The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 18





Emma awoke the next morning with a lingering feeling of contentment. She thought of the previous day and felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She had found interacting with Adam quite satisfying. And if she were honest, she had also enjoyed her time with Henry Weston, and his warm looks of approval.

She rose from bed and stretched her arms above her, feeling her chest rise, her spine lengthen, her muscles ease.

“Ahh . . .” she murmured with pleasure.

Then she saw it and frowned. Something had been slid under her door again—a piece of paper, quarto sized and lightly lined, but not folded as a letter this time. Emma moved quickly from full extension to crouch and felt something wrench in her neck. But when she picked up the paper she forgot about her momentary discomfort. For the piece of paper was the missing journal page.

Recognizing her own handwriting, she read a few lines to confirm what it was:

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.

Emma cringed anew at the thought of anyone else reading her foolish fancies.

Then she noticed color showing through the paper from its other side. That was odd. She had written only in blue gall ink. She turned it over and froze.

There on the back, over the lines she had written, someone had drawn a picture. In bold black ink and red paint. A chess piece, a white queen, with her head . . . severed. Blood flowing from her jagged neck.

Emma’s stomach turned. Who had drawn this? Was it a threat?

The door opened and Emma gasped, whirling to face it.

Morva paused in the threshold, gaping at her. “Are you all right, miss?”

“Yes, I’m fine. You startled me—that’s all.”

Morva look at the painting, eyes wide.

Following the direction of the maid’s gaze, Emma quickly set the page on her side table, drawing side down. “Let me hurry and wash,” she said. “I am a bit behind schedule this morning.”

After the maid had helped her dress and taken her leave, Emma picked up the drawing once more. This time she tried to study it objectively, without the personal offense she had initially felt.

At first glance, it had appeared haphazardly drawn. Bold, brash strokes of quill and paintbrush. The work of a nasty boy. But on closer inspection, the finer lines caught her attention. The detail of the drawing clearly depicted a chess piece, complete with carved feet flat on the rounded base. The static posture showed it was not a living person, but an object. Or was she reading too much into it? Yes, skill was involved, she decided, even though the crude spurt of blood marred its lines, giving it an initial amateurish appearance. Rowan was an artist who both drew and painted. . . . Might he have done this?

But she could not ignore the fact that the drawn figure was a chess piece and she had recently given Adam Weston a chess set. And had she not wondered if Adam had been the person sneaking into her room? But why would he draw such a horrid thing? Would he repay her gift in such a crude manner?

And then something else struck her. She looked more closely at the queen itself—the detail of the robe, the facial features and crown on the disembodied head. Unless she was mistaken, this looked very much like the white queen from her chess set, the piece that had been missing for years. So how in the world could someone draw it so exactly? For the set had been somewhat unique in that the white king and queen looked distinctly different from their dark counterparts. The white had facial features from the Orient in contrast to the African styling of the dark pieces. She supposed someone who saw the rest of the set could carry over the style to the missing piece. But so accurately? True, she was relying on memory, but there was no denying how familiar the drawn piece looked. She recognized it.

That brought Henry Weston to mind. For she had always suspected he had taken the white queen as some sort of revenge after she had beaten him that last time. But even if she was right, that piece would be long gone—he probably would not have kept it. Nor would he have been able to recall it in such detail. But who else could have drawn it? Rowan, Julian, and Adam had never even seen the original piece. Phillip either. It was already missing when he’d come to Longstaple.

Looking at the beheaded queen, a chill prickled over her. Did Henry Weston still carry such a grudge against her? Had it intensified over the years? She could hardly believe it, especially since she had noticed a lessening of old tensions, and since Adam, the beginnings of a tentative friendship. But perhaps she had misread the situation. Fooled herself.

Emma shook her head. Her mind could not wrap itself around the idea that, for all his past mischief and hot temper, Henry Weston would draw such a thing—even if he somehow still resented her. She must be mistaken at how exact a copy the queen was. It likely had been drawn by someone who had never seen the original. It still could be Adam, she told herself. Although he did not seem capable of such crude symbolism or cruelty, perhaps something more dangerous hid beneath his innocent, childlike appearance.

She wondered what she should do. Should she show the drawing to anyone? She didn’t want to show her father. He might think they had offended someone, or even worry for her safety. Who else could she show—Lizzie? Phillip? Dare she show Henry?

Emma quailed at the thought of Lady Weston’s face puckering in disapproval and accusing Emma of having an overactive imagination. Or seeing her rise up in maternal defense of her “delicate” boys. Nor did Emma want to cast blame on Adam, whom she wanted, in her heart of hearts, to believe as innocent as he appeared.

Emma thought back to all the little pranks boys had pulled on her over the years at the Smallwood Academy. She had learned early on that the best course was usually to ignore such behavior. Deprive the boys of the girlish shriek or cry of feminine outrage they sought, and the pranks soon lost their appeal. She would try the same approach now.

Emma tucked the drawing back into her journal and finished getting ready for the day.

Going downstairs a few minutes later, Emma ate a quick breakfast and was about to head up to the schoolroom when Lizzie caught her on the stairs.

“Oh good. I found you. Please walk into the village with me. I simply must show you a new bonnet I have my heart set upon—say you will.”

“I cannot go now, Lizzie. I am needed in the schoolroom.” Seeing the girl’s crestfallen expression, Emma added, “Perhaps later.”

Lizzie’s eyes brightened. “When?”

“I don’t know. Ten or eleven?”

“Very well, I shall wait.” Lizzie pouted. “But do hurry. Why your father can’t tutor without you, I shall never know.”

Emma went up to the schoolroom and there assisted her father as he attempted to explain the significance of Copernicus’s theory, which changed the face of astronomy forever.

Then they moved on to the explorer James Cook, also something of an astronomer. At her father’s invitation, Emma took over at that point, outlining the explorer’s significant contributions and his major expeditions, tracing his voyages on the schoolroom globe. The man had seen so much of the world, sailing from England to South America, Africa, Antarctica, and more. What a life. Though, Emma acknowledged, it would be negligent not to include the cost of that adventurous life—Cook’s death at the hands of Sandwich Islands natives in 1779.

After the lesson, Emma left the schoolroom to meet Lizzie. On her way downstairs, Emma detoured toward her own room for her cape, bonnet, and gloves. She also thought she would tuck her journal into the dressing chest, out of sight. No use in inviting any further “borrowings.”

Emma opened her bedchamber door and stepped inside. She drew up short at the sight of Lizzie sitting on the edge of her bed, Emma’s journal open in her hands.

“What are you doing?”

Lizzie snapped the journal shut. “I’m sorry, but I was bored. I’ve been waiting here an age.”

“Has no one ever told you it isn’t right to snoop about in other people’s things?”

Lizzie shrugged. “Only Henry.” She extracted the torn-out page with the horrid drawing and waved it like a flag. “What is this?”

Emma walked forward and snatched it from her, then took the journal from the girl’s other hand. “None of your business—that’s what it is.”

“Looks ghastly. I confess Morva mentioned it to me and I had to see it for myself. Will you show Lady Weston?”

“I had not planned to, no.”

“But this is your missing journal page, is it not, returned to you?”

“As you see.”

Lizzie’s dimples appeared. “I found what you wrote about Henry and Phillip rather surprising. Most interesting, really.”

Emma felt her cheeks heat in a combined flush of indignation and mortification. “You ought not to have read it at all. How would you feel if I read your private journal?”

“I don’t keep one,” Lizzie replied. “I’m not fool enough to record my secrets for anyone to find and hold against me.”

What secrets did Lizzie have? Emma wondered. Beyond the one she had already confided about the Weston she loved, and the younger Weston with whom she had an understanding?

“Do you know who drew it?” Emma asked.

Lizzie looked up at her sharply. “Don’t you?”

“No. Though I have an idea.” To herself, Emma added, Several ideas, actually.

“It seems obvious to me,” Lizzie said.

Emma blinked. “Does it? Whom do you mean?”

Lizzie shook her head. “Oh no. You won’t hear me accusing anyone. Not in this house. I already told you I’m no fool.”

Emma was tempted to refuse to accompany Lizzie into the village after the girl’s breach of privacy. But in the end, she went. She went because she had said she would. She went because she found Lizzie Henshaw intriguing: a puzzle she had yet to figure out. Emma hoped she did not go merely because she was desperate for companionship. But whatever the case, Emma found herself walking beside Lizzie down the steep path into Ebford, listening to the girl’s incessant chatter, wondering how Lizzie felt about the things she had read in her journal. And worse, if she would repeat them to anyone.

Reaching the small ladies’ shop in the High Street, Lizzie pointed out the cherished object in the bow window: a small cap-like bonnet trimmed with ribbon, lace, and a wreath of roses. Emma conjured apropos admiration for the longed-for bonnet and joined Lizzie in bemoaning its extravagant cost. Then they indulged in another hour of looking in windows and poking around shops before heading back.

Leaving Ebford, the steep path passed along the back of the cottages bordering the harbor. There Mr. Teague stood in the weedy garden of a white, thatched-roof cottage, set apart from the others and the nicest in the row.

He was cleaning fish on a stump but paused in his task to hail them. “’Ark, what brings such fine ladies down to our humble village?” His tone was mocking, derisive.

Lizzie glanced at Emma, then lifted her chin. “A bit of shopping, that’s all.”

“Shopping for more newspapers, miss?” He smirked at Emma. “I hear thee be fond of the news. And other things what don’t concern ’ee.”

Trepidation needled Emma. She had no idea what to say.

“We were looking at hats, if you must know,” Lizzie blurted, taking Emma’s arm. “Come along,” Lizzie hissed, and urged her more quickly up the path.

Emma glanced back over her shoulder at the man.

Boldly meeting her gaze, he chopped off the head of the fish.



Later that evening, when Emma passed the drawing room on her way to the steward’s office, Lady Weston beckoned her inside.

Sighing, Emma pasted on a smile and entered. She glimpsed Lizzie on the settee with a magazine in her hands. Both ladies, she noticed, were already dressed for dinner.

At the center of the room, Lady Weston sat on a high-backed armchair, as regal as any queen. “Miss Smallwood, Lizzie tells me your missing journal page has been returned to you.”

Caught off guard, Emma glanced at Lizzie, who ducked her head, feigning interest in an article.

“Yes,” Emma acknowledged.

“I should like to see it, if you please,” Lady Weston said, holding out her hand as though Emma carried the page on her person.

Phillip had entered the room unnoticed and here interrupted. “Why should you want to see Miss Smallwood’s journal, Mother?” He chuckled nervously. “Young ladies intend such things to be private, I believe. Not read aloud in the drawing room.”

Lady Weston’s lip curled. “I assure you, Phillip, I have no interest in Miss Smallwood’s private thoughts, whatever they may be. However, Lizzie tells me the page was returned with a drawing upon it. A ‘not very nice drawing,’ she said. And she thought I should see it.”

Phillip looked at Emma, eyes wide in concern. “Is this true, Emma?”

“Yes. But I had no intention of showing it to anybody.”

He came forward. “But we must know if someone under our very roof is damaging your personal property.”

Emma squirmed. She did not want Phillip Weston, and certainly not Lady Weston, seeing that particular journal page. She said, “It was nothing but a harmless prank, I am sure.”

“Was it Henry, do you suppose?” Phillip asked.

It was not surprising he might assume so, since Phillip knew about Henry’s more notorious pranks at the Smallwood Academy.

“I don’t think so, no. I am not accusing anyone.”

“Show me the drawing, Miss Smallwood.” Lady Weston held out her hand once more. “I know everyone in this house quite well and will no doubt be able to identify whoever drew it.”

Perhaps noticing Emma’s discomfiture, Phillip asked gingerly, “The drawing is not of you in a . . . shall we say, embarrassing state. Is that why you don’t wish us to see it?”

Lady Weston blanched. “Good heavens, Phillip. What a thought!”

“No,” Emma rushed to say, cheeks heated. “Nothing like that. More violent than embarrassing.”

“Violent?” Phillip repeated, brows furrowing. “Dash it, Emma. Now you really have me alarmed. No one’s threatened you, I hope.”

“No. I . . . I’m quite certain nothing was meant by it.”

“Gave me the shivers,” Lizzie said, half under her breath but loud enough for everyone to hear.

Phillip frowned at the girl. “And what were you doing looking at Miss Smallwood’s journal? I doubt she showed it to you.”

Lizzie ducked her head, but Emma saw the dark flush rising. It was the first time she had seen the girl look repentant for anything.

Phillip looked at her earnestly. “Emma, I’m afraid I must ask to see this drawing. I promise not to look at the words you wrote, if I can avoid it. Otherwise I shall worry about you. Please?”

Emma huffed. “Oh, very well. I shall bring it down.”

A few minutes later, Emma left her bedchamber with the folded journal page and started back down the corridor, hands damp. She knew Phillip would be true to his word about not reading the words beneath, at least not intentionally. But she had no reason to expect the same discretion of Lady Weston.

She met Henry coming from the north wing. “Miss Smallwood, Adam is asking for you.” He said it with a touch of wonder in his voice. “Will you come and say hello?”

“Oh. . . . I would like to see him, but I am afraid I can’t at the moment. I am . . . requested in the drawing room.”

His head reared back. “Requested? By whom?”

“Lady Weston. And Phillip.”

He studied her face. “Is everything all right? You don’t look happy about it. In fact, you appear to be on your way to your own execution.”

She sighed. “I . . . didn’t plan to tell anyone about this drawing. But Lizzie saw my missing journal page and told Lady Weston. And now I’ve been asked to produce it.”

He frowned, trying to follow her convoluted explanation. “You found the page?”

“It was returned to me. Under my door.”

His eyes narrowed, measuring her words. “I don’t understand. Why should Lady Weston want to see it? Or Phillip for that matter?”

Again Emma sighed. Unfolding the paper, she said, “Please don’t read the words themselves.” She held up the page, drawing side facing him.

He stared at it, brows drawn low. “Who in the blazes did this?” He snatched the paper from her and brought it closer to his face.

Not him, apparently—unless he was a better actor than she gave him credit for. The longer he stared at the page, the more Emma fidgeted. “I asked you not to read it. Please give it back. It’s not meant for anyone else to see.”

“A bit late for that, is it not?” he said, scowling over the drawing.

Tentatively, she reached for a corner of the page and tugged it from his grasp. “Excuse me. They are waiting for me in the drawing room.”

It was his turn to sigh. “I shall go with you.”

She trotted lightly down the stairs, and he followed behind her. When they reached the drawing room, he opened the door for her and gestured her inside, closing the door behind them.

Phillip looked up in surprise. “Henry, what brings you down early?”

“I happened upon Miss Smallwood in the corridor. She told me what was happening.”

“Have you seen this supposed drawing?” Lady Weston asked.

“Only a moment ago.”

Again Lady Weston extended her hand. But this time, Emma held on to the page firmly. “I shall show it to you, my lady.” She stepped forward and held it for Lady Weston to see, but not too close.

Phillip came and stood at his stepmother’s shoulder to view the drawing as well. “What on earth . . . ?” he muttered.

“Pish.” Lady Weston huffed. “Much ado about nothing. It isn’t even a drawing of you or even a person at all. It is simply a chess piece. A challenge to a rematch, I’d wager.”

Henry’s jaw clenched. “A chess piece doesn’t bleed, madam.”

Lady Weston frowned at him. “Surely you don’t read a threat into this amateurish drawing?”

“It is not an invitation to a tea party,” he retorted.

Lady Weston looked from Henry to Emma, dark eyes simmering. “You are not accusing one of the boys, I hope.”

Emma said, “I am accusing no one, my lady.”

“I should hope not. Besides, Julian and Rowan both draw far better than that. I should know if one of them had drawn it—I would recognize their work.”

She looked up, lips parting as a new thought struck her. “Of course. It is suddenly quite obvious who drew this. Who in this house is capable of such a childish act, such unskilled scrawling?” She sent Emma a guarded glance, then continued in vague terms. “Nothing like this ever occurred here before . . . a certain someone arrived. Missing journals, nighttime wanderings, beastly sketches. I told you, Henry, we ought to have kept the door locked, but you would not listen to me.”

“He did not draw this,” Henry insisted, nostrils flaring.

“How do you know?” Lady Weston challenged.

“It is not in his nature.”

“Excuse me, Henry,” Lady Weston said, “but you have known this person for little more than a month. You can hardly call yourself an expert on what he is and is not capable of. You cannot know he did not draw it unless you drew it yourself.”

“Did you?” Phillip asked quietly.

Henry huffed. “No, I did not.”

Lady Weston went on before Henry could say more. “For all we know he is capable of far more besides. Mark my words, if you do not begin keeping him to his room, we shall all live to regret it. Miss Smallwood, perhaps, most of all.”

Henry gaped at her. “Miss Smallwood? Are you threatening Miss Smallwood?”

“Am I?” Lady Weston touched the lace at her throat. “Good heavens, what a notion. I am not the one sneaking into Miss Smallwood’s bedchamber at night, nor leaving her frightening pictures.”

Emma wondered who had told her someone had sneaked into her room at night. She said, “I don’t think Adam means me any harm.”

“Adam? Since when is the tutor’s daughter on a first-name basis with him?” Lady Weston’s voice could have curdled cream. “Was I not clear in my instructions as to how and why he was to be kept apart?”

Oh dear. Now she had done it. Exposed the visits to the off-limits north wing. Exposed Henry’s part in it as well.

“I have only met him a few times, my lady,” Emma hurried to say. “I meant no harm, only heard him calling out and went to see what the matter was.”

Lady Weston studied her, expression skeptical. “And based on these brief meetings, you also claim to be an expert on what he is and is not capable of? Even though Sir Giles felt he had no choice but to send him away for the other boys’ safety? But you have decided he is incapable of harm? Are you a soothsayer, Miss Smallwood? Are you God?”

Emma’s stomach twisted. “Of course not. I never meant to imply—”

At that moment they were interrupted by Sir Giles, Julian, and Rowan coming in together, laughing at some tale of mishap from the day’s shoot.

“I say,” Rowan proclaimed, surveying the assembled company. “What a lot of gloomy faces.”

“What is it, my dear?” Sir Giles asked his wife.

Lady Weston pointed at the page hanging limp in Emma’s hand. “Someone has left a rude drawing on a page from Miss Smallwood’s journal.”

“Oh?” Sir Giles turned to look at Emma, and she obliged him by lifting the page before him.

“I haven’t got my reading spectacles, but badly done, whichever of you did it.”

“Don’t blame Rowan,” Julian said quickly. “Just because he’s the artist among us and keeps paints in his room. Why, I sneaked a peek into ol’ Adam’s room and he’s got drawings of dead soldiers and other gruesome things in there. I imagine it was him who did it.”

Significant looks were exchanged around the room.

Henry appeared as though he would launch into another defense of his elder brother, but the footman came in and announced dinner.

Eager for escape and realizing she was late for her own meal, Emma excused herself and hurried to join her father and Mr. Davies, taking the journal page, folded safely away in her pocket.

At dinner, John Smallwood asked Mr. Davies about his boyhood education.

Mr. Davies wiped his mouth with a table napkin before answering. “Piecemeal, it was. My parents put me at a school kept by a poor blind woman, and then with a man ninety years of age if he was a day. Don’t laugh—it’s true.”

“A blind woman? But how could she judge your handwriting, your compositions?”

The steward’s eyes lit with memory. “Lots of reciting aloud, as I recall. And she kept a scullery maid who could read—she’d check our work now and again, read it back to the mistress, and woe to any pupil caught reciting what he hadn’t written down proper.”

Mr. Davies noticed her father’s skeptical look. “You shake your head. But she was twice the teacher the old man was. And far kinder.”

Emma finished eating and then excused herself as the men continued their good-natured sparring about education in its various forms.

Crossing the hall, she saw Henry starting up the stairs. She called to him and he paused, waiting for her to catch up.

As they climbed the stairs together, she said confidentially, “Do you think Lady Weston has a point? That we don’t really know what Adam is capable of? For all his sweet temper, his behavior can be a bit, well, unpredictable.”

Henry made no answer, apparently lost in thought.

Emma continued, “I don’t want to believe it either. But he does have small hands, like the handprint left on my mirror. And he admitted he lost a soldier like the one I found. At the very least, it seems likely he has entered my room on two different occasions. If not more.”

“That I might believe of him. It was his old room, after all.”

“Was it? Goodness. I had no idea.”

“I wonder if he remembers,” Henry murmured.

“I imagine he does—that must explain it. At least why he may have wandered in.”

“Perhaps,” Henry replied. “Though someone has taken things from my room as well.”

At the landing, she turned to him in concern. “Really? What?”

He hesitated, appearing almost sheepish. “A small bottle of my mother’s perfume.”

She stared at him. “Perfume?”

He defended, “I have very little of hers. To remember her by.”

She rushed to say, “I was not mocking you. I have kept a few things of my mother’s as well. I was only remembering the perfume I smelled in my room after one of those nighttime visits.”

“Yes, I have thought of that too,” he said as they continued up the stairs. “I didn’t see it in Adam’s room. But I admit I have not asked him about it. Nor anyone else for that matter.”

“I wonder if it was Adam playing the pianoforte at night. . . .” Emma mused. “Lady Weston insists it must have been Julian, but he seems less certain.”

“Was the playing good?”

“Very.”

“Have you seen any evidence of musical ability in Adam?”

She thought. “No . . .”

“And hitting one key repeatedly is hardly a promising indicator.”

“True,” she allowed, recalling Henry’s version of the scene. “But we do know he likes to draw . . . violent . . . things.”

His brow puckered. “Yes.”

Emma continued, “But the queen in the drawing looks exactly like the one missing from my set. And no one here could have seen it. Except . . .”

“Except me.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, but—”

“Don’t be. I am the one who is sorry. I did take it. I’ve had it all these years. In the same box of mementoes as my mother’s perfume. Unfortunately both went missing about a week ago.”

Emma was stunned by his confession. She also realized it meant anyone might have drawn the queen. Timidly, she asked, “Why did you take it?”

“To vex you. It was wrong of me, I know. I hope you will forgive me.”

“Very well.”

He bowed his head, then glanced up at her from beneath a fall of dark hair. “Did you really think I might have drawn that picture?”

Emma swallowed a self-conscious lump in her throat, then lifted her chin. “I own the notion did cross my mind. But can you blame me? After all, you knew what the piece looked like and you gave me prodigious cause to suspect you in the past.”

He inhaled deeply. “I suppose you are right. But that was a long time ago. I have no interest in tricking you now. Nor in frightening you, nor any other dishonorable motive, I assure you.”

The warm tenor of his voice did odd things to Emma’s stomach. She blinked, unable to meet his gaze.

“Emma, look at me.”

She forced herself to meet his remarkable green eyes and saw the sincerity burning there.

He said, “You have my word, Emma. I did not do this.”

He had called her Emma. She liked the sound of her name on his lips. Nodding, she said, “I believe you.”

“Good.” He exhaled. “Now let’s figure out who did.”

Henry began by continuing on to Adam’s room alone. But instead of the casual visit he’d intended, he decided he needed to ask Adam about the missing things and . . . possibly the other wrongdoing as well. He hated to accuse Adam of anything. But it could not be helped.

Henry knew he should have admitted to Miss Smallwood earlier that he had taken the chess piece. But he had put it off. She had just begun to trust him, and her faith in him was still a shaky, newborn thing. He had hoped he might figure out who was to blame before handing her the perfect reason to blame him. Ah well, it was a relief to have the confession over and done.

When Henry opened Adam’s door, his brother looked up at him from a line of soldiers.

“Adam. I am missing something and I wonder if you can help me find it. Have you seen a slender green bottle about so big?”

Adam ducked his head, and his telltale look of guilt made Henry’s stomach fall. Adam rose and minced across the room to a small valise on his side table—the belongings he’d come with—and opened the lid.

His back to Henry, Adam asked, “It was hers? Our mother’s?”

“Our mother’s . . .” A shaft of pain and satisfaction pierced Henry to hear another human being say those words.

“Yes.”

Adam turned, the vial of perfume clutched in both hands. “Smells like her.”

“I know.”

Adam handed it back. “Sorry.”

Henry wanted to quickly tell Adam all was forgiven and to think no more about it, but he bit his tongue, determined to learn all. If Adam had taken one thing, might he have taken the other? Adam did, after all, possess the rest of the chess set. And if he was capable of taking the perfume—petty theft though it was—what else might he be capable of?

“Thank you,” Henry said. “Phillip wishes to see it. But then I shall return it to you. All right?”

Adam nodded.

Henry sighed. “I hate to ask, Adam, but did you also happen to take a chess piece from my room? The white queen that matches the chess set Miss Smallwood lent you?”

Adam looked up at him, blue eyes wide. “That piece is lost, Emma says.”

“Yes, well . . .” What a hypocrite he was, accusing Adam of anything! “I meant to return it to her . . .” Seven years late. “But it seems to have gone missing from my room. You haven’t seen it?”

Adam shook his head. So immediately, so guilelessly, that Henry wanted to believe him.

He glanced at the drawings pinned to the wall and stacked neatly on the table. He paged through several. It was difficult to tell if they were of the same style as the decapitated queen.

He forced himself to ask, “Just one more thing, Adam. I know you are fond of drawing. Did you happen to, um . . . give . . . one of your drawings to Miss Smallwood?”

Adam’s brow puckered in confusion. “Does Emma want one?”

“No. That is . . . Never mind.”

Henry thanked Adam again, then excused himself to return to his own room.





The Cornish Peninsula . . . that old death trap of sailing vessels, with its fringe of black cliffs and surge-swept reefs on which innumerable seamen have met their end.

—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle