The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 9





It was there waiting for her when she returned to her room after dinner the next evening. In her hurry, she almost stepped on it. She hesitated, at first thinking it a fallen scrap of paper, one she’d used to mark her place in the book she was reading. But as she bent to pick it up, she saw it was a folded rectangle—another letter. Instantly, both eagerness and dread filled her. Unfolding the letter with fingers not quite steady, she took it to the window and read by evening’s waning light.

My dear Emma,

How sweet to be under the same roof once more. It reminds me of our days at the Smallwood school, when you and I would sit outside and gaze up at the stars, you reminding me of all their names and me gazing at you. Do you recall that time I sneaked into your room late one night? And what we did? I am thinking of that now, as I write this note and prepare to sneak down to your room in a few minutes. As you read this, know that I am thinking of you. When you next see me, please acknowledge this note by pulling on your earlobe. Your delectable earlobe.

W.

Emma felt a hot flush creep up her neck. W . . . for Weston? Which Weston? She and Phillip had studied astronomy together, true. But the only time he had come into her room was to leave flowers on her birthday. She could not imagine either Henry or Phillip writing something so suggestive. More likely it was Julian or Rowan, playing a trick on her. But how would they know about the stargazing?

She tried to look at the handwriting objectively. It seemed to be in the same hand as the first letter. She had not seen Phillip’s or Henry’s handwriting in years, but she had seen Julian’s and Rowan’s—in their examinations and essays. The hand did not look exactly like either of theirs, she did not think. Perhaps it had been disguised somehow. Yet there was something familiar about the penmanship. What was it?

She looked at the individual letters, their shape. She noticed the t’s had tall ascenders and were crossed with excessively long horizontal lines that intersected the two letters to the right of it as well. But that was not so uncommon.

She decided she would take the letter up to the schoolroom in the morning and compare it to the handwriting in the assignments kept there. She tucked the letter away for the time being, and pulled out her journal.

Tonight I received a second unexpected missive under my door. Signed only by W. I don’t know precisely how to take it. Its words are complimentary for the most part, if presumptuous. But I cannot help suspect a prank at the root of it. For once upon a time a certain Weston brother taught me to suspect even apparent acts of kindness from his hand, and old ways die hard.

Yet, I own a small part of me wonders, dare I say hopes that the letter and its sentiments are sincere. Even I, it appears, am not immune to feminine vanity. It reminds me of the letter Aunt Jane keeps from her former admirer. I suppose it is natural for a young woman (and I am still that, though no longer in the first blush of youth) to long to receive love letters at least once in her life. To experience that heart-racing rapture of romance and poetic nonsense.

However, in this second letter, the writer mentions an occasion when “he” sneaked into my room one night back in Longstaple. And refers to “what we did.” This confuses me. For I don’t recall Phillip ever coming to my room at night. Only one of my father’s pupils ever dared do so.

Emma lifted her quill and paused as the memory of that odd night returned to her. . . .

Illuminated by moonlight, Henry Weston stood a few feet from her bed, staring down at her. She was startled, of course, to awaken to find someone in her room. And once she recognized Henry Weston, she was frightened as well, for it would not be the first time he had sneaked up on her with foul intentions.

What had he in mind this time?

She lay oddly frozen, not able to call out or flee, just waiting for him to say or do something.

He stood there, hesitating. Finally he whispered, “Are you awake?”

Silently she nodded, trusting the moonlight to reveal her answer.

He took a step closer. “I leave on the morrow.”

Again Emma nodded.

Another step brought him to the edge of her bed. What final prank had he planned? Did he mean to go out with a bang, a climactic culmination of all the lesser mischief of the last few years?

“Emma . . .” he whispered, face somber.

Her throat went dry. Good heavens, what did he intend to do?

But he did nothing. Instead he turned on his heel and retreated. At the door, he turned back. “I am sorry. For everything.”

And he was gone.



In the morning, Emma walked down to the breakfast room feeling more anxious than usual. Would he, the letter writer, the author of “Please acknowledge this note by pulling on your delectable earlobe,” be watching her? She plastered on a prosaic expression and stepped inside.

Henry Weston sat alone at the table with a newspaper spread before him and a cup of coffee at his right hand. He glanced up as she entered and politely folded the paper and set it aside. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” she murmured and took a plate from the sideboard. She bypassed the eggs and sausages, which looked greasy and unappealing to her agitated stomach. Instead she placed a muffin and a spoonful of fruit compote on her plate. She took a seat on the opposite side of the table from Henry—not rudely distant, but not too close either.

Phillip came in, beamed at her, bowed, and then went to the sideboard. Emma’s ear began to itch. Her hand was halfway to her earlobe when she felt Henry’s watchful gaze. Had he written the letter after all? Her hand paused midair. Now what should she do with it? She feigned a wave at Phillip’s back. “Good morning,” she said belatedly and foolishly, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her neck.

Phillip turned, smiled, and echoed the greeting.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Henry look from her face, to Phillip, and back at her. He frowned. “Are you all right, Miss Smallwood?”

“Quite all right, Mr. Weston. And you?”

“I own myself confused.”

“Ah. Well. Such is life.” She did not offer to enlighten him but instead sipped her tea, wishing her earlobe would cease its maddening, prickling itching. She longed to angle her head and rub it against her shoulder, but doubted she was limber enough to accomplish the feat. And how unladylike would that appear?

She set down her teacup with a clank and stood abruptly.

Henry’s eyebrows rose. Phillip turned from his place at the sideboard.

“I find I am not hungry after all. Please excuse me.”

Emma was already out the door when Phillip’s hiss reached her.

“Henry,” he scolded, “what did you say to her?”

“Nothing.”

Emma did not pause to hear the rest of the conversation. Instead she scratched her ear and marched up the stairs, passing Julian and Rowan coming down.

“Good morning, Miss Smallwood.” Julian’s lips curved into a knowing grin. Had he seen her scratch her ear?

“Good morning,” she replied briskly, without pause, and continued on her way to the schoolroom. There, winded, she strode directly to the desk and opened the side drawer. She sat in her father’s chair and began flipping through the papers there—essays and examinations the boys had written. Within one of the essays on first-century events, the t’s struck her. Tall ascenders, crossed with long horizontal lines that marred the letters to the right of it. Just as in the “love letter” she had received. The name at the top of the paper?

Rowan Weston.

Emma frowned, feeling little satisfaction at the discovery. Someone might be mimicking Rowan’s hand, she realized, or perhaps all of the Westons crossed their t’s in such a way.

Continuing her search, she next glanced through the verses she had assigned the boys to write after a lesson on classical poetry. She had yet to read them. As she skimmed through them, one brief stanza caught her eye.

I could gaze upon her sad green eyes

And winsome figure endlessly

I pretend to attend well my studies

But in reality, I am studying she.

It was signed with only—W.

The poem certainly seemed to be about her, but here the t’s were not crossed in that exaggerated fashion.

Emma was tempted to ask her father for his opinion, but she didn’t want to worry him. She thought of asking Mr. McShane about the cryptic letter, since he had known the boys, and their handwriting, far longer. But how embarrassed she would be if he laughed and assured her it must be a prank. She guessed that was the case but blushed at the thought of having the vicar declare it obvious. How mortifying that would be. No. She decided she would ask no one. She would figure it out and handle it herself. As she did most things.

She wrote objective comments on the poems and other papers, and returned them to Rowan and Julian when they entered the schoolroom a few minutes later, followed by her father.

Afraid her words—or itching ear—might give her away, Emma decided to retreat from the schoolroom.

Going outside, she wandered through the walled garden alone, glad to be apart from all possible letter writers, so she could think. She watched a tiny olive-brown warbler flitting among the branches of a flowering hawthorn, singing chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff and searching for insects.

A door opened and Henry Weston strode out of the house.

Emma looked away, but not before she saw Mr. Weston raise a hand in greeting. She suppressed a groan. It would be rude to pretend she had not seen him.

She waited as he crossed the garden toward her, broad shoulders squared, stride long and confident.

“Hello. It’s good to see you out-of-doors,” he said. “Do you mind if I speak with you a moment?”

Instant alarm flared through her. “I . . . no. Of course not.”

He stepped nearer and said confidentially, “I noticed you seemed a bit . . . em . . . distracted at breakfast. Is everything all right?”

She hesitated. If he had written the letter—in jest, of course—she would not give him the satisfaction of admitting she had given it a second thought. If Phillip had written it—in sincerity—then that was her secret to relish close to her heart. And if Rowan or Julian had written it . . . Did she really want to get either young man in trouble with his stern, older half brother?

No.

“Everything is fine.” She swung her gaze from his discerning eyes to the colorful garden. “I only wanted a bit of fresh air.”

His gaze remained on her profile. She could feel his scrutiny.

In the distance a dog barked. An unseen insect tickled her ear, and it began to itch all over again. Still she felt him watching her.

She remembered thinking that, if she ever found herself in awkward conversation with Henry Weston, she would ask him about the chapel to fill the silence between them. She did so now.

“Might I ask, Mr. Weston, about the Chapel of the Rock? Phillip mentioned you were something of an expert in local history.”

His brows rose at the sudden change of topic. “I wouldn’t say ‘expert,’ but I am interested in history, yes.”

Relieved his gaze had at last wavered from her face, she continued, “Have you ever been in the chapel?”

“Of course. Would you like to see it?”

Emma glanced at him in surprise. “Go inside, you mean?”

He nodded.

“I thought Phillip said it was unsafe.”

“It is. Unless you are very familiar with the tides at every season and have become somewhat of an expert at predicting the weather—or at least at noticing the approach of storms.”

Emma said, “And you are expert on both tides and the weather, I suppose?”

He pursed his lips. “I am, yes. And before you accuse me of being boastful, remember I have lived here my entire life, save my few years at Longstaple and then at Oxford.”

“Phillip has lived here most of his life as well, and he has never ventured down there, I don’t think.”

“I believe he may have gone out there once as part of some boyhood dare, but yes, he has always been leery of the water, and I don’t blame him. However, while Phillip has little interest in his environment, I am something of an enthusiast.”

Yes, she did recall his interest, the books he’d read, the weathervane he’d built in Longstaple, the rain gauge he’d placed in their garden.

He gestured with his hand. “Here, come with me up to my study, and I shall prove it.”

She swallowed, hesitant yet undeniably curious. “Very well.”

He led the way up to the first floor and along the corridor to a room she had never entered. He opened the door and gestured her inside before him.

“You go ahead,” she murmured. She hovered in the threshold as he stepped inside a modest-sized gentleman’s study, lined with books and dominated by a cluttered desk.

He strode to the desk—she would have it put to rights in two shakes were it hers—and from one of several piles pulled a red leather-bound notebook. He flipped open the cover and leafed through its pages.

“Here we are. Week-by-week predictions of daily low and high tides, based on previous data and the known cycle. I’ve hired a local lad to report the high-water marks in the harbor. I periodically check these and revise the estimates, if necessary. Factors like spring tides or neap tides affect water levels, but barring storms, this gives me an accurate forecast of when it is safe to visit the chapel.”

Emma tentatively walked over to the desk. He turned the book toward her, and she glanced at the dates and times in orderly columns with rows for estimates and actualities. Impressive.

“So.” He looked at her expectantly. “Shall we go?”

Emma blinked. “Now?”

“Did you not say you would like to see inside?”

“Well . . . yes. If you are certain it is safe.”

“Perfectly safe.” He extracted his pocket watch and glanced at it. “That is, for the next four hours.”

Emma followed him to the door, twisting her hands. “Should we not at least let someone know where we are going? Just in case?”

“Ever the prudent Miss Smallwood.” He inhaled and drew himself up. “No. You are quite right. I shall inform my father and you inform yours.” He tilted his head in thought. “And perhaps you would be more comfortable if someone accompanied us?”

Emma swallowed. “Perhaps.”

He nodded. “Phillip might oblige. He seems to seek out your company at every opportunity.”

Had everyone noticed? Emma wondered. “I don’t know that he would enjoy going down there. Perhaps Lizzie?”

Henry shrugged. “As you like.”

They found Lizzie in the drawing room, working on needlepoint chair covers with Lady Weston. Emma would not have braved entering on her own, but Henry showed no such hesitance. At Henry’s invitation, Lizzie quickly agreed to accompany them, pinning her needle into the coarse fabric and rising with apparent relief.

Lady Weston’s eyebrows rose over the spectacles she wore for close work. “Why anyone would want to go to that damp old place is beyond me.” She looked at Lizzie shrewdly. “Unless it is to get out of work one finds tedious.”

“It is only that I long for fresh air,” Lizzie said. “But I shall return soon and finish. I promise.”

Looking unconvinced, Lady Weston nevertheless dismissed the girl and sent her on her way.

The ladies retrieved their cloaks and bonnets and, together with Henry, left the grounds. They followed the coast path, turning at the switchback as it descended toward the fishermen’s cottages, harbor, and beach below.

Lizzie accompanied them as far as the strand, but when they reached the place where the beach gave way to jutting rock, she hesitated, then stopped altogether. “You two go ahead. I shall wait for you here.”

“Do come, Lizzie,” Emma urged, reluctant to go out alone with Henry. “Mr. Weston says it is perfectly safe. And it is such a fine day—barely a cloud in sight.”

Lizzie looked out at the ancient chapel. The sun glinted off the choppy water, causing her eyes to squint into mere slits. The wind was stronger beside the sea and blew thin coils of black hair across her face.

“No, that’s all right,” she said. “You two go on. I’ll be all right here on my own.”

“Very well. We shall meet you back here shortly,” Henry said, and gestured for Emma to precede him.

With a last beseeching look at Lizzie, Emma turned and stepped out onto the rocky peninsula. It rose several feet above water level and was dry and sound. She kept her eyes focused on the uneven rocks, making sure of her footing. She did not wish to trip and make a fool of herself in front of the man behind her. The wind, though not overly strong, made all but the most basic conversation difficult, and Emma decided to save her questions until they arrived.

The chapel had been built upon a level of rocks several feet higher than the path they now trod. A series of rock steps, worn narrow and slick by time and waves, led up to the higher level. Passing her, Henry loped up the few stairs, then reached back down to offer a hand.

She ignored it. “I can manage. Thank you.” She lifted her skirt hems slightly so she would not trip and carefully navigated the steps.

Reaching the top, she paused, gazing up at the tall sandstone octagon with a wooden door and a cross on its roof.

Henry said, “The original door rotted away years ago. I replaced it with this one myself.”

“Yourself?”

“Well, the estate carpenter helped me hang it. It’s a two-man job.”

“I’m surprised you would know how to do such a thing.”

“You would be surprised by many things about me, I think.”

For a moment she met his gaze, wondering what he meant. Then self-consciousness crept in, and she returned her gaze to the building. “I feel as though I have seen something like this before.”

He nodded. “It was built to resemble Greece’s Tower of the Winds.”

“Ah. Yes,” Emma said. “I have seen drawings in Father’s books. But why would anyone build a chapel here?”

“Hundreds of years ago, this was part of a larger seaside church,” Henry explained. “A chapel-of-ease for the local people, where the vicar from Stratton would hold services once a month. But the years and the waves eroded all but this side chapel and the peninsula we’re standing on. The village council plans to reinforce and extend the causeway into a more effective breakwater, and the surveyor proposes pulling this old place down to accomplish it. But I hate to see it go.”

At that, Henry lifted the latch and opened the door.

“It isn’t kept locked?” Emma asked.

He shook his head. “I have the key in my study, but I don’t think it right to lock the door, as though I own the place. It belongs to the whole village, though I seem to be the only person who comes here with any regularity.” He preceded her inside, as if to demonstrate his confidence in the safety of entering.

Tentatively, she stepped in after him. She hoped this wasn’t one of his tricks and resolved to remain between him and the door. Her half boots scraped against the paving-stone floor. The interior was cool and dim but not dark. Sunlight sliced into the tower from four narrow slit windows—in every other of the eight stone walls. She glanced around the octagon, perhaps twenty-five feet across. At the far end stood a modest, moldering altar and the remnants of a few sagging, rotting pews. To one side of the altar stood an old baptismal font—a stout waist-high pillar with a recessed basin for christening babies. In the wall behind the font, Emma saw the outline of an arched doorway now bricked over and sealed.

Henry followed the direction of her gaze. “That doorway led to the nave before it was washed away.”

Emma nodded her understanding. She stepped to one of the high open windows—the one facing west—and craned her neck to peer out at the sea beyond. It gave one a feeling of lostness, of panic, seeing no land. Just endless miles of sea.

From behind her, Henry said, “History has it that in the fifteenth century, a monk lived here. He kept a fire constantly burning in this window to warn boats of the rocks beneath.”

Emma shivered involuntarily, thinking a fire sounded very good at the moment. She moved away to inspect the font instead.

Henry continued, “The monk lived here well into his nineties, long after the chapel had fallen out of church use. Then came a day when fishermen foretold of a terrible storm coming. They warned the monk, but he refused to leave. The fishermen were right, as it turns out. Ebford was hit by the worst winter storm known before or since. The sea rose and covered the causeway, and the water became too rough for any boat to reach him. They say that old monk did not fight his fate. He calmly kept his light burning as long as he could, ready to meet his maker. The rest of the church was washed away, and the monk with it. Only this tower remained.”

Emma shivered again, and Mr. Weston noticed.

“You’re cold. Here, take this.”

He began to peel off his greatcoat, but she stayed him with a hand to his sleeve. “Don’t. I’m fine.”

Realizing she had touched him, she snatched back her hand and forced a chuckle. “It is only your gruesome story.”

“I don’t find it gruesome at all. I admire that old monk. This was his home, and he was devoted to it. This is where he worshiped God and served mankind. He lived a long, full life and died without fear, knowing heaven awaited him.”

Emptiness gnawed at Emma. Could she face death without fear? If she were to show up at heaven’s door tomorrow, would God even recognize her, when it had been so long since she’d bothered to call on Him?

Henry stepped to the west-facing window she had abandoned and looked out. “I like coming here to think now and again. To pray. Sometimes looking through these windows, I see more clearly. And am able to focus on what is truly important.”

Emma turned to look at him, surprised by his earnest words. “And what is truly important, in your view?”

He glanced at her, gave a sardonic chuckle, and then returned his gaze to the sea. “I don’t presume you’d care to hear it.”

“I would.”

For several moments he said nothing, and she began to think he would not answer. Then he said quietly, “Each of these four windows faces one of the cardinal points of the compass.” He pointed to the window to the right. “When I face north I think of God, the Almighty, the North Star. When I face east, I see the village and think of the people who live and work there. My duty toward them. And when I look south, toward Ebbington Manor, I think of the family God has given me, with all its blessings and trials. . . .”

His words trailed away, and he seemed lost in thought.

Emma prompted, “And west?”

He made no answer, simply staring out at the sea beyond. She thought he had not heard her, or had no intention of answering. But then he said, as if to himself, “All my life might have been.”

Emma blinked. Had she heard him correctly? How had Henry Weston, heir to Ebbington Manor, been disappointed in life? Unsure of what to say, she instead glanced up at the figures carved above each window. She knew her Greek mythology. She had even taught a course on it last year in her father’s stead.

She gestured to the largest winged figure. “That is Boreas, the Greek god of the north wind. His three brothers are . . .” She pointed to the second figure, then the next, pivoting as she faced each direction. “Zephyrus, the west wind. Notus, the south wind. And Eurus, the east wind.”

Henry nodded. “That’s right. Your father taught us Greek mythology when I was in Longstaple.”

Emma’s mind was busy recalling what she’d read on the subject. “Unlike the kind Zephyrus, Boreas was known for his fierce character and terrible storms. But when Boreas fell in love with the beautiful Oreithyia, he left behind his fierce character to win her over.”

“Stuff and nonsense, of course,” Henry said with a sardonic grin.

But Emma paid him no heed, suddenly struck by an ironic thought. She said, “Four brothers. And four very different Weston brothers. How interesting.”

He scowled. “Not true.”

Her head reared back. “Which part?”

He made no answer, but his scowl remained.

Emma said evenly, “I did not mean to imply that I saw in you the fierce character of the north wind.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and slanted her a dark look. “Did you not?”

She lifted her chin. “I have not had sufficient time to determine which brother best matches the character of each wind.”

He pulled a face. “I would not waste your time. Besides, we both know which of us you view as the kind Zephyrus.”

True, Emma thought. But she deemed it wiser to neither confirm nor deny his supposition. Instead she drew herself up and consulted her chatelaine watch. “Well, I had better be getting back. I usually help my father tidy the schoolroom about this time.” Actually, she had plenty of time to return, but she was suddenly eager to leave the tower and return to the open skies.

“Very well.”

Remembering her resolve, Emma led the way to the door, lifted the latch, and opened it, allowing light and breeze to enter, and tension to flee.

Emma started picking her way toward the stairs. A light sun-shower began to fall, making the rocks slick.

“Miss Smallwood, wait.”

She turned as Henry shut the door and obliged by waiting for him to join her.

He reached her side and offered his hand. “Please. Allow me.”

This time, she hesitated only an instant before placing her gloved hand in his.

He helped her down the stairs, and together they crossed the causeway. Emma wondered if it was her imagination or if the water surged nearer the walkway than it had on their way out. Either way, she was relieved to step back onto the sand.

Looking up, she saw Lizzie talking to a man on the beach. A man too well dressed to be a passing fisherman. As they neared, Emma recognized him as the red-haired man who had spoken to her on the point, and in Mr. Davies’s office.

Emma wondered if Lizzie knew him or if he had taken it upon himself to strike up a conversation as he had with her. Emma certainly hoped she and Henry had not exposed Lizzie to harassment by leaving her alone. Yet Lizzie’s posture as she stood near the man spoke of familiarity. Though perhaps not a friendly familiarity, for both wore somber expressions.

Lizzie glanced up at them, and for a moment her face fell, as if chagrined to be found with the man. She had obviously not seen them coming. But in the next second Emma wondered if she had only imagined the expression, for Lizzie brightened, smiled, and waved. She walked abruptly away from the man, hurrying over to meet them.

“I am so glad to see you two. You were gone an age.”

“Are you all right?” Emma asked. “Was that man bothering you?”

“Him? Heavens no.” She flopped her hand in a dismissive gesture. “We were just passing the time.”

Emma glanced at Henry and noted the tightening of his jaw. Perhaps he did not approve of Lizzie speaking with the man either.

He asked, “What did Teague want with you?”

Lizzie gave him a look of surprise. “Do you know him?”

“I know of him. And if half of what is said of him is true, I don’t . . . But I should not malign a man I barely know.”

Lizzie looked at him shrewdly. “I believe you just did.”

“You’re quite right. I beg your pardon,” Henry said. “Shall we go?”

He offered an elbow to Lizzie, then turned and offered his other arm to Emma. Together they began the long walk back up the steep cliffside path.



When Henry joined his family in the drawing room before dinner that evening, Lady Weston, in a low-cut evening gown better suited to a younger woman, turned on the settee to regard him.

“I must say I was surprised to see you walking arm in arm with Miss Smallwood this afternoon. I would expect such a thing of Phillip, perhaps, all harmless flirtation and boyish charm. But you . . . ? Good heavens.”

Henry frowned and glanced at Phillip, seated behind Lady Weston. Phillip lifted his hand in a helpless gesture but said nothing.

Nearby, Julian and Rowan shared knowing grins.

Forcing a neutral expression and casual tone, Henry said, “If you were watching from the window, my lady, then you no doubt saw that I had offered an arm to both Miss Smallwood and Lizzie. Considering the rain and slippery footing, I thought it the gentlemanly thing to do.”

Lizzie spoke up. “That’s right, my lady. Henry offered us each an arm on the way back from the chapel. Very gentlemanlike, I’m sure.”

Sir Giles lowered his glass. “The chapel? Good heavens. What were you doing down there?”

“Showing it to Miss Smallwood. She wanted to see it.”

“Yes . . .” Lizzie nodded, appearing distracted. Henry noticed she did not mention she hadn’t gone inside with them, nor her conversation with Derrick Teague.

Phillip said, “Are you certain that was wise, Henry? It isn’t safe.”

“Perfectly safe. I checked the tide tables first, of course.”

Sir Giles nodded, and swirled the brandy in his glass. “Just so, my boy. Very proper.”

Lady Weston smiled thinly. “Be that as it may, we would not want Miss Smallwood to misconstrue an innocent act of mere chivalry, would we?”

Henry was tempted to ask what she thought of Phillip’s far warmer behavior toward Emma but held back the petty comment.

Julian, however, showed no such restraint, saying, “I’m surprised you are not more concerned about Phillip, Mamma. He’s far more friendly with Miss Smallwood than Henry is.”

“Of course I am,” Phillip said. Then, with a glance at Lady Weston’s disapproving face, added, “We are old friends.”

Lady Weston inclined her head and replied as if Phillip had not spoken. “I cannot say I’d look kindly upon an alliance between any Weston and the tutor’s daughter, but worse for Henry, as the eldest son.”

Henry grimaced. “Eldest . . . Really?”

Sir Giles cleared his throat. The footman pulled opened the door, announced dinner was served, and the matter was dropped.

But, Henry knew, not forgotten.





Govern thy life and thoughts as if the whole world were to see the one, and read the other.

—Thomas Fuller, seventeenth-century author and preacher