The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 12





Henry sat at the desk in his small study, adding his latest observations of the day’s weather and tide levels. These he checked against previous readings.

A quiet knock interrupted him. He looked up, surprised to see Emma Smallwood at his door. She held herself rigid, clearly uncomfortable in his presence. His fault, he knew. He still regretted how he’d treated her. All these years later, he still cringed at the memory of overhearing her tell her mother, “He’s no gentleman. He certainly does not act like one.”

He slid his quill back into its holder and rose. “Come in, Miss Smallwood. What may I do for you?”

“Not a thing,” she said briskly. “But perhaps you recall, after I found the . . . em . . . miniature military figure in my room, you asked me to let you know if anything like that happened again.”

Henry stiffened, as though bracing for a blow. “Yes?”

She stepped nearer and stood before his desk, hands primly clasped. “It isn’t my intention to complain, or accuse anyone, but I do think someone was in my room again last night.”

He arched one brow high. “Another toy soldier?”

“Toy?” she echoed. Humor sparked in her wide eyes, but he did not respond to the bait. He merely stared at her, waiting.

She sobered. “Em, no. Nothing . . . physical. That is, no object was left behind. But I did find a handprint on my mirror, and a strong scent lingered.”

“Bay rum again?” he asked skeptically, for he wore that particular men’s cologne, and wasn’t the only Weston to do so.

“No, not this time. It smelled like a woman’s perfume. Very flowery and sweet.”

Henry snapped to attention but kept his voice level. “Not yours, I take it?”

She shook her head. “And Lady Weston, I understand, does not wear scent. Lizzie either.”

“Hmm . . .” Henry twisted his lips in thought. Then he asked, “May I see it?”

Miss Smallwood blinked up at him. “The handprint?”

He nodded.

“Oh. Of course.”

But he did not miss the hesitation in her voice.

Emma felt self-conscious about taking a gentleman to her bedchamber, but she nevertheless turned to lead the way. She reminded herself it was his home, after all, and his intentions were not only honorable but impersonal. Official.

As she mounted the stairs, she was conscious of him close behind her and resisted the urge to reach back and smooth her skirts. They did not speak as they walked down the corridor and around the corner. When she reached her door, she opened it and stepped inside, leaving the door open for him. She crossed the room toward the mirror but noticed he hovered in the threshold.

Emma stared at the mirror—the perfectly clear mirror—and sighed. “It appears Morva has already polished the glass.” How foolish she felt for not foreseeing that.

In the mirror’s reflection, she saw Henry grimace and inhale his disappointment.

She turned toward him and said, “I can tell you the palm was about the same size as mine, though the fingers were somewhat shorter.” She held up her hand, fingers pointed toward the ceiling.

Stepping toward her, he raised his left hand, mirroring her right, close but not quite touching. His palm was bigger, his fingers thicker and longer than hers.

He asked wryly, “Am I exonerated?”

She swallowed. “In this, yes.”

He cocked his head to one side, mouth twisted in an ironic grin. “Will you never forgive me the rest?”

For a moment, Emma held his gaze. Then she looked away first, suddenly unaccountably nervous. “If not for the handprint,” she said, “I might be tempted to think Julian right about the ghost. A female ghost with a fondness for perfume.”

His grin faded. “The ghost of my mother, I suppose?”

Emma’s stomach fell. “Forgive me. What a thoughtless thing to say.”

His face hardened. “Julian is wrong, Miss Smallwood. There is no ghost—as much as some members of my family would like you to believe otherwise.”

She dared a look up into his stony face. “Why should they want me to believe that?” She forced a lame chuckle. “Are they trying to frighten us away?”

“No. That is not what I meant.” He expelled a frustrated breath. “Forget I said that. I know you’ve never cared for foolishness.”

“True. But I like intruders even less.”

“You have nothing to fear, Miss Smallwood.”

She looked at him coolly. “I am not afraid.”

His gaze brushed over her countenance. “Good. For I don’t believe you are in any danger.”

“And if you are wrong?”

He ran a hand through his wavy hair. “Then lock your door.”

She gestured toward it. “Mine hasn’t a lock.”

He stepped to the door and jiggled the latch. “I shall have to see to that.” He looked at her once more. “I will look into the matter, Miss Smallwood. Thank you for telling me. Please . . . do not mention it to anyone else. If you want to tell your father, of course you must, but—”

“The housemaid saw the handprint, and I told Lizzie I’d smelled perfume, but otherwise I have not said a word, nor shall I.”

“Thank you.” He gave a curt bow. “Now, if you will excuse me.”

She dipped her head in acknowledgment, but he had already turned and left the room. She listened to his purposeful strides echo down the corridor, intent on a mission of his own.

Henry took himself directly to his bedchamber. He crossed the room to the bedside table, where he’d left the perfume and cigar box instead of returning them to their usual place in the wardrobe. He didn’t see the slender green vial atop the box, where he thought he’d left it. He flipped back the cover and rummaged through its contents in vain.

Then he sat on the bed, pulled the box onto his lap, and dug deeper. He found his mother’s handkerchief. The empty, limp handkerchief. But the perfume was gone, as he’d feared. So was the chess piece. Who would have taken them? A greedy housemaid? His valet?

The more likely answer lurked at the back of his mind, but he chose to ignore it. He thought about going to question his brother—several brothers, perhaps—but remembered his interview in Stratton. Questions would have to wait.



In the drawing room that evening, Lady Weston announced that her friend, Mrs. Penberthy, and her charming daughter had accepted her invitation to visit Ebbington Manor.

Standing there, hand against the mantel and staring into the fire, Henry listened to his stepmother’s plans with disinterest, which twisted into annoyance and then ire the longer she droned on.

The Penberthy family had been guests at Ebbington Manor a few times before, and on those occasions Henry had enjoyed talking with Mr. Penberthy. In fact, doing so was often the sole bright spot in an entire visit from that family. More than once Henry had cloistered himself away with Sir Giles and Mr. Penberthy in the library, or lingered overlong in the dining room after dinner, even when politeness dictated they ought to join the women in the drawing room. The man had been good company. But Mr. Penberthy had died more than a year ago. And Henry dreaded the upcoming visit from his widow and daughter.

Whenever Lady Weston and Mrs. Penberthy were together, they chirped on like exotic birds in a London aviary. All colorful plumage and constant, inane, headache-inducing chatter. Not to mention the preening.

Tressa Penberthy was quieter than her mamma, Henry allowed, which was a point in her favor. She was not unattractive, he supposed, but he was certainly not attracted to her himself. She was a stout, ginger-haired girl, her gowns unbecomingly tight. That he might have overlooked. That, and the crooked teeth. But the young woman was as dull as his grandmother’s letter opener. As smooth and uninteresting as a beach rock, worn featureless by the constant tide of her mother’s foolish banter.

Phillip, he gathered, didn’t mind simpering, insipid creatures who batted their lashes and hung on his every word, forming no reply more interesting than “Oh my. You don’t say.”

But Henry did mind.

Worse yet, Lady Weston had made it clear she expected one of them to marry Miss Penberthy. How kind of her to let them decide the particulars among themselves, when she would have preferred to choose for them and post the banns herself.

But even that was not what had Henry growing increasingly vexed until he barely managed to keep hold of his temper and his tongue.

Lady Weston said, “Mrs. Penberthy, dear friend though she is, has a . . . shall we say, superstitious streak. Very keen on lineage. An outspoken proponent of character and traits being passed from one generation to the next.”

“Like her daughter inheriting her bad teeth?” Rowan asked with a snort.

Lady Weston silenced him with a glare.

“And so, with that in mind,” she continued, “I expect each of you to demonstrate your good breeding, talents, and intelligence. She must have no doubts about the Weston family, or the benefits of joining its ranks. I understand the girl was interested in the heir of the Nancarrow estate. But when Mrs. Penberthy learned of a cousin with a club foot, she called the whole thing off, to my great relief. Therefore, I must ask you to keep certain things to yourselves, as we have been doing.”

Lady Weston glanced at him. “I know you don’t approve, Henry. But I must insist. During their visit, we will not speak of our added residents, certain Westons being sent home from school, nor any other unpleasantries.”

Henry could hardly believe she tossed their “added residents” in the same lot as Julian and Rowan being expelled from school.

But Lady Weston hadn’t finished. She skewered Phillip with a sharp look. “And, Phillip, come up with a plausible excuse for being home midterm. I won’t have Mrs. Penberthy thinking you’ve come to grief at Oxford.” Next she turned to Rowan and Julian. “And by all means, you two, no tricks or fighting while they’re here. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” Julian drawled.

“Good.”

Lady Weston paced before them. “Westons are keen, moral, healthy young gentlemen, among whom Mrs. Penberthy will find a suitable, nay, a superior match for her only daughter.”

Henry wondered if he or Phillip were supposed to marry the girl and only afterward air the family secrets. How dishonest. How mercenary. Henry felt his father grip his tense shoulder or he likely would have snapped out some cutting remark. He glanced over at him.

His father’s hound-dog eyes pleaded with him. Please, this is important to her, the look said. It’s only a few days. Can it really make such a difference, after all this time?

Henry sighed and held his peace.



A few hours later, Henry stood in his room, dressed only in trousers and shirtsleeves. He’d already dismissed his valet, after Merryn had helped him off with his coat and taken his shoes and boots away to polish.

Drying his face at the washstand, Henry heard footfalls outside in the corridor and stiffened. He had lately heard too many accounts of uninvited nighttime visitors for his comfort. Tossing the towel aside, he stepped to his door and swiftly opened it. But it was only Phillip, fist raised to knock, startled expression on his handsome face.

“Expecting someone?” Phillip asked.

“No. Heard footsteps. Thought it might be someone else. Come in.”

His brother did so. Considering the subject of the earlier family meeting, Henry was not surprised to see him.

“Have a seat.” Henry removed the discarded towel from the chair and returned it to the washstand.

“I’m too worked up to sit,” Phillip said, running a hand through his straight brown hair.

“Very well, I’ll sit.” Henry gestured to the carafe on his side table. “All I have to offer you is water.”

At the word, Phillip hurried over, poured water into the single glass, and drank it down in one long swallow.

Henry said sardonically, “Make yourself at home.”

Phillip paced across the room, turned, and paced back again.

Henry prodded gently, “Has this something to do with our little family meeting—Lady Weston’s edict?”

“Yes, of course it has. And I can’t do it. I know she means for me to, but I can’t do it.”

“Slow down,” Henry soothed. “Can’t do what—marry Miss Penberthy?”

“Don’t be an idiot. What else would I be talking about?”

Henry leaned back, crossing his arms. “Why do you assume she means for you to do it? Here I’ve been fearing the task shall fall to me.”

Phillip turned toward him. “She’d like that. Thinks you’d have the best chance with her, being the eldest.”

Henry frowned, and then opened his mouth to protest.

“Don’t scowl.” Phillip huffed. “You know what I mean. But I expect she believes you will refuse simply to vex her.”

“Yes, you have always been more malleable in her hands than I.”

It was Phillip’s turn to frown. “Well, not this time. You will have to do it.”

Henry regarded his brother closely. “Why?”

“Because . . . because I am in love with somebody else; that’s why.”

Henry raised his eyebrows. “Are you indeed? Pray, who is the fortunate creature?”

Phillip grimaced. “I shan’t tell you. You’ll only ridicule me over it.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you will no doubt think her no more suitable than Lady Weston would.”

Henry’s mind ticked through the possibilities, avoiding the conclusion that nipped at his breastbone, pestering him for acknowledgment. Not yet.

“Why would I think her unsuitable?” he asked tentatively, dreading the answer.

“Because she hasn’t any money, of course. She is a lovely girl, but her circumstances are humble, I admit.”

“Someone you met in Oxford?” Henry asked, on a thread of foolish hope.

“No. Someone I’ve known a long time. Why do you think I am here?”

Why should it feel like a kick to his gut? He should not care, but he found he cared very much indeed.

Henry gripped the chair’s armrests and forced a casual tone. “We are both probably worrying over nothing. Likely Miss Penberthy shan’t want either of us. She has never shown any partiality before—at least not to me.”

Phillip turned away, but not before Henry saw discomfort pinch his face.

“Oh dear,” Henry murmured. “As bad as all that?”

“No,” Phillip defended. “I was simply polite to her—that’s all. Something you rarely bother to be.”

Henry had never seen his usually cheerful brother so upset. “Well then,” he said. “This time I shall be on my best behavior for your sake, if not for her.”

Henry did not specify whether the “her” he referred to was Miss Penberthy or Lady Weston. In either case, the sentiment would be the same.



After morning lessons the next day, Emma’s father confided his intention to retire to his room for a nap, but Emma felt too restless to remain indoors. Longing for a bit of fresh air, she tied on her bonnet and cape, and trotted downstairs.

When she passed the drawing room on her way outside, Lizzie saw her and hurried out to join her.

She whispered, “I hear you found a mysterious handprint in your room yesterday.”

Emma looked at her sharply.

“Morva told me,” Lizzie explained. “She tells me everything. So if there is anything you don’t want me to know, don’t tell her.”

Emma feared Henry would think she had reneged on her promise of secrecy and judge her an untrustworthy gossip. “I shall remember that in future,” she said.

It was Lizzie’s turn to give her a sharp look. “The tutor’s daughter has secrets, has she? My, my.”

“That is not what I meant.”

Lizzie eyed her bonnet and cape. “Where are you going?”

“For a walk.” Emma hesitated, then added, “Would you like to come along?”

Lizzie smiled, apparently pleased to be asked. “I would, yes. Just let me run and gather my wrap.”

Lizzie returned a few minutes later, wearing a straw sun hat with a lacy scarf over the crown and tied in a bow under her chin. She wore a short spencer over her dress but no gloves.

Emma bit back a maternal admonition. She wore gloves whenever she ventured out-of-doors, a practice ingrained in her since childhood. But it was not her place to advise Lady Weston’s ward.

They strolled outside, through the garden and past its gate, toward the coast. The chilly wind made Emma’s eyes water, the streaks of tears warm on her cool cheeks.

Ahead of them, out on the headland point, stood a figure, his back to them, an easel before him. Rowan.

Emma wondered if he would mind being disturbed. She and Lizzie exchanged a look, then approached him tentatively.

Emma said, “Hello, Rowan.”

He glanced over, expression guilty. Was he so self-conscious about his work?

“Miss Smallwood. I . . . Am I late for afternoon lessons?”

“Not at all. Forgive us. We did not mean to disturb you.”

“That’s all right. It’s nothing important.”

Emma glanced from the painting on the easel to the actual scene before them. The calm sea shimmered blue-grey in the sunshine, and upon it floated a green sailing vessel, white sails unfurled and taut, rigging rattling in the wind, approaching the waiting harbor north of them.

Emma looked back toward the painting once more. Rowan had painted a nighttime scene. A dark, stormy sea capped with ominous waves and a red sloop tilted dangerously on its side, breaking up on jagged rocks beyond the mouth of the harbor. A tiny figure of a man, mouth agape, stretched his arm toward the viewer, begging for help.

Emma blinked. She asked tentatively, “Is this . . . from your imagination?”

Rowan shook his head, eyes on his painting. “From memory.”

Emma stared at his profile. “You witnessed a shipwreck?”

“More than one. There are many wrecks along this coast.”

“Are there?”

He nodded.

Lizzie said, “Approaching an exposed coastline like this is always dangerous. But the natural breakwater there”—she pointed to the rocky peninsula, jutting partway across the harbor, the chapel at its tip—“narrows the entrance and increases the risk.”

Emma was surprised the girl would know anything about it.

Rowan nodded his agreement. “Many a ship has struck those rocks. And many a man drowned just beyond the safe haven of the harbor.”

Emma shivered at the thought of going under those icy waves. She gestured toward Rowan’s painting. “When did this happen?”

“Early this spring.”

“Did the crew survive?”

Rowan shook his head. “Not one.”

“Was there nothing to be done?” Emma asked.

His lip curled. “Do you mean, besides wait for the bodies and cargo to wash ashore?”

Again Emma shivered. “Yes, before that.”

Rowan shrugged. “John Bray tried. He always tries.”

“Who is John Bray?”

“Local constable and salvage agent.”

Lizzie sniffed. “I hear the man causes more trouble than he solves.”

Rowan shot her a dark look but made no reply.

Emma gazed at the painting once more. “Well . . . it is really quite good, Rowan.”

A voice came from over her shoulder. “It is indeed.”

Emma whirled around, surprised to see Henry Weston standing there, looking from the painting to his brother with a gleam of nearly paternal pride in his eyes. She had not heard him approach over the wind.

“Not as good as it could be,” Rowan began. “Not even as good as—”

“No rebuttals, Rowan,” Henry interrupted. “Miss Smallwood is not one to hand out compliments lightly. If she says the painting is good, then it is indeed.”

A look passed between the brothers, some undercurrent Emma couldn’t place. Henry turned to her. “You have a good eye, Miss Smallwood.”

“Um . . . thank you,” Emma murmured, consternated by Henry Weston’s praise. “Were you here when the shipwreck occurred?”

Henry looked at the painting once more, eyes suddenly fierce. “Unfortunately, I was not.” His face contorted. “Poor souls.”

A moment of wind-strummed silence followed.

Henry inhaled and drew himself up. “Well, I’m off to check the water levels and visit the chapel.” He tugged on his hat brim, turned his face into the wind, and strode away.

Watching him go, Emma was relieved he did not ask her to accompany him again, for she would have demurred.

Lizzie took her arm. “Let’s leave Rowan to his painting, shall we? You promised me a walk, and I long to stretch my legs.”

Still gazing after Henry’s retreating figure, Emma shook herself mentally awake. “Of course.”

They bid Rowan farewell, and the two young women continued their walk along the coast path.

But Emma’s thoughts remained on Henry Weston. “I find it interesting that Mr. Weston is so drawn to that abandoned chapel when he doesn’t even attend church.”

“Oh, but he does,” Lizzie said, looking at her askance. “He usually attends with the family in the morning, and then goes to an evening service at the Wesleyan chapel in Stratton.”

Emma was astonished. “Does he?”

Lizzie’s look of confusion cleared. “That’s right. He hasn’t gone with us since you arrived. Two weeks ago, I believe, a traveling preacher was in the area for some special early meeting Henry didn’t want to miss, so he went there instead of St. Andrew’s. I don’t know where he was this last Sunday. Gone somewhere on more family business, I think.”

Emma realized she had simply assumed Henry Weston was an unbeliever—though come to think of it, he had spoken of God in the chapel. Guilt pinching her, she asked, “Does his family mind?”

“Lady Weston doesn’t approve of him associating with dissenters, but when have those two ever seen eye to eye on anything?”

“And Sir Giles?”

Lizzie shrugged. “I’ve never heard him object. I think he’s just relieved Henry still attends St. Andrew’s with the family.”

“I see . . .” Emma digested this new information.

They walked on for a few minutes more, listening to the wind, the surf, and the sea gulls.

Then Lizzie asked, “Have you heard we are to have visitors, Miss Smallwood?”

“Oh?”

Lizzie nodded. “Mrs. and Miss Penberthy.” She began parroting Lady Weston’s affected voice, “The dearest friend, and her most eligible daughter.” Then Lizzie added almost glumly, “We’re even to have a party with dancing in her honor.”

Lizzie’s dour tone surprised Emma, considering how little amusement life at Ebbington Manor usually afforded the young woman.

“You should enjoy that,” she said gently.

Lizzie frowned and shook her head. “Not likely.”

“Why not? What is the matter?”

“Oh, Emma. May I call you Emma?”

“Yes, if you like.”

“I am so worried, and I have no one to confide in. May I tell you my troubling secret?”

Emma hesitated. She had no wish to place herself in an awkward position between ward and host family.

Apparently noticing her hesitation, Lizzie said, “I shan’t use names, if that will make you feel better. That way, if asked, you can say you truly didn’t know. Please, Emma. I must tell someone or I shall burst. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep for worrying.”

Vaguely in the back of Emma’s mind, a verse she had heard as a child whispered to her. “Cast all your cares upon Him for He cares for you.” But she did not say the words aloud. After all, as distant as she had been from God since her mother’s death, who was she to offer pat religious comforts?

Instead Emma said quietly, “Very well. But no names.”

Gratefully, Lizzie nodded, and led the way to a bench overlooking the sea. She plopped down and Emma sat beside her, carefully arranging her skirts.

“You see,” Lizzie began, “Lady Weston hopes, or should I say plans, that one of the Weston brothers should marry this Miss Penberthy. She is apparently quite the little heiress. Her father made a tidy fortune in tin mining, I believe. Lady Weston would very much like to see her friend’s daughter marry into the family—and bring along a good deal of money into the marriage, of course. Very fond of money, Lady Weston is.”

Emma waited, wondering and fearing what Lizzie’s interest could be in all of this.

Lizzie gripped her hands together and looked out toward the horizon. “You see, I have formed a secret . . . attachment to one of the Weston brothers. Foolish, I know. But this was several months ago, before—” She was about to say a name but corrected herself. “Before he came home. And now I regret that foolish promise I made to . . . shall we say, a younger Mr. Weston. For since then I have fallen hopelessly in love with . . . an older Mr. Weston. And now I fear that Lady Weston means for him to marry Miss Penberthy with her five thousand pounds, and where shall that leave me?”

Emma’s mind whirled. She didn’t want to know whom Lizzie spoke of, yet found herself drawing conclusions even as she told herself not to. Younger brother . . . Phillip? Older brother . . . Henry?

Had Phillip actually formed an attachment with Lizzie Henshaw? Is that really why he had left Oxford and returned to Ebbington—to see Lizzie, and not Emma and her father as he’d protested? Emma hoped it wasn’t true. But nor did she like the thought of her dear friend having his heart broken if the girl he loved had transferred her affections to his older brother.

She wondered which man Lady Weston had in mind for this Miss Penberthy. Henry, the eldest son? Or Phillip, whom Lady Weston clearly preferred?

Emma asked carefully, “Does this . . . older brother . . . return your affection?”

Lizzie’s eyes were wide and plaintive. “I think so. Oh, I dearly hope so.”

Did Henry Weston love Lizzie Henshaw? It was difficult to believe. Yet Emma had certainly noticed his kindness, his politeness to his stepmother’s ward. If it was more than that, Emma had seen no indication. But then again, neither had she seen any hints of romance between Lizzie and Phillip—other than, perhaps, seeing them talking together in the garden. But they might have been discussing any number of unromantic topics.

Had Lizzie, with her charming looks and neglected education, really managed to turn the heads of both Phillip and Henry Weston, leading her to disappoint one of them?

Emma supposed some young women lived for such romantic ideals. But personally, Emma would find it loathsome to put herself and two brothers in such a predicament.

Lizzie said imploringly, “You see now why I’m upset? Why I’m worried?”

Emma nodded. She did indeed.





As dancing is the accomplishment most calculated to display a fine form, elegant taste, and graceful carriage to advantage . . . [beauty] cannot choose a more effective exhibition.

—The Mirror of the Graces, 1811