The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 10





Before blowing out her bedside candle that night, Emma pulled out her journal, hoping to put her thoughts about the visit to the chapel, and the unexpected conversation with Mr. Weston, into perspective.

I confess myself astonished. Who would have guessed such serious, thought-provoking words could emerge from Henry Weston? Not I! I actually enjoyed my outing with him and Lizzie today—except for the uncomfortable moment when we came upon her speaking with that strange man.

And my mind is still engaged with the interesting if futile question of which Weston brother is most like each of the four winds. Henry is cold Boreas, to be sure, though I denied thinking it when he asked. And yes, kind Phillip very well suits the image of mild, friendly Zephyrus.

But what about Notus, the south wind who brings heat and fog, who means well but occasionally blows overzealously? And which is Eurus, the east wind with his violent and disorderly personality who likes to create storms?

Is Rowan, mature for his age and perhaps the author of a love letter in jest, more like Notus or Eurus? And what of boyish, talented Julian?

Of course there is no logical reason the four Weston brothers should represent the four winds, but I find I rather like the notion. I will continue to observe the brothers and draw my own conclusions.



The following morning, a Sunday, Emma found herself alone at breakfast. Her father, Sir Giles, and Henry Weston had already eaten and returned to their rooms, according to the footman she’d asked. Her father and Sir Giles were both early risers, so an early breakfast for them was commonplace. But she was rather surprised to hear Henry Weston had already eaten and taken his leave. She hoped he hadn’t eaten early to avoid her.

She was taking her last sip of tea when Phillip and Julian entered together, dressed in Sunday best, laughing and joking about something. Rowan followed after, quiet and brooding. Perhaps he shared his eldest brother’s temperament more than she’d originally thought.

Phillip greeted her with his customary warmth. Julian with polite interest. And Rowan with a mumbled “Morning” that sounded little more than a grunt. She thought again of the letter and Rowan’s crossed t’s. If Rowan’s apparent indifference to her was an act to cover a secret calf love, he was certainly convincing. More likely, she’d been wrong about the handwriting.

“We heard you went down to the chapel yesterday,” Julian said, eyes alight. “What did you think of the old place?”

“I found it quite fascinating, actually,” Emma said, studying each brother surreptitiously, still formulating her four-brothers/four-winds theory.

“Did it not frighten you, being surrounded by all that water?” Phillip gave a little shudder.

“A little, yes. But it was worth it.”

“I am surprised Henry could be prevailed upon to lead such an expedition,” Phillip mused. “He was his usual stern self, I trust?”

She looked at Phillip over the rim of her teacup with a small smile, not sure how to describe how Henry had been. Or even if she wanted to try.

“What’s put that secret smile on your face?” Phillip asked, a teasing light in his eyes. “Don’t tell me Henry was actually pleasant company.”

“He was,” Emma allowed. “Very knowledgeable.”

Julian said, “What did you do out there all that time—that’s what I’d like to know.” He leaned back in his chair and watched her face with a knowing smirk. “Lizzie said the two of you were alone out there for quite some time.”

“Oh?” Phillip asked, clearly surprised. “And what did you find to talk about with our laconic Henry?”

“Greek mythology, mostly,” Emma said casually, wanting to end any romance rumors before they might begin. “I found it very interesting.”

“You would,” Rowan muttered.

Emma noted Rowan’s foul mood with interest, and then glanced at inquisitive Julian.

Regarding her, Phillip slowly shook his head, a bemused smile playing on his lips. “How you look at us. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess you were plotting something.”

“Me?” Emma asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “Not a bit of it.”

The truth was she was doing one of her favorite things. Beginning a course of study on a new subject. Or in this case, four subjects.

After breakfast, Emma returned to her room, eager to add her latest observations about the brothers into her journal. She still had half an hour before it was time to leave for church. She glanced about, surprised not to see the green leather volume on her side table, where she thought she’d left it. Had she put it in the drawer instead, wanting to conceal it after writing personal things about the Westons? She dug through the drawer but found no journal among her handkerchiefs and other belongings. Then she sifted through the volumes stacked atop the side table. Not there.

Had it fallen? Emma looked under the bed, under the table, among the books atop the dressing chest. Nothing. She looked atop the washstand. At the bottom of the wardrobe. Nothing.

She stopped, pressing her eyes closed in concentration. Where had she put it? Had she taken it up to the schoolroom? No. Down to the breakfast room? Never.

Her stomach twisted in mounting panic. She, who had a place for everything and put everything in its place, had not mislaid it. Not something so personal and private.

Heaven help me.

Someone had taken her journal.

She stood stock-still as a chill passed over her. Who would have done such a thing? A nosy maid? Unlikely. Lizzie? She had seemed curious about it, but Emma did not want to believe Lizzie capable of such a breach of privacy. One of the boys? She did not think it wise to accuse anyone, especially not Lady Weston’s sons.

She rang for Morva a second time, which she had never done before.

The maid entered ten minutes later, flushed and rushed. “You rang, miss?”

“Yes. I am sorry to disturb you, but I didn’t know where to find you this time of morning. I am wondering if you happened to see my journal—a green leather book about so big? It isn’t where I left it.”

“No, miss.” Morva’s eyes widened. “I didn’t take it, if that’s what ’ee think.”

“No, of course not. Why should you? I only hoped you’d seen it when you tidied up.”

“No, miss. But if I do see it, I shall let ’ee knaw directly.”

Emma thanked the offended maid and distractedly began gathering her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves. It was almost time to depart for church.

She went downstairs, heart hammering, afraid to ask, but more afraid of remaining silent while another person read her most private thoughts.

The family was gathering in the entry hall, awaiting the carriages and carts that would deliver them to Stratton. Sir Giles and her father stood speaking in low tones. Lizzie stood talking with Julian, Rowan, and Phillip. Lady Weston came down the stairs a minute or so after Emma, resplendent in an ivory gown with a high neck of lace, a red cape with stand-up collar, and matching hat with jaunty feather. Only Henry was not among them. She would not have a better opportunity.

Glancing around the assembly, Emma resolved to keep her tone casual, took a deep breath, and asked, “Has anyone seen my journal? It seems to have gone missing. Green leather. Quarto sized?”

Her father asked, “Have you searched your room, my dear?”

“Of course. It is not there. I think someone might have . . . inadvertently . . . taken it.”

Lady Weston frowned. “Taken it? How silly, Miss Smallwood. No one took your journal. You simply misplaced it. That is all. These things happen all the time.”

Lizzie added with a wink, “Probably lost among your many books Morva complains of having to dust.”

Julian wagged his eyebrows. “Or the Ebbington ghost took it. Quite the greedy thief, that ghost.”

“Now, Julian,” Lady Weston said tolerantly. “I know you are only teasing, but really. Ebbington Manor is not haunted.”

“Only the north wing,” Rowan whispered to his brother.

Emma overheard him. But no ghost had taken her journal.

“I wish it back,” she said in uncharacteristic sharpness. “I don’t care to cast blame. I just want it back. It is, after all, my personal property. Not meant for anyone else to read.”

“Full of juicy secrets, is it?” Julian asked, eyes glinting. “About you? Or about all of us?”

“Perhaps I shall have to track down this ghost and claim the journal myself,” Rowan said. “Sounds like interesting reading.”

Emma lifted her chin. “I assure you, you would find it frightfully dull.”

“Your blush tells a different tale.” Julian smirked.

Phillip sighed. “If one of you has taken Miss Smallwood’s journal, pray return it this very day.”

“Why do you accuse one of us?” Julian complained.

Phillip began, “I am not accusing—”

But Lady Weston cut him off. “Phillip, you know very well my boys would never do such a thing. Why should they care a fig about the scratchings of a woman they barely know? I must ask you to apologize.”

“Now, my dear,” Sir Giles gently interceded, “I don’t think Phillip meant any harm. He is only trying to come to Miss Smallwood’s aid.” Sir Giles looked at Emma kindly. “I shall have a word with Mrs. Prowse. Ask the staff to keep a sharp look out for it. Green leather, you say? Never fear—we shall find it.”

Emma felt uneasy. “I don’t wish to put anyone to extra trouble.”

“A bit late for that,” Rowan muttered, and he and his brother shared a private chuckle.

Emma felt indignant and embarrassed both. The conversation had certainly not gone as she’d hoped, and she dreaded having to go through the same awkward explanations with Henry when next she saw him.

After the service concluded, Lizzie walked beside Emma through St. Andrew’s churchyard, entwining her arm through hers. Emma took pleasure from the act of warm companionship. She’d had so few female friends in her life.

“I hope you don’t think I took your journal,” Lizzie said in a vulnerable little voice.

It had crossed her mind, but Emma suddenly felt guilty for the disloyal thought. “I don’t mean to accuse anyone, Lizzie. I simply wish it back.”

Lizzie squeezed her arm. “Of course you do. I cannot imagine how you must feel. You didn’t write anything too embarrassing, I hope.”

Emma sighed. “It isn’t that I wrote anything so terribly embarrassing. But I certainly never meant for any of it to be read by anyone else.”

“Then why write in the first place?” Lizzie asked. “Seems like a lot of time and bother. I recall when my old schoolmistress made me write a long letter all over again, so I might learn to write more neatly. And what did I gain for my trouble? A pain in my neck and ink-stained fingers.”

Emma chuckled. “I enjoy writing in my journal. It’s like having a very close friend with whom I can share my thoughts without fear of censure.”

“Why not tell a real friend?” Lizzie looked at her and asked gently, “Have you no friends, Miss Smallwood?”

“Not really. Not growing up in a boys’ school.”

Lizzie nodded. “You were probably more accomplished and clever than the other girls. Which made them jealous. And, I imagine, intimidated the boys at the same time.”

Emma felt tears prick her eyes at Lizzie’s insight. She inhaled deeply and turned away from the girl’s direct gaze. “If so, it was never my intention. There were times I would have traded years of book-learning for one honest-to-goodness friend.”

She sensed Lizzie’s look of surprise in her peripheral vision but kept her own face turned away. She had surprised herself with the admission. Embarrassed herself too.

Lizzie squeezed her arm once more. When Emma dared glance over, she glimpsed tears sparkling in Lizzie Henshaw’s eyes.

“I shall be your friend,” she whispered. “If you’ll have me.”



The rest of Sunday passed slowly. A roast beef dinner with Mr. Davies and her father. A letter to Aunt Jane. A thorough search of the house by Morva and Mrs. Prowse—to no avail. The housekeeper promised to conduct a search of the washhouse as well in case the journal had gotten into the laundry somehow.

Emma resigned herself to wait. Or so she told herself. Inwardly, she paced and worried, cringing every time she recalled something she had written about Lizzie or one of the Westons, imagining the reaction of the reader, whoever he or she might be.

She didn’t see Henry Weston all day. And she fought against the nagging image that kept forming in her mind: of him ensconced in a public house somewhere with candle lamp and pint, reading page after page of her journal. Perhaps even reading bits aloud to his companions, all of them guffawing over her foolish feminine trifles, the pitiful thoughts and dreams of a bluestocking on her way to becoming a spinster. Emma shuddered at the thought.

In the evening, while searching her room yet again, Emma came across the small wooden chess set she had brought with her to Ebbington Manor, figuring she and her father would need some amusement to help them pass solitary evenings. But they had yet to use it. Her father evidently preferred to spend evenings in the company of Sir Giles, Henry, or one of his many books.

The old set was incomplete. The white queen had been missing for many years—since Henry Weston’s days at Longstaple. She’d always suspected he’d taken it.

Whenever she and her father had played at home, they’d substituted a small figurine of a lady in court dress. A gift her mother had received as a girl, after her own presentation at court. But Emma had not wanted to risk breaking the delicate porcelain figurine and had left it at home, thinking she would find some suitable replacement once at Ebbington Manor. Now she selected a thimble from among her things. It would suffice, though some of the elegance of the game would be lost with it.

She found her father and asked him to play, thinking it would distract her. Since Henry had not appeared for their nightly backgammon match, her father agreed. They set up the pieces on the small table between two cushioned chairs in her father’s room, which was quite a bit larger than her own.

He smiled thoughtfully at her. “This reminds me of all those times you and Henry played chess back at home.”

Emma made her opening move, sliding a white pawn forward two squares. “That was a long time ago. And he was certainly not a very cheerful opponent, I can tell you.”

“It was difficult for him,” her father said. “The first of his family to be sent away to school. I believe he was homesick.” He moved his own pawn forward. “I remember he became especially cross when the other boys received letters from home. He so rarely did. Now and again Sir Giles would scratch a few lines, but not often.”

Emma glanced fondly at her father. “You always did make allowances for him, Papa.”

He nodded. “I understood him, I suppose. I was the first in my family to be sent away as well. You can be thankful you have little notion of what that’s like, Emma—being sent off alone, from all you’ve known, at a tender age.”

Emma doubted Henry Weston had ever been tender but refrained from saying so. They played for several minutes longer, but it was obvious her father was having difficulty concentrating.

He sat back, wincing. “I am sorry, my dear. It’s this dashed headache.”

She studied his face in concern. “You ought to have said so, Papa. We needn’t have played.” She began sliding the pieces back into the box. “May I bring you anything?”

“No, sleep is all I want.”

“Are you certain? You have been doing so well since we arrived. . . .”

“Don’t fret, Emma. It is only a headache, I promise you. Not a harbinger of one of my black moods.”

“I didn’t mean . . .” She let the words trail away. It was what she had been thinking. She said instead, “It has been a great pleasure to see you thriving here, Papa.”

His eyes sparkled, despite his pain. “We were right to come, weren’t we?”

“Yes,” she agreed. It didn’t solve the problem of what they would do when they returned home, but she had no wish to add to his headache.

“I shall check on you later. Good night, Papa. Sleep well.” She kissed his brow and let herself from the room.

In her own bedchamber, Emma tried reading and list writing to distract herself but could concentrate on neither. She gave up and decided to go to bed early as well, hoping to escape into the forgetfulness of sleep. She rang for Morva, who came in nearly a quarter of an hour later, muttering about how they were all running behind these days, what with Mrs. Prowse so often busy abovestairs.

“Have you seen Henry Weston this evening?” Emma asked as Morva hung up her gown. Noticing a flicker of interest in the housemaid’s eye, Emma hastened to add, “He is the only one of the family I have not yet asked about my journal. I have not seen him all day.”

“As a matter of fact, I heard he just come home. Michael—he’s the groom—was called out to tend to his horse a few minutes ago.”

Emma nodded. “Thank you.”

Morva returned and began unlacing Emma’s stays. Now Emma regretted getting undressed. She couldn’t very well go down and demand the return of her journal in her nightclothes.

After Morva left her, Emma pulled a wrapper over her nightdress and slipped down the passage, thinking only to check on her father and see if he needed anything for his headache. But hearing voices from the floor below, she crept past her father’s room to the top of the stairwell.

Sir Giles’s voice. “Any success, my boy?”

“Perhaps. I’ll need to check his background first. Find out more about his character and conduct. I think I’ll ask Mr. Bray what he knows about him.”

“My goodness, Henry,” Lady Weston said. “The man’s not running for political office.”

“There is every reason to be cautious, madam. To choose wisely.”

“Well, then do so. As long as you choose before the Penberthys arrive.”

It was the second time Emma had heard the Westons talking about a potential candidate. She wondered what position they were hiring for and why Henry had been tasked with the duty. A new valet, perhaps, or man of business? Whatever the case, she would have to wait until the next day to ask Henry about her journal.

She returned to her father’s door, opened it a crack, heard his soft snore, and closed it once more.





At breakfast on Monday morning, Emma saw no sign of Henry Weston. After she ate a few bites she barely tasted, she went directly to the schoolroom, hoping to immerse herself in some productive pursuit to subjugate concerns about her journal. At least for a while.

When she entered, she was surprised to see Rowan already in the room, bent over a sketchbook, drawing pencil in hand.

“Might I see what you are drawing, Rowan?” Emma asked.

He shut the sketchbook and leaned back in his chair. “We all have our secrets, Miss Smallwood.”

“Oh. Well, if your sketches are private, you needn’t show me.”

He thrust the sketchbook toward her. “Only joking, Miss Smallwood.”

Uncomfortable now, she hesitantly accepted the sketchbook. Her father and Julian came in, and Emma feigned a smile and greeted them both. She carried the sketchbook to the small table she’d placed near the dormer window, set apart from the boys’ table and her father’s desk. Her own little space to read and review assignments.

There, she opened the sketchbook. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but it had not been this. His sketches were really quite good. Landscapes mostly, of the rocky coastline, of the harbor framed by jutting cliffs, of Ebbington Manor itself. And finally, several sketches of the Chapel of the Rock. Rowan had captured not only the detail and perspective, but also the lonely, mysterious mood of the place, with the grey sky and foaming sea behind.

Her father assigned the boys a passage to read. He then excused himself to return to his room for a volume he’d forgotten. Emma offered to go in his stead, but he insisted it would be easier if he went himself, for he knew right where it was. Did he fear she might lose the book as she had “lost” her journal?

When her father had left, Emma glanced over at Rowan and found him watching her. He ducked his head, feigning interest in the passage he was supposed to be reading.

“These are very good, Rowan,” she said. “I am impressed.”

He looked up, self-conscious pleasure for a moment overtaking his usual sarcastic nature. He looked younger. More like Julian. He bit his lip, trying to hide a smile.

Emma asked, “Who taught you to draw?”

Julian piped up. “No one taught him. He’s a natural.”

Rowan shook his head. “I did have a few lessons from that drawing master.”

“Before he ran off with the governess, you mean. All that man taught us was how to flirt with older women.”

Emma tried not to react to the inappropriate comment, steering the conversation back toward art. “Do you draw as well, Julian?”

Julian shrugged. “Nothing to Rowan here. He’s the only one in the family with any true artistic ability.”

Rowan frowned at his brother. “No. Did you not see—”

“Shut up, Rowan. Henry’s sketches hardly count. You are too modest. I’ve always said so.”

Henry’s sketches? She didn’t recall Henry or Phillip displaying any particular artistic skill.

But her father returned at that moment, and her chance to inquire further had passed.

He said, “All right, gentlemen. I trust you have read the assigned passage and are ready to state your views?”

The young men exchanged looks of exasperated injustice.

Emma spoke up. “I am afraid we began talking of other things. Art and such. My fault, Father. Might you give them a bit more time to read?”

He pulled a face. “Oh, very well. But please try not to distract my pupils, Emma.”

Emma felt her ears heat to be corrected by her father. Especially in front of Rowan and Julian. But when she risked a glance at the boys to see if they were smirking, she saw Rowan bent diligently over his text and Julian looking at her with empathy.

He mouthed, “Thank you.”

And she felt better immediately.

Emma did not see Henry Weston the rest of that day. How long did it take to check a candidate’s character and qualifications—whatever the job? The only news came from Mrs. Prowse, who reported nothing had been found in the laundry. Biting back a groan, Emma resolved to push the matter from her mind, reminding herself worry never solved a single problem.

That night, when she returned to her room after dinner, she found a cheerful fire snapping in her hearth.

Thank you, Morva, she thought. Emma wondered if the warm fire was a guilt offering. Perhaps Lizzie had confessed she’d let slip the maid’s complaints about having to dust Emma’s many books.

Emma took a tinder from atop the mantel and tipped it into the flames. This she used to light her bedside candle. She sat wearily on the edge of her bed, slid the shoes from her feet, and bent to remove her stockings. That’s when she saw it. Stocking forgotten, she leaned forward. There in her bedside stack of books, a flash of green caught her eye. Midway through the pile, a green leather cover stuck out askew from the otherwise straight stack. She rose quickly, lifted the other volumes, and revealed the cover in all its familiar glory. She ran her fingers over the grainy surface, to assure herself it was real.

She picked it up, opened the cover, saw the inscribed starting date and her name in her own hand. Relief rushed through her. Thank you! she thought, not pausing to consider whom she was thanking.

The relief was quickly followed by a sour tangle of less pleasant emotions—had it been there all along? Had she simply misplaced it, as Lady Weston asserted? Had she blamed Lizzie, Julian, Rowan, Henry, even Morva in her heart and all but accused someone of stealing something that had been there all along? Mortification heated her neck and curdled her stomach. She would have to apologize. Admit she had been wrong—that somehow she had overlooked it there on her bedside table. She did have a great deal of books. Though it was very unlike her to leave the stack disorderly, Morva might have jostled the pile while doing the dreaded dusting or, in a subtle act of rebellion, left the stack in disarray.

Emma detested the thought of having to admit she had been wrong. But she would.

She flipped through the journal, skimming the entries with two minds: one, relief that perhaps no one had read these private words after all, and two, how embarrassed she would be if someone had read and returned the journal. But to take it and return it the next day? It hardly seemed worth the trouble. Perhaps her impassioned plea yesterday morning had affected its hearers more than she’d believed.

Suddenly Emma stopped. She reread the last line at the bottom of the left-hand page, then moved up to the first line of the next—a new, unrelated sentence. Her heart began beating oddly. Nerves jangling, she bent the binding open more widely, peering into the inner spine. Yes, faint ragged edges remained.

A page was missing.

Someone had taken her journal, as she’d thought. Taken and returned it. But not before they had torn out a page.

Good heavens . . . Why in the world would anyone do that?

She tried to recall what she had written on that page—both sides of the missing page. . . .

She read the last few lines before the torn page once more.

I am very much enjoying conversing with Phillip Weston again. In his company, the intervening years fly and we speak with the camaraderie of old friends. Yet at the same time, I am very aware that he is a boy no longer. Still, I found it surprising he was reluctant to venture out to the Chapel of the Rock.

How different he is than his brother Henry. . . .

Oh no. She had been writing about Phillip and Henry Weston, comparing the two. How each had changed since she had seen him last. Her pleasure at spending time with Phillip again. Her surprise at Henry Weston’s words within the chapel. Perhaps even her strangely pleasant reaction to putting her hand in his . . .

She squeezed her eyes shut and groaned aloud. “Oh no . . .” Who had the page now, and why had he or she taken it—for what purpose? Emma looked at the page after the missing one, and read the first line.

Not that I have any romantic feelings for Phillip Weston. It is only a relief to have a friend here at Ebbington Manor.

Irony soured her mouth. Of course, that line would be separate. Without it—out of context—she feared how what she had written on that loose page might be misconstrued.



In the morning, Emma rose early and, after Morva helped her dress, went in search of Phillip. She longed to speak to a friend, and not with an audience. But when she peeked into the breakfast room, she glimpsed only Julian, Rowan, her father, and Sir Giles within. Where would Phillip be at this hour? Still abed? Or had he gone for an early ride with Henry?

She turned, crossed the hall, and stood at the front windows, looking out through the wavy glass past the drive and into the garden beyond. There she was surprised to see Phillip standing beside a shaped yew talking with Lizzie. A minute later, the girl turned and stalked away. Had they quarreled?

Lizzie passed by the front of the house on her way to the side door. Hoping to speak to Phillip alone, Emma stepped outside.

As she crossed the drive, Henry came sauntering over from the stables, riding boots gleaming with each confident stride. His tousled wavy hair danced over his collar and across his forehead in the breeze.

Now what? Should she turn back? But a glance at Phillip told her he had already seen her.

Phillip lifted a hand in greeting. “Hello, Miss Smallwood. Any sign of your journal?”

Was it odd that he should ask about it? Had he some reason to know it had been returned? Now, Emma, she corrected herself. He is merely showing polite concern.

She stepped nearer. “Yes, actually.”

His brows rose. “Excellent. Where did it turn up?”

“In my room.”

“Ah. There all along, was it? Not like the champion of order to mislay something.” He winked, then patted her shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. We all of us misplace things from time to time.”

“That’s what I thought at first. But then I discovered a page is missing.”

Henry joined them as she spoke the words.

Phillip nodded to acknowledge his presence, then looked back at Emma. “Fell out, did it?”

“No,” she insisted. “Someone tore it out.”

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Henry frown.

Phillip rocked back on his heels, chewing his lip in thought. “I don’t suppose it would be gentlemanlike to ask what was written on that page?”

You will only make it worse by blushing and faltering, she warned herself, uncomfortable with both brothers staring at her. Speak matter-of-factly. There is nothing for you to be embarrassed about. Even as she admonished herself, she felt her cheeks heat and struggled for words. “I . . . No. It was nothing. Just . . . observations.”

Phillip grinned. “About what? Or shall I say . . . whom?”

Henry Weston crossed his arms, brow furrowed. “Someone tore a page from your journal?”

“Yes. The journal was taken from my room, then returned last night, minus one page.”

At her words, Henry’s thin nose belled out into flaring nostrils. Ah yes, she remembered those flaring nostrils. And the anger darkening his green eyes.

He asked, “When did you first notice the journal missing?”

“Sunday morning. Before we left for church.”

“Was it there before you went down to breakfast?”

“I am not certain. But I wrote in it the night before, so I know it was there then.”

“Julian blamed the Ebbington ghost,” Phillip quipped.

Henry’s earnest gaze remained fixed on Emma, ignoring his brother’s comment. “I am very sorry this happened, Miss Smallwood. I will do everything in my power to see that your missing page is returned and such a thing never happens again.”

“How on earth can you do that?” Phillip asked, incredulity ringing in his tone. “Unless, perhaps, you know who took it?”

Henry hesitated, then pierced his brother with a look. “I have an idea.” With that he turned and strode away, greatcoat billowing in his wake.





I beg your pardon that I did not write to you from Tunis . . . but the heat there was so excessive, and the light so bad for the sight, I was half blind by writing one letter!

—Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, 1718