded. Did he fear she'd come to extract some commitment from him? Cause a scene?

She blurted, “I've come to say good-bye to Adam. But if you are talking, I—”

“Come in. He'll want to see you. I have been easing him into the idea, so hopefully he won't become upset.”

How ironic that the one person who would be truly sorry to see her go was the one Weston she hadn't even known existed when she arrived.

She dipped her head and passed by Henry into the room, unable to meet his eyes.

Inside, Adam sat at the small table near the windows, idly playing with a tin soldier. He did not rise or even straighten as her boot heels tapped across the floorboards, but she did notice him glance at her from the corner of his eye.

She sat in the chair opposite and recognized the boxed chess set on the table. “Hello, Adam,” she said gently.

His eyes flitted up and away. “Hello, Emma.”

She projected brightness into her tone. “I am going home today.”

“Henry told me. I want you to stay.”

She noticed that though he fidgeted with a tin soldier, he grasped something else in his other hand. Tight.

“We put your chess men in a box,” Adam said. “Henry says I should thank you for letting me play with them.” He took a long breath at the end of his speech.

Emma's stomach knotted. “You are very welcome, Adam.” She asked softly, “What are you holding?”

Adam looked down at his left hand for several moments. Then he gradually unfurled his clenched fingers. Within lay the white queen.

Adam took a long look at the piece, then slowly extended his hand toward her.

From somewhere behind her, Henry said quietly, “He doesn't want to let her go.”

His words reverberated through Emma's heart. Was he speaking of more than a chess piece? Was he speaking for Adam alone?

Emma swallowed. “You keep it, Adam. It's yours now. I gave the set to you. I didn't come to collect it. I only came to say good-bye.”

Adam nodded, apparently relieved.

Emma rose and forced a smile. “Will you shake hands with me before I go?” She held out her hand, wondering if the gesture would repel him.

For a moment Adam stared at her trembling hand. Then he released the soldier and reached out, grasping her hand in a tight squeeze, then immediately releasing it.

He may as well have squeezed her heart.

“Thank you, Adam,” she whispered, feeling tears sting her eyes. She blinked rapidly, not wishing to cry in his presence—or Henry's. “Good-bye.”

He did not echo that phrase, but gave a jerky little nod instead.

She turned to the door, swiping at the corner of one disobedient eye.

Henry followed her out into the corridor, softly closing the door behind him.

“Miss Smallwood,” he began. “I—”

No, no, no,
she thought. She did not want to hear his apologies or explanations.

She hurried to interrupt him. “There is no need to say anything, Mr. Weston.”

She could not quite look into his face but focused instead on his hurriedly tied neckcloth, and told herself to breathe.

He said, “I can understand why you might feel that way. After yesterday, I would understand if you never wanted to see any of us Westons again. But I hope you will forgive me one day.”

“Forgive you?”
For
which part
, she wondered. For the words he'd spoken, never guessing he'd live to be held accountable to them? Or for the kisses they'd shared, never guessing they might obligate him to a woman he had no intention of marrying? She said only, “Were you somehow responsible for yesterday's misadventure, after all?”

“Not directly, no. But I keenly regret not realizing what Julian was capable of. And I regret ever mentioning the boyhood pranks I pulled on you at Longstaple. I should not have done those things in the first place. And I cannot help but think my example had a part in leading the boys astray.”

“You are not responsible for your brothers' actions.”

“Still, I wish I might have prevented it somehow.”

She nodded. “Well, we are both safe now. That is all that matters.”

“Is it? Is that truly all that matters to you? It isn't all that matters to me.”

“Please, Mr. Weston. Think no more about it. I don't wish you to say anything or do anything out of misplaced feelings of obligation or duty.”

“But, Emma . . . Miss Smallwood . . . yesterday . . . the words we spoke. The things we—”

She cut him off. “That was yesterday. When we thought we would
not live to see another day. It is understandable that our emotions should run away with us. You need not worry. I shall not hold you accountable for anything you said. And I hope you won't hold me to anything I may have said either.” She chuckled nervously.