The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 11





Henry had felt guilty walking through each of his brother’s rooms, looking on tabletops and in drawers for the missing journal page. Two of the bedchambers had been occupied when he’d gone in. One brother had given him a look of confusion during his search, the other a sullen glare. He did not bother to explain what he was looking for and was relieved not to find it. Granted, he had not torn the rooms apart in an exhaustive search. The most likely culprit would probably not have bothered to hide it well. Giving up, Henry returned to his own room.

He did not often allow himself to withdraw the cigar box from the bottom of his wardrobe. He had to stop and think before he could recall the last time he had examined its contents. It had been his first night at Oxford, when he was feeling homesick. And before that, at the Smallwoods’, where he often felt homesick, especially that first year. How he’d resented being sent away from home.

The day had turned grey and drizzly. And somehow that dreary afternoon seemed the perfect time to open the box again. He lit a candle, sat on his bed, and lifted the lid. That smell—her smell—wafted out, enveloping him in a faint embrace as he began sifting through the items within.

He first extracted a half sheet of paper, and unrolled a child’s pencil sketch—stick figures of a man, a woman, and a snake. He knew the small ovals with stick legs below were supposed to be leaves, meant to hide the figures’ nakedness. But he doubted anyone else looking at the unskilled drawing would recognize them as such. The snake was a bit better. Curved and complete with eye and forked tongue. For years he had been uncertain why he felt such nostalgic fondness for this drawing. Now he knew why.

A sudden burst of curiosity filled him, and at its impulse he tugged back the sleeve of his frock coat. He held his wrist close to the flickering candle lamp and inspected it. After so many years, and now camouflaged by dark hair, the scar was barely noticeable. Like the leaves in the old drawing—probably only recognizable by him.

Repositioning his sleeve, Henry moved on to happier memories. He unfolded a piece of paper, carefully ruled by hand. The handwriting upon it was straight and precise. It looked very much like young Emma Smallwood’s hand. Upon it were written the words:

EMMA LIKES MILTON PUGSWORTH.

EMMA LIKES MILTON PUGSWORTH.

EMMA LIKES MILTON PUGSWORTH.

Over and over again as though an exercise in penmanship. Only it was not Emma Smallwood’s handwriting. It was his own, written carefully to mimic hers. And left in her primer as a joke. She had not found it at all amusing. But the other pupils had.

Beneath the ruled sheet lay another stiff rectangle of paper. This one was in Emma Smallwood’s hand, written during his second year at Longstaple. It was a carefully-lettered notice which had once been tacked to her bedchamber door:

BOYS, KEEP OUT

And in smaller characters:

Yes, Henry Weston, that means you.

It gave him a chuckle even now, years later. She ought to have known a boy like him could not have resisted such a challenge.

Beneath the notice lay a chess piece. A queen. He picked it up, remembering. He had only taken it to vex her. Not because he was angry she had beaten him that last time. And not as any sort of foolish, fond memento.

How Emma Smallwood could not stand for anything to be out of order. She had a place for everything and put everything in its place—as she often proudly repeated. She had no pity for any pupil who lost his glove or drawing pencil or primer. So he had taken one of her carefully stored chess pieces merely to draw a reaction from her, which was dashed difficult to do. For Emma Smallwood prided herself on her composure nearly as much as her order. He had been tempted to take one of her prized books, but in the end, could not do so. That, he knew, would have truly wounded her.

Beneath the chess piece lay his only mementoes of his mother. He did not count the portrait tucked away in the alcove upstairs, which jibed only vaguely with his memories of his mother’s face. It had been painted when she was quite young, before marriage and childbirth had softened her figure, added lines to her face, and sadness to her eyes.

Henry set the chess piece aside and lifted a dainty handkerchief, yellowed now with age, and fingered the embroidered initials—M.W. Margaret Weston. Wrapped in the handkerchief was a slender green vial of perfume. He pried up the tight-fitting stopper, held the vial near his nose, and closed his eyes. The scent struck a chord of memory and conjured fleeting images of his mother. A tender touch on his arm. A sad smile. Large eyes meeting his in a bond of empathy. His cheek against her soft bosom, wrapped in her arms and the scent of lily of the valley.

Just as quickly the image began to dissolve and fade away. He could no longer hear her voice. And without the aid of the perfume, he could barely conjure her face in his mind’s eye. Increasingly, it was that stranger, the young woman in the portrait who appeared when he beckoned his mother. Not a satisfactory replacement. How thankful he was that the few remaining drops of perfume worked like an elixir that allowed him to summon her dear face once more.

He recapped the perfume and unfolded the final memento. A small rectangle of fine stationery upon which she had written her last words to him.

Be brave, my dear boy. And remember.

It had been neatly torn from a longer letter—a letter written to his father, Henry supposed. He vaguely remembered Sir Giles handing him the strip of paper. He had been old enough to read by then and would’ve liked to have read the whole letter. But perhaps final words from wife to husband were too private for young eyes. He’d asked to see it once long ago, but Sir Giles had gently refused. Perhaps he would ask again. Henry decided to leave the perfume atop the cigar box on his side table, to remind himself to do so.

He wondered if Phillip had any mementoes of their mother. Unlikely, being so young when she died. He considered showing Phillip his, though the notion embarrassed him somehow. He would have to think about it.



For several years now, Emma had been teaching her father’s course on Geography and the Use of the Globes. She had read many travel diaries and books by world explorers and loved little more than perusing the latest maps from the cartographer in Plymouth. Her father’s knowledge of the classics—Greek and Latin—far exceeded hers, but he was welcome to the ancient world. Emma was drawn to the present one, with all its unexplored wonders.

Her father conceded her superior knowledge of geography, at first reluctantly but eventually with barely concealed pride. Unlike her mother, he had never worried about Emma being labeled a bluestocking.

At present, Julian and Rowan sat, chins on hands propped on elbows, eyes unfocused, glassy stares.

Emma realized it was time to liven things up a bit. “Let’s play a game,” she announced.

Julian straightened and said, “I like games.”

Was that innuendo in his young voice? Emma hoped she was mistaken.

She gave the globe a hearty spin on its stand. “One point to whichever of you can name the location where my finger lands. Extra points for anything you can tell me about the country’s landscape, history, language, or religion.”

Her finger landed first on an island in the Indian Ocean off the southeastern coast of Africa. “What is this place called?” She left her finger where it was, covering the tiny print which might otherwise reveal the answer.

“No one knows,” Rowan said. “Or cares.”

“That’s not true. I care.”

She identified the island as Madagascar, then spun the globe again, her finger landing on the continent across the Atlantic Ocean from England.

That they named easily, but further spins were less successful.

Rowan complained, “Nobody knows all of these places.”

“I do,” Emma said.

“Prove it,” Julian challenged.

Emma hesitated. Would it help? She didn’t know but decided it was worth a try. “Very well. You may test me. You point to the place and see if I can tell you anything about it.”

Turning the tables on her seemed to appeal to the young men. Eagerly, they took turns spinning the globe and trying to stump the tutor’s daughter—Greece, the Canary Islands, Lithuania, Terra Australis—to no avail.

Rowan sat back, shaking his head in wonder. “Have you been to any of these places?”

“No. I am afraid I’ve not had that privilege.”

Julian said, “Too bad women aren’t allowed grand tours as young men are.”

“Only wealthy gentlemen, to be fair,” Rowan amended. “Or those who don’t have responsibilities tying them down. Look at Henry. He’s never gone anywhere either.”

Emma remembered Henry’s words in the Chapel of the Rock. “All my life might have been.” Had he been referring to the places he’d never seen?

She said, “Some women have traveled widely on their own. And published accounts of their journeys. I have read them.”

Rowan smirked. “Fictions, most likely.”

“Not at all. Vivid accounts of beautiful, historic places . . . Here, I shall show you.”

She walked to the bookcase and surveyed the top shelf, where she had lined the volumes they had brought from home. She selected one and began thumbing through its well-worn pages. “This was written by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu nearly a hundred years ago.” She found a favorite excerpt and read.

“August 28, 1718. Genoa.

I am now surrounded by subjects of pleasure, and so much charmed by the beauties of Italy, that I should think it a kind of ingratitude not to offer a little praise in return for the diversion I have had here.

Genoa is situated in a very fine bay; and being built on a rising hill, intermixed with gardens, and beautified with the most excellent architecture, gives a very fine prospect off at sea. The street called Strada Nuova is perhaps the most beautiful line of buildings in the world.

But I am charmed with nothing so much as the collection of pictures from the pencils of Raphael, Paulo Veronese, Titian, Michael Angelo, Guido, and Correggio. . . .”

“Michelangelo, Guido, and Correggio . . .” Rowan echoed wistfully. “Does she write of Guido Reni or Guido Cagnacci?”

Emma replied, “Reni, I imagine.”

Rowan nodded. “Yes, very likely, since she was writing from Genoa. . . .” His eyes glowed in soft awe.

Julian asked, “Where would you go, Miss Smallwood, if you could travel to just one country in the whole world?”

“Delightful question.” She considered, and the image on her mother’s teacup appeared in her mind. “If I had to choose one place, I suppose I would choose Italy.”

Rowan nodded again. “So would I.”

An idea came to Emma. She pondered it briefly, then said, “I would like each of you to pretend you are soon to embark on your own grand tour and begin planning your ideal itinerary. You may use any of my books here, the maps, and any other sources you can think of—newspapers or books in your father’s library. Write down where you would go, how you would get there, how long you would stay in each place, and what you would see and do there.”

Emma would enjoy such a project herself. She looked at the boys, waiting for the scornful look or groan. Instead, she saw the faintest spark of interest in their eyes. She hoped the assignment would arouse their interest in the world beyond Cornwall.

Henry, standing outside the schoolroom, overheard the last few minutes of the conversation within. He was moved by the restrained passion in his half-brother’s voice. He really ought to see about engaging another drawing or painting master for Rowan, to help him hone his natural talent.

He was also surprised to hear of Miss Smallwood’s desire to see Italy. He would not have guessed long-distance travel—with its inherent risks, unavoidable delays, heat, dirt, and fatigue—would appeal to her practical, orderly nature.

Interesting, he thought.

He guessed she would find the reality of such travel less pleasurable than reading about it from a comfortable armchair in a snug English parlor. But he would like to be wrong.

He regretted never being able to take his own grand tour. Soon after he had returned from Oxford, his father had asked him to oversee the day-to-day management of the estate, working with Mr. Davies in Sir Giles’s stead. But even if his father had not asked, Henry doubted their finances would have borne the expense of a lengthy tour. They were in somewhat better financial position now. Even so, Henry knew there was little chance of him getting away anytime soon. Besides, with the recent newcomers to Ebbington Manor, he had little desire to be anywhere else.



In bed that night, Emma drifted to sleep thinking of her Aunt Jane, how they had enjoyed reading travel diaries together, looking at maps, and planning a “someday trip” of their own. Not that either of them believed they would actually make such a journey, but nonetheless it had been enjoyable to think about it, to plan—if only in their imaginations. To dream.

Emma awoke with a start. Was that a footstep near her bed? She’d heard no click of a door latch. Had she dreamt it? She lay there, pulse pounding, ears alert, searching the darkness in vain.

If someone had come in to play a prank, she would not simply lie there as a victim and await her fate.

She sat up. “Who’s there?” she whispered, her voice a girlish squeak.

Silence.

Feeling foolish, part of her certain she was conversing with mere air, or ghost, she forced her voice into the calm, firm tones she always used with recalcitrant pupils. “Please leave my room this instant.”

A squeak of a floorboard. A shuffle. A creak. Good heavens, someone really was there. Her heart pounded in her throat, stifling the cry before it could emerge.

A latch clicked, and silence returned. Not the pregnant, expectant silence of a few moments before, but a calm, static nothingness—except for her own erratic heartbeat. She felt certain whoever had been there had heeded her command and fled.

What did she do now? Alert her father . . . or Henry? Why had she thought of him? Surely she had meant Phillip or Sir Giles. But she didn’t want to accuse without proof, not after the doubts raised by the “missing” journal. Nor did she want to worry her father.

She climbed from bed. There was no lock on her door. Should she slide a chair in front of it? She thought for a moment, then crossed the dark room and fumbled for her drinking glass beside the pitcher and basin. She carried it over and knelt down, propping it against the door. It would not stop anyone, but she would certainly hear if anyone tried to enter her room again.

Rising to her feet, Emma hesitated. What was that smell? A pronounced aroma lay on the air. Not shaving soap or bay rum this time, she did not think. She closed her eyes and focused on the fragrance . . . a sweet floral scent—a woman’s perfume.

A woman?

Who wore such perfume? She did not recall smelling it before. Lizzie? Lady Weston? One of the servants? That seemed unlikely. At least the idea of a woman in her room was less frightening than that of a man. Thoughts of the Ebbington ghost drifted through her mind, but she blinked them away.

Emma forced herself to lie back down, pulling the bedclothes up to her chin. She decided she would pay attention on the morrow and discover which woman in the house wore perfume.

And then what? She had no idea.

Emma must have fallen asleep, for when she opened her eyes again, wan dawn light seeped through her windows. The room was still, peaceful.

Needing to use the chamber pot, Emma forced herself from the warm bed, relieved herself, and then stepped to the corner basin to wash her hands and face. Drying her hands, she looked at herself in the mirror . . . and saw a handprint on the glass—fingers spread wide.

Her heart beat dully at the sight. It had not been there when she’d cleaned her teeth the night before. Surely she would have noticed it. Maybe not, she told herself. Perhaps it had not shown by candlelight, and only the natural light of dawn revealed it. She extended her hand toward the image. She had rather long fingers for a female, and whoever left the print had a similar-sized palm but slightly shorter fingers. Too large to belong to the diminutive Morva, she believed. Perhaps the footman had been in to help lay the fires—a footman with smallish hands?

A creak startled her, and she gasped, whirling about. Her drinking glass clinked against the wooden floor and rolled several feet before coming to rest against a chair leg.

There in the doorway, a perplexed Morva looked from the glass up to Emma, no doubt wondering why a water glass announced her arrival.

Emma offered no explanation. Instead, she pointed to the handprint on the mirror. “This is not your hand, I take it?”

Morva held up her right hand. “No. This be my hand,” she said dryly.

Emma rolled her eyes. “I meant . . . well . . . I was surprised to find it there, and wondered who left it.”

Morva shrugged. “I can’t get every dust mote and smear, miss. Can I? Not with all the extra people in the house.”

“I am not criticizing, Morva, only wondering who has been in my room.”

Morva lifted her chin, eyes flinty. “Lots of us come and go, trying to keep thee and thy father tended.”

Emma looked down, torn between feeling chastised or offended, but determined to keep a civil tongue.

“Sorry, miss.” The maid’s voice gentled. “I’m worn off my feet, but I ought not snap at thee.”

Emma nodded. “I understand.”

Morva stepped to the mirror and studied the handprint. Then she held her own hand up to it. As Emma had thought, the housemaid’s hand was smaller.

“Perhaps ’ee left it by chance,” Morva suggested.

Emma shook her head. “My fingers are longer.”

The housemaid shrugged. “Could be anybody’s.” She said it dismissively, but a wary light in her eyes caused Emma to wonder if Morva knew . . . or feared . . . who had left the mark.

Emma lingered over breakfast that morning, hoping Lizzie and perhaps even Lady Weston might join her.

Eventually, Lizzie wandered in, yawning. She saw Emma and smiled. “Good morning. I didn’t expect anyone to still be in here. I do hope the coffeepot isn’t empty.”

The footman near the wall straightened to attention. Lizzie walked to the spigot urn, picked up a coffee cup, and tried the spout. Dark, aromatic liquid flowed. “Yes . . .” she murmured in triumph.

The footman relaxed.

Lizzie sat beside Emma, pouring cream from a tiny pitcher on the table and asking Emma to pass the sugar bowl.

Lizzie added several lumps and stirred, yawning yet again.

Emma took advantage of the girl’s weary state to lean close and . . .

Lizzie jerked back. She stopped stirring and stared at Emma with a startled frown. “Did you just . . . smell me?”

Emma stammered, “I . . . no . . . I didn’t mean to. I—”

“Do I smell?” Lizzie turned her head toward her shoulder and sniffed.

“No, of course not. I was just . . . wondering if you wore perfume.”

“Are you suggesting I should?” Humor glinted in the girl’s eyes.

Relieved, Emma replied, “No, I meant nothing by it. I was only curious. I smelled something flowery earlier and thought . . .”

“Isn’t me. Unless it’s my talcum powder. I don’t wear perfume anymore. I did when I first came here, a little bottle of eau de cologne I received as a gift. But it made Lady Weston’s eyes water and her nose itch, so I returned it.”

“So Lady Weston doesn’t wear perfume either? Or was it just your particular scent that irritated her?”

“Everything irritates Lady Weston,” Lizzie said wryly. “Or hadn’t you noticed?” Lizzie sipped her coffee and shrugged. “She doesn’t wear scent either, as far as I know. Though her complexion cream has a citrus fragrance, I think.”

Citrus? No, Emma hadn’t smelled lemons or oranges.

Emma thought of the small bottle of eau de cologne Phillip had given her. Thankfully she had yet to use it. She said, “Then I had better refrain from wearing scent as well.”

“You learn fast.” Lizzie sipped again at her sweet, creamy coffee. “Phillip said you were clever.”

Emma nodded vaguely, lost in thought.

Lizzie eyed her over the cup. “What is it? What’s got your nerves in a bunch?”

“Nothing. I . . . was just wondering about the smell. That’s all.”

Lizzie’s focus sharpened. “Where did you smell this perfume?”

“Apparently I imagined it. For I thought I smelled it in my room.”

Lizzie’s thin brows rose. “Did you indeed? Then perhaps the Ebbington ghost paid you a visit.”

“Don’t tell me Julian and Rowan have you believing their ghost stories too.”

Lizzie shrugged. “Perhaps.” She glanced at the footman, then leaned near and whispered, “I used to think all their talk of a ghost was pure stuff and nonsense. But lately I have heard a few things that cause me to fear they might be right.”

“What sort of things?”

Lizzie’s dark eyes widened. “Footsteps where there ought not be any. Voices too. And that strange music at night . . .” Lizzie shivered theatrically.

Emma said, “The boys are probably trying to scare us.”

“Then they’re doing a bang-up job of it.”

Emma found herself silently agreeing.

Lizzie looked over her shoulder, then continued, “They say it is the ghost of Lady Weston herself—the former Lady Weston, I mean. Henry and Phillip’s mother.”

An illogical chill crept up Emma’s spine. “I heard that as well,” she acknowledged. “But it’s only foolishness. Why should she want to haunt the place?”

Lizzie said, “Maybe she wasn’t happy about Sir Giles marrying again, and so soon after her death. Henry certainly wasn’t.”

“Lizzie.” It was Emma’s turn to glance toward the door. “You ought not to say such things.”

“Don’t you believe in ghosts?” Lizzie asked.

“No,” Emma said resolutely, recalling the oddly comforting image of the handprint on her mirror. A handprint left by someone very much alive.





While she . . . had been planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person! Such a suspicion could never have entered her head!

—Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility