The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 16





Emma, regretting her first meeting with Adam Weston had been an unhappy one, decided to brave the north wing again, this time by daylight. She wanted to take him something as an olive branch. A token of friendship. Acting on a hunch, she brought down a tin of ivory dominoes with ebony pips from the schoolroom. She wondered if he might play a game with her, or at least enjoy playing with them on his own. She had seen little source of diversion in his room, though, of course, she had not checked every drawer and cupboard.

She made her way to the end of the north wing and knocked softly on his door. A sound from inside suddenly ceased. A rocking chair? The door opened a few inches, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Prowse, appeared. Emma realized she had barely laid eyes on the woman since she and her father had first arrived. Now she knew why.

“Ah . . . Miss Smallwood. How did you know where to find me? You’re not to be in here.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Prowse. I know about Adam.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Do you now? Then I suppose you’d better come in.” Mrs. Prowse held the door for Emma, then shut it quietly behind her.

Adam was sitting in an armchair near the window. She was surprised and pleased to see him reading a book. He glanced up timidly when she entered but, after apparently assuring himself that she meant no harm, resumed reading.

Emma quietly explained to Mrs. Prowse about the storm, hearing Adam’s cries, and coming to investigate.

The housekeeper nodded, mouth downturned. “Yes, Master Henry told me about that night, though he didn’t mention your part in it. And sorry I was to hear it too. I’ve been looking after Adam as much as I could amidst my other duties, but then my father fell ill, and I had to go and see him.”

“I am sorry to hear it. How did you find him?”

“Very bad, I’m afraid. Had an apoplexy, poor soul. But at least I was able to see him and help a bit.”

Emma nodded her understanding.

“That’s why I wasn’t here that night, “ the woman continued. “Had I been, I would have come to check on Adam and sit with him during the worst of the storm.”

Emma lifted the tin in her hand. “I brought some dominoes for him. Unless . . . Has he a set already?”

Mrs. Prowse turned to look around the room. “Not that I’ve seen. Don’t know as he’ll have any interest, but kind of you just the same.” The housekeeper hesitated. “You . . . know not to say anything about him, right?”

“I do. Though I think it a pity.”

“As do I.” Mrs. Prowse inhaled deeply. “I knew Mrs. Hobbes very well, though she was Miss Jones when she worked here. We stayed in touch over the years. Very fond of Adam she was. Like a son to her and Mr. Hobbes. God rest their souls.” Tears brightened her eyes.

Emma felt she ought to squeeze the dear woman’s hand but hesitated, and the moment passed.

Mrs. Prowse wiped at her eyes and drew back her shoulders. “Well, I had better go down and check on things.”

Emma nodded. “I’ll see you later.”

When the door closed behind the housekeeper, Emma stood with the tin in her hands, observing Adam, waiting for him to look up at her.

He did not.

She looked around the room instead, noticing several drawings pinned to one wall. Battle scenes. Soldiers engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Gruesome yet impressively realistic. Had Rowan done these or had Adam?

Gently, she said, “Good afternoon, Mr. . . .” She paused. She wanted to treat him with all the respect she would give any other Weston. But did he even recognize that surname as his, or had he grown up as Adam Hobbes? She decided to use his Christian name, something she would not usually do, at least until invited. “May I come closer, Adam? I have brought you something.”

Finally, he looked up, his blue eyes skittering from her face to the tin in her hand.

“Biscuits?” he asked hopefully.

A little bubble of mirth tickled her stomach. “Do you like biscuits?”

He nodded.

“Perhaps next time I shall bring you some. But today I’ve brought dominoes. Have you ever played?”

Slowly, she crossed the room, watching his face to make certain he showed no signs of alarm. His expression remained rather static, so it was difficult to tell what he was thinking or feeling, but she saw no obvious distress. Emma walked to a small table and chairs placed beneath another window. A stack of drawings lay there, similar to those on the wall. She set the tin on the table beside them.

“Come and see,” she offered, keeping her gaze on the tin, removing the cover and setting it aside.

Adam appeared beside her, staring down at the tiles. “Bone sticks,” he murmured.

“Dominoes,” she corrected.

“My pa, Mr. Hobbes, likes to play bone sticks.”

He slid into a chair and began pulling from the tin domino after domino, lining them up in ascending order: 0–0, 0–1, 0–2, 0–3 . . . then moving on to the 1–1, 1–2, and so on, until all twenty-eight were arranged.

“Shall we play?” Emma asked, but he didn’t appear to hear her.

As soon as he had arranged all the dominoes once, he began rearranging them, this time in ever-widening rows, like the branches of half an evergreen tree: the blank domino followed by a row of two dominoes (0–1 and 1–1). Below that a row of three (0–2, 1–2, 2–2), and so on.

Watching Adam Weston, head bent, tongue tip protruding, fingers flying, Emma felt a smile quiver on her lips. Noticing his small hands, she wondered if Adam might have been the one to come into her room and leave behind the handprint. If so, she could understand why Henry Weston had told her she needn’t be afraid.

After observing Adam a few minutes longer, Emma gave up on playing a game but left content, hearing the click-click of ivory tiles follow her from the room.



Standing in the drawing room that afternoon, Henry ran frustrated fingers through his hair. “I don’t understand why he has to remain in his bedchamber.”

Lady Weston looked up from her customary chair. Phillip sat nearby, fiddling nervously with the antimacassar on the arm of the settee. Across the room Rowan and Julian sat at an inlaid game table, playing draughts.

She said, “And I don’t know how to make myself any clearer. I do not want him growing accustomed to the place. To life here. It will only make it that much more difficult for him when he leaves for his new situation, which will be very soon, I trust. I am only thinking of him.”

“Only him?”

“Well, of course I am concerned for Rowan and Julian. That’s why I have asked them not to spend time with this particular half brother. They are not so young that I fear they might come under the influence of his less-developed behaviors, but I have every right to be concerned for their future prospects. The longer he is here, the more likely it is that the whole parish—nay, the whole county—will know of him, and that, I assure you, will not help any of your marriage prospects.”

“But most of the servants must know by now, I imagine, which likely means it’s halfway across the county already.”

“Only Mrs. Prowse and your valet are allowed in his room. Both very trustworthy and discreet. Mr. Davies knows, of course. The other servants have merely been told that an ailing relative has temporarily come to stay. But if he were to begin roaming the house and the grounds . . . ? Besides, I don’t want Lizzie finding out. You know that girl can’t keep a secret.”

Lady Weston turned toward Julian and Rowan. “Nor do I want either of you telling Mr. Teague. He would find some way to use the information against us and to his profit no doubt.”

Henry frowned, perplexed. “What has Teague to do with Rowan and Julian? With any of us?”

She lifted her chin. “He is about the place a great deal. An acquaintance of Mr. Davies, I believe.”

“Davies? I thought he had better sense.”

Lady Weston narrowed her eyes. “There is no call to criticize. What we need is to take care of this situation—and quickly, before it gets out of control. Later, if you and Sir Giles decide to bring Adam back here after all four of you boys are married, I shall raise no objection, I assure you. But until that time, I really must insist.”

Julian spoke up from across the room. “I’m afraid Lizzie already knows.”

Lady Weston shot him a fiery look. “Does she? How?”

“I told her after the Penberthys left. I didn’t think it was still such a secret. Especially since Lizzie is practically one of the family.”

Lady Weston gave an unladylike snort. Seeing the males of her family gape at her in astonishment, she quickly yanked a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. “I beg your pardon.”

That evening, Henry ate an early dinner with Adam in his room. Mrs. Prowse served them before going downstairs to her own meal. Henry confided in the housekeeper that he had hoped Adam might begin taking his meals with the family but Lady Weston had refused.

Mrs. Prowse considered, then replied gently. “It’s probably for the best, sir. I don’t think he’d like it, sitting there in that big echoing place, at that long table, with everyone staring at him, and with so many forks to choose from, so many rules, so many courses and different foods. Really, he prefers the same dinner over and over again: Soup, bread, chicken or fish. . . .”

“Peas,” Adam said. “I like peas.”

Mrs. Prowse nodded. “Right, love. Peas.” To Henry, she said, “I think it would upset him, his order of things, truth be told.”

Henry sighed. “You are probably right. Still, I hate the thought of him being cooped up in here all day. Alone, except for you and me.”

“And the occasional visit from Miss Smallwood,” Mrs. Prowse added, sending Henry a telling look. “I take it Lady Weston doesn’t know about that?”

He shook his head.

The housekeeper nodded. “And a good thing too, I imagine.”



Emma strolled with Phillip through the garden the next morning after breakfast. The garden was even more colorful now in late May, with more flowers blooming almost daily it seemed. Birdsong beckoned amid the morning-fresh air, damp with dew. White mayflowers clustered shyly, while poppies tilted their bright orange bonnets, coyly waiting to be admired.

She pointed out a red bell-like flower and asked Phillip to identify it.

But he only murmured, “Hm? Yes . . . beautiful.”

How quiet and distracted he was. This wasn’t the Phillip she knew. The easygoing friend of old. Emma no longer harbored any romantic notions about Phillip, but still she hoped nothing was seriously wrong.

Taking the matter in hand, she said gently, “I can’t imagine what it must be like, to learn you have an older brother you never knew.”

Phillip turned toward her, a deep crease between his brows. “Oh. That’s right. Henry mentioned you knew.”

Emma didn’t like Phillip’s look of displeasure—or the fact that she had put it there. She added, “I haven’t told anyone. Not even my father.”

Phillip grimaced. “Lady Weston had hoped to limit the news to family. And a few trusted servants.”

Emma said quietly, “And I am neither.”

He looked at her quickly, regret wrestling with discomfort. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean . . .” He sighed. “This has all been very difficult. Very unexpected and strange. It should be a happy time, reuniting with one’s long-lost brother. And it is for Henry, in a way. But I never knew Adam. And Lady Weston and Henry have gone to war over what should be done about him, and I . . .”

“You feel trapped in the middle.”

He looked at her, relieved at her understanding. “Yes.”

“What does Sir Giles say about it?”

Phillip bleakly shook his head. “Very little. He is caught as I am. Trying to appease Lady Weston and make peace with Henry. A nearly impossible task. Mostly Father retreats to his library and drinks brandy.”

Emma thought of her own father and his former lethargic melancholy—which was lifting, thankfully, since coming to Cornwall. She wondered what it would take for Sir Giles to find his way again as well.

Emma returned to Adam’s room that afternoon. She knocked softly on his door and was surprised when it was opened not by Mrs. Prowse, but by Henry Weston.

“Oh. Hello.”

“Miss Smallwood. Come in.” He opened the door for her. “Adam is enjoying the dominoes you gave him. As you see.”

She glanced over and saw Adam at the table, head bowed in concentration. She said, “I am glad of it. I brought a little something else, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” He gestured her inside.

She slowly approached the table where Adam sat, his hands moving over the rows and columns of dominoes. He wore a different waistcoat or she might have thought he’d remained in the same position since she’d last seen him.

“Hello, Adam. You mentioned you liked biscuits. So I’ve brought you mine from tea.”

She unwrapped a small cloth bundle and set it on the edge of the table, out of the way of the dominoes. His eyes landed on the two ginger biscuits, and his hand, fluttering over the tiles, hesitated. He looked up at her in question.

Sitting there in the sunlight from the window, his eyes shone china blue, his pale skin was smooth, his features delicate—high cheekbones, straight nose, full mouth.

“For me?” he asked shyly.

“Yes.”

“Don’t you want them?”

“I don’t eat many sweets. You go on. I brought them for you.”

He reached for a biscuit and then, as if suddenly remembering something, looked back up at her—not quite directly but almost. “Thank you, Miss . . . ?”

“Miss Smallwood. Or you may call me Emma, if you like. Since I’ve been calling you Adam.”

“Emma . . . That’s my mar’s name. Emma Hobbes. Pa calls her Emma or Em or sweetheart.”

It was as many words as Emma had yet heard Adam speak all together. She noticed Adam spoke of the woman in the present tense and wondered if he understood his mar was gone for good. She hoped the mention of his adopted mother’s name would not upset him or spur another fit.

But as she watched him nibbling on one of the biscuits, he seemed perfectly at ease.

“Emma. Emma . . .” He said it with no apparent distress, not as a chant, but rather as though he were tasting each ginger-spiced syllable—“Emm-ma . . .”—and finding it delicious.

She glanced up and found Henry Weston looking at her. Their eyes met and held in a moment of mutual relief and pleasure.

Someone knocked softly on the door, and Henry tore his gaze from Miss Smallwood’s.

Mrs. Prowse entered, carrying her mending basket. “Oh, hello, Miss Smallwood. Mr. Weston.” She hesitated. “I was just coming to sit with Adam for a while.” Her uncertain gaze shifted to Miss Smallwood. “But if . . .”

“I was just leaving,” Miss Smallwood said, answering the woman’s unspoken question.

“Thank you, Mrs. Prowse.” Henry smiled reassurance at the woman. “Your timing is perfect, for I was about to leave as well.” They both bid Adam farewell, and then Henry walked Miss Smallwood to the door and opened it for her. “Where are you off to now?” he asked her, oddly reluctant to part company.

“To the schoolroom.”

He nodded and walked beside her down the passage. “And how are Julian and Rowan getting on?”

“Very well, I think.”

They walked together as far as the stairs. Down the corridor, Mr. Smallwood stepped from his room, wrestling a stack of books into one arm, freeing his hand to shut his door.

Before Henry could react, Emma said, “Excuse me,” and hurried toward her father. He really should have helped, but instead he watched her go. Despite his best efforts, he could not help but notice the subtle sway of her hips as she strode away with her long-legged stride—head high, shoulders back. What excellent posture. What a long, elegant neck.

Henry . . . he silently warned himself, such thoughts catching him unaware. He recalled the scene in Adam’s room. Of seeing his brother smile shyly up at her. His heart warmed at the memory. And the gift of dominoes—how had she guessed he would so enjoy them?

Miss Smallwood relieved her father of several books to lighten his load. He said something to her, and she smiled in return. She had good teeth—a charming smile.

Henry would like to make Emma Smallwood smile like that. He would have to make it his aim next time they were together.

But then he remembered Phillip, his confession of love for a lovely girl of humble circumstances, someone he had returned to Ebbington to see. Henry sighed and tried to swallow the bitter lump of disappointment lodging in his throat.



Later that afternoon, Emma sat in the lone chair in her room, reading her volume of Cornwall history.

A knock sounded, and she called, “Come in.”

Lizzie opened the door and poked her head in. “May I join you? I long for female company—preferably a female who doesn’t require me to go blind over needlework all the day long.”

Emma nodded and rose, offering Lizzie the chair. “You may read with me, if you like.” She gestured toward the stack of books on her side table, crowned by her teacup and the eau de cologne. She’d only recently set it there, deciding that since she was not able to wear the scent, the bottle should at least serve a decorative purpose.

Lizzie crossed the room, pulling a quarto-sized periodical from behind her back. “I feared you might be reading. So I’ve come prepared.” She held forth the latest volume of The Lady’s Magazine, or Entertaining Companion for the Fair Sex, Appropriated Solely to Their Use and Amusement.

Emma rolled her eyes but could not help sharing the impish girl’s grin. She sat on her made bed and leaned over to pick up a travel diary. “At least tuck it inside this, so I can pretend you are reading something worthwhile.”

“Don’t be a snob, Emma,” Lizzie said, in mock severity. “This very respectable periodical contains foreign news, home news, and poetical essays.”

Emma quirked one brow. “Yes, but do you read any of that?”

Lizzie shuddered. “Heavens, no. I only read it for the fashion copperplates. Oh, and the descriptions of what the royal princesses wore on the queen consort’s birthday.”

Amused, Emma lifted her own book. “I have been reading about the history of Cornwall. Twice now I’ve come upon the name John Heale of Stratton. Apparently an infamous smuggler.” Emma chuckled. “Lady Weston’s maiden name was Heale, was it not? I wonder if she is related to him.”

Lizzie snapped, “Better not let her hear you say that.”

Emma was stung by the girl’s sharp tone. She had thought Lizzie would enjoy the little joke, since she was forever taking jabs at Lady Weston. Now her conscience chastised her. She ought not to have lowered herself to common gossip.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Lizzie forced a little laugh. “All that reading will be the death of you.”

“What?”

The girl’s hard demeanor melted, and her dark eyes sparkled playfully. “Oh, Emma. You know how much I like to tease you. Your reactions are priceless, honestly. If only you could see yourself!”

How changeable Lizzie Henshaw was, Emma thought. She wasn’t sure what to think.

Voices from outside snaked in through the open casement window. Curious, Emma rose and crossed the room. Looking down, she was puzzled to see Julian in the rear courtyard talking with the red-haired Mr. Teague. What could he have to talk about with that man?

Lizzie tossed her magazine onto the chair and joined her at the window, wearing a mischievous grin. “Are we spying?”

But when she looked down, her grin fell away. She murmured, “Foolish fellow.”

Emma wasn’t positive which male she referred to, but Lizzie didn’t clarify.

Emma whispered, “I was not spying. I heard voices and simply wondered who it was.”

Abruptly, Teague glanced up. Seeing her in the window, he stopped speaking midsentence, and raised a hand to halt Julian’s reply. Julian followed Teague’s gaze as the man stared up at her with narrow, menacing eyes.

Lizzie tugged her away from the window. “Careful, Emma,” she said under her breath. “Care killed a cat.”

Shaken by Teague’s malevolent glare, Emma slowly registered Lizzie’s words. “That’s . . . from Much Ado About Nothing, I believe. Have you . . . read Shakespeare?”

Lizzie sent her a sidelong glance. “What do you think?”

Emma sat back on her bed, but Lizzie wandered idly across the room. She picked up Emma’s teacup from its place of prominence on the side table. “Why do you keep this here?”

“It was a gift from my mother,” Emma replied, then added tentatively, “Did your mother leave you anything?”

“My mother? Pfff.” She muttered under her breath, “Not unless you count him.”

“Pardon me?”

“It’s pretty, to be sure.” Lizzie set down the cup, her eye drawn to something else. For a moment her hand hovered midair above the table. Then she picked up the decorative bottle of eau de cologne sitting as unused as the cup.

The girl said, “I had one very like this. Given to me as a gift.”

Emma mused, “I suppose it was a popular scent and all the shops carried it.”

Lizzie stared at the small bottle of yellow-green liquid. Quietly, she asked, “Did Phillip give this to you?”

Emma hesitated. She did not want to lie, but nor did she want to give Lizzie the wrong impression. “Yes, but only as a parting gift. A token of friendship. Nothing more.”

“Yes,” Lizzie murmured, eyes vaguely focused. “Phillip is thoughtful that way. . . .”

Emma added, “Of course I have not worn any scent—not since your warning about Lady Weston’s nose.”

Lizzie nodded, eyes lingering on the bottle. “Yes. One must be very careful what one does under that particular nose.”





This is the time, yours is the happy hour, Improve your minds from learning’s pleasing flow’r. . . .

—John Fenn, schoolmaster, 1843