The Tutor's Daughter

The Tutor's Daughter - By Julie Klassen



Prologue





LONGSTAPLE, DEVONSHIRE

1812

Something is amiss, Emma thought, immediately upon entering her tidy bedchamber. What is it . . . ?

She scanned the neatly made bed, orderly side table, and dressing chest. . . . There. She stepped forward, heart squeezing.

In the special teacup she kept as decoration nestled a clutch of tiny pink roses. The flowers had likely been picked from her aunt’s garden next door, but they had been picked for her, and they had been picked by him, and that was all that mattered.

She knew instantly who had left them—Phillip Weston. Her favorite from among her father’s many pupils. And likely the only one who knew it was her birthday—her sixteenth. How much kinder Phillip was than his older brother, Henry, who had boarded with them a few years before.

Emma carefully lifted the cup, bringing the flowers to her nose and breathing in the fragrance of apple-sweet roses and fresh greenery. Mmm . . . She held the cup away, admiring how the flowers’pink petals and green leaves brought out the colorful painting on its side.

She found herself thinking back to the day her mother had given her this teacup three years before. The very day Henry Weston had nearly broken it. . . .

Emma untied the ribbon, peeled back the tissue paper—careful not to rip it—and opened the box. Looking inside, pleasure filled her. She had been right about its contents. For she had noticed the prized teacup missing from its place in the china cupboard.

“It was your grandmother’s,” her mother said. “She purchased it on her wedding trip. All the way to Italy. Can you imagine?”

“Yes,” Emma breathed, admiring anew the gold-rimmed cup with its detailed painting of a Venetian gondola and bridge. “It’s beautiful. I’ve always admired it.”

A rare dimple appeared in her mother’s pale cheek. “I know you have.”

Emma smiled. “Thank you, Mamma.”

“Happy birthday, my dear.”

Emma returned the cup and saucer gingerly into the box, planning to carry it up to her bedchamber. She stepped out of the sitting room and—wham—a wooden ball slammed into the wall opposite, nearly knocking the box from her hands. She looked up, infuriated to see one of her father’s pupils smirking at her.

“Henry Weston!” Emma clutched the box to her young bosom, shielding it with her arms. “Do be careful.”

His green eyes slid from her face to her arms, and he stepped closer. “What is in the box?”

“A gift.”

“Ah, that’s right. It is your birthday. How old are you now—ten?”

She lifted her chin. “I am thirteen, as you very well know.”

He reached over, pulled back the paper, and peered into the box. His eyes glinted, and then he chuckled, the chuckle soon growing into a laugh.

She glared at the smug sixteen-year-old. “I don’t see what is so funny.”

“It is the perfect gift for you, Emma Smallwood. A single teacup. A single solitary teacup. Have I not often said you will end a spinster?”

“I will not,” she insisted.

“Sitting about and reading all day as you do, your head will continue to grow but your limbs will shrivel, and who would want to marry that?”

“Someone far better than you.”

He snorted. “If someone marries you, Emma Smallwood, I shall . . . I shall perform the dance of the swords at your wedding breakfast.” He grinned. “Naked.”

She scoffed in disgust. “Who would want to see that? Besides, who says I would invite you to my wedding?”

He tweaked her chin in a patronizing fashion. “Bluestocking.”

She scowled. “Jackanapes!”

“Emma Smallwood . . .” Her mother appeared in the doorway, eyes flashing. “What word did I hear coming from your mouth? I give you a beautiful gift and you repay me with an ugly word?”

“Sorry, Mamma.”

“Hello, Mr. Weston.” Her mother slanted Henry a dismissive look. “Do excuse us.”

“Mrs. Smallwood.” He bowed and then turned toward the stairs.

“Emma,” her mother hissed. “Young ladies do not speak to gentlemen in such a manner.”

“He’s no gentleman,” Emma said, hoping Henry would hear. “He certainly does not act like one.”

Her mother’s lips tightened. “Be that as it may, it isn’t proper. I want you to go to your room and read the chapter on polite manners in the book I gave you.”

Emma protested, “Mamma . . .”

Her mother held up her hand. “Not another word. I know I say you read too many books, but I would rather you read one on the feminine graces than those horrid scholarly tomes of your father’s.”

“Yes, Mamma.” Emma sighed and carried her cup upstairs.

Unhappy memory fading, Emma smiled at the sweet bouquet left for her by Henry’s younger brother, Phillip. She wondered what Henry Weston would say if he could see her now and knew who had given her flowers.

When Henry Weston left the Smallwood Academy, Emma had been relieved, but she would be sad to see Phillip depart. It was difficult to believe two brothers could be so very different.





Before, however, Lucy had been an hour in the house she had contrived a place for everything and put everything in its place.

—The Naughty Girl Won, circa 1800