The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 19





From the schoolroom window two days later, Emma watched the activity going on in the distance along the coast. Henry Weston stood talking with Mr. Davies, the two of them consulting a large roll of paper—building plans she assumed—while several workmen unloaded lumber from a donkey cart. She wondered what they were doing. She had overheard Mr. Davies tell her father of Mr. Weston’s plans to build something on the point, but he had not mentioned the details.

Her father finished the morning lesson, and excused the boys for a few hours’ respite. Julian went off in search of Lizzie, and Rowan declared the light was just the sort he liked to paint by and would be going outside.

Feeling peckish, Emma went downstairs to the steward’s office, hoping the coffee urn and cheese biscuits might still be out for tradesmen’s morning calls.

Strolling down the passage, she drew up short at finding the room occupied. A man sat drinking tea and reading the newspaper. Emma had seen Davies outside with Henry—otherwise she would not have barged in.

“Pardon me,” she said, recognizing red-haired Mr. Teague.

He lifted his chin in acknowledgment and took a long swallow of tea.

“If you are looking for Mr. Davies,” she said, “he is outside working on something with Mr. Weston.”

“Fool’s errand, that’s what,” he said.

“Is it? I don’t know what they are doing. Building something from the looks of it.”

“Aye. Buildin’ an eyesore and a problem.”

“I am certain Mr. Weston would build neither.”

Teague shook his head. “He would indeed and congratulate himself for doing so. Youth and money don’t mix, I always say. Too much self-righteousness in the young.”

Emma blinked and tried not to frown. She wasn’t sure what the man referred to but resented the unkind remark about Henry Weston.

Mr. Teague went back to reading the paper. Not the news page, she saw, but the advertisements and notices.

Curiosity nipped at Emma. She said boldly, “We have never been properly introduced. All I know is your name—Mr. Teague. And I am Miss Smallwood. My father tutors the younger Westons here at Ebbington, and I assist him.”

“I knaw who thee bist.” His tone was not complimentary. He did not, as Emma had hoped, return the favor by explaining his connection to the family or what he was doing there now.

Hunger forgotten, Emma was suddenly eager to be anywhere but in that room, with that rude, unpleasant man. “Well, if you will excuse me,” she said, “I think I shall go and see what the men are building.”

“Trouble, that’s what they’re building. It won’t last, I can tell ’ee.”

Emma collected her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves and went back downstairs and outside. She let herself out the garden gate and strode across the grassy headland. The sun was warm, but a cool wind yanked at her bonnet strings.

Ahead of her, she saw Rowan had already set up his easel and was uncorking his paints. The wind knocked the easel over, and he scrambled to pick it up and reposition it once more. She hurried over and caught the canvas as it tumbled across the grass.

“Hello, Rowan,” she said, handing it back. “What will you paint today?”

“The men working on the bell tower, I suppose.”

“Bell tower? Out here?”

“Some sort of warning bell, I gather.”

“Oh.” Emma looked toward the workmen as they sank the first post in its foundation hole. “Well, perhaps I shall take a closer look and leave you to paint.”

He nodded, and she walked toward the point. The workmen set the second post and carried over a crossbar. Looking up from the plans in Davies’s hands, Henry jogged over and held the crossbar in place while the estate carpenter hammered it to one post, then the other.

Emma watched for several minutes as they repeated the process with the third and fourth corner posts. The crewmen paused to wipe their brows, and Henry stepped away. Seeing her, he lifted a hand in greeting and walked over to join her.

“Hello, Miss Smallwood. What brings you out on such a windy day?”

“I was curious to see what you were doing.”

“Ah. We are building a warning tower. From this height we are likely to see a ship in trouble before anyone down in the village. Sounding the alarm might give the port crews more time to mount a rescue effort.” He stepped over to take the plans from Davies and unrolled them, showing her a scaffold-like tower, railed observation deck, and bell.

“I have been campaigning for an official rescue service for the harbor for several years,” he continued. “But my efforts have come up against resistance from fishermen, villagers, and landowners alike—each for his own reasons. After the shipwreck earlier this spring, I decided I was done waiting. So for now, this is something I can do.”

Henry excused himself a moment. He called off work for the day, thanking the men and asking them to resume first thing in the morning. As the men began gathering their tools, he rejoined Emma.

“I admire your efforts,” she said. “But I must say I am surprised something like this is so important to you.”

“Then I shall tell you why—though it’s not a story I’m proud of. In fact, the memory plagues me.” He gestured for her to take a seat on one of the pathside benches. He remained standing, looking toward the sea and gathering his thoughts.

“I was home from Oxford for the Easter holidays some five years ago, and I witnessed a shipwreck from this very spot.” He pointed to teethlike rocks jutting from the sea some distance from the breakwater. “I saw a brig, her sails in tatters, strike the rocks there. I tried to shout, but no one could hear me from this height, not with the near-constant wind. So I ran down the cliff path. But by the time I got down to the harbor and managed to rouse the port crew, the ship was breaking apart.”

He winced. “It was an Irish brig, I later learned, laden with butter bound for France. As soon as the vessel struck rock and grounded, one of the lads stripped off his outer clothes and jumped overboard. Usually that’s the end of a man. Few can swim strong enough to overcome the undertow. Indeed, we lost sight of him beneath the waves and thought we’d seen the last of him. But then he popped up and swam to shore, like a duck in a pond. The rest of the ship’s company, however, remained on board.

“Seven or eight men and boys stood on deck, too afraid to jump overboard. And with good reason. The poor souls screamed for help, but no one on shore gave them the least assistance. They were too far out for any rope to reach them, and no boat could have made it out of the harbor over the high surf—even had some brawny sailor or Mr. Bray been on hand to try. Or so I told myself—as did the old fishermen and the crews on shore leave that night. That’s how we all justified and comforted our aching consciences as we stood there and watched men die.”

He shook his head, eyes far away in memory. “When a part of the ship broke off, the poor men would climb atop it, until a wave washed them off. At last the mast fell, and it was soon over, all the crew drowned. But that was not the end, no. Cargo and parts of the ship began washing up on shore. One of the unfortunate men had lashed himself to the mast and the rope had cut him in two.”

He grimaced. “No one should ever have to see what I saw that day wash up on the beach as if so much flotsam. I ducked behind an overturned fishing boat and retched, sick and ashamed. Casks of Irish butter split open all about us, mingled on the sand with . . .” His words trailed away, and he swallowed. “To this day, I cannot stomach butter.”

Emma felt bile burn her own throat.

“Sea gulls began circling and swooping down to take what they might,” Henry continued. “Then the wreckers began to appear, like sneaky crabs creeping forward on the sand, rejoicing at gold coins found in a corpse’s pocket, a silver watch, or a gold ring wrenched from cold fingers.”

Again Henry shook his head. “Agents were dispatched and were soon busy saving as much of the cargo as possible—and staving off the attacks of the wreckers. About a thousand casks of butter were gathered and locked into our local fish cellars. Mr. Bray arrived and stood guard as our acting constable. Eight stout men approached and said they came for butter, and butter they would have. They were all noted wreckers, Derrick Teague among them. A fight broke out.

“I was worried about the one lad who’d survived, for because of him the butter washed ashore was not fair game under the common law. So I grabbed his arm and half-dragged, half-carried him up to the house.” He exhaled roughly. “It was the worst night of my life.”

Emma ventured quietly, “You saved him, at least.”

“That’s all I did.” Henry’s mouth twisted. “I should have done more.”

Her heart ached for him. “But you were young,” she soothed. “Only a lad yourself.”

“No, I was nineteen. A man. Or at least, I should have been.”

“But you said yourself there was little anybody could do. To risk your life under those odds . . .”

“We all of us die, Miss Smallwood,” he interrupted. “But we don’t all of us make our lives count for something. How much better to die saving another soul than to stand safe on shore and do nothing while others perish? I promised myself then and there that the next time I was in that situation—and I knew there would be a next time, living here at a place infamous for shipwrecks—that I would not hesitate to act.”

Emma’s gaze remained glued to Henry Weston’s profile, fascinated and moved by the emotions playing over his face. “Well. You are acting now. And I for one am very impressed.”

“Miss Smallwood, impressed?” He gave her a sidelong glance, green eyes shining. “That is one for the history books.”



The next day, Henry was surprised but pleased when Miss Smallwood came out again to view the work on the warning tower. She was followed by Rowan and Julian, who had the day off from their studies because their tutor had gone with the vicar to a lecture sponsored by the Royal Geographical Society of Cornwall. Of the young people at Ebbington, only Phillip and Lizzie were not among them. And Adam, of course. How he wished Lady Weston would relent and allow his older brother a bit of freedom. Henry would not give up until he had convinced her, or at least his father, to do so.

For now, however, he would be satisfied with the progress on the tower. The risers, supports, and observation deck were finished, and the estate carpenter was busy fashioning the railings.

“Good morning, Mr. Weston,” Emma greeted him. “How goes the work?”

“Very well, thank you. I have ordered the bell from a nearby foundry, but it is not yet ready. Otherwise, we are on schedule for completion by week’s end.”

She smiled at him. “Excellent.”

Her praise lengthened his spine, and her smile did strange things to his heart.

Beside her, his half brothers squinted up at the bell tower with distaste.

“Looks like a guillotine frame to me,” Rowan said.

Julian added, “Or a hangman’s gibbet.”

So much for praise. Yet Henry had to acknowledge the justice of their comparisons—there were fundamental similarities. The structure was fairly rudimentary: a tower of wooden scaffolding, with a ladder to reach its deck ten feet from the ground.

When the bell arrived, he would mount it on the deck in a rocker stand. Henry pointed upward and explained where the bell would be positioned and how it would be rung.

Rowan asked, “Why not just run a rope to the ground?”

Henry had considered that. He explained, “I want a person standing on the observation deck to be able to sound the bell from up there as well. But perhaps I shall bore a hole and run a rope down so it might be rung from either the deck or the ground. Good idea, Rowan.”

Rowan lifted his hands in defense as though accused of wrongdoing. “Wasn’t my idea.”

“Don’t make the rope too long,” Julian said darkly. “Or you’ll hang us all.”

Henry was taken aback. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Miss Smallwood frown. He asked, “What do you mean by that?”

Julian shrugged. “You know there are some who won’t take kindly to the idea.”

“Wreckers, you mean?”

“Many of our neighbors view shipwrecked cargo as their right.”

“I realize that, but lives are more important.”

Julian sniffed. “Depends on whose life, I suppose.”

Irritation shot through Henry. He scowled at Julian. “How so? In God’s eyes all lives are equally important.”

“That’s one interpretation,” Julian said. “I just hope you don’t bring down trouble on the rest of us with that contraption.”

Henry was jolted by his brother’s words. He hoped they weren’t true. Noticing Miss Smallwood’s troubled look, he said, “If there are consequences, I hope they shall fall on me alone and not the rest of you.”

Julian slanted him a look, the sunlight glinting off his eyes turning them icy blue. “Be careful what you wish for.”

Rowan, his gaze trained on the tower, said, “You are familiar with the other name for a gallows?”

Henry frowned at this apparent change in topic. “Which name are you referring to?”

Rowan made no answer, but Miss Smallwood quietly supplied, “A derrick.”

Derrick . . . the word resonated in Henry’s mind. The given name of the area’s most infamous wrecker. Derrick Teague.

A short time later, Julian and Rowan announced their intention to make the most of their day off by jaunting into the village. They invited Emma to join them, but she politely declined. The two strolled eagerly away, leaving Emma and Henry standing in awkward silence, watching them go.

Emma was about to excuse herself and return to the house when the donkey cart rumbled up the cliff road. As it passed the boys, Rowan turned and pointed in their direction. The driver waved his thanks and steered toward them, carrying neither passenger nor visible delivery.

Henry called out, “What is it, Tommy?”

The young man pulled a letter from his pocket and waved it in the air. “A message for a Mr. or Miss Smallwood.”

As the youth reined in the donkey, Emma stepped forward. “I am Miss Smallwood.”

He handed down the note, and Emma instantly recognized the handwriting.

“It’s from Aunt Jane.”

Henry withdrew a coin from his pocket and handed it to the driver.

“Thank you,” Emma acknowledged, her eyes glued to the message as she unfolded it. “I shall repay you as soon as I retrieve my reticule.”

“No matter. I hope everything is all right.”

Emma skimmed the letter and looked up at him in astonishment. “She is at the Stratton Inn this very moment. Good heavens.”

As the donkey cart rattled away Emma read the letter again more slowly.

Hello my dears,

I have made an unplanned trip into Cornwall, to escort one of my pupils home (her mother is ailing and sent for her). As I was in the area, I thought I would attempt to see you.

I understand from your letters that unexpected guests are not always welcomed at Ebbington Manor, so I have decided it would be unwise to arrive unannounced. Therefore I shall await you here. My return coach departs at two this afternoon. If you are unable to get away, I shall understand perfectly. But if you are able, I should dearly enjoy seeing you for even a brief visit. Either way, know that I am well and missing you both.

All my love,

Jane

Henry asked, “Why did she not come here?”

“She did not wish to arrive unannounced. To presume . . .”

“Meaning you told her how you and your father were received when you arrived?”

Emma bit her lip. “I am afraid so.”

“Jane Smallwood would be very welcome, I assure you,” Henry insisted.

“Thank you.” Emma consulted her chatelaine watch and frowned. The lecture her father had gone to with the vicar was several hours away. They would not return until late that afternoon. “Her coach leaves in three hours,” Emma said. “If I wait for Father to return, I shall miss her.”

“Come.” Henry gestured. “Let’s make haste to the stables. We shall go in my curricle.”

Emma began to protest, “That is very kind of you, but—”

“No buts, Miss Smallwood. You must see your aunt. In fact, I would very much like to see her again myself. If you don’t mind, I shall stay just long enough to say hello, and then leave you ladies to visit.”

“Of course, if you like. I am certain she would be happy to see you as well.”

A short while later, Emma and Henry were on their way to Stratton in the open, two-wheeled curricle pulled by a pair of sleek roans. Ten or fifteen minutes in the smart, lightweight carriage brought them to their destination.

At the inn at the top of the High Street, Henry gestured for a hostler to take the reins and hopped down to give Emma a hand.

Behind them, the door to the inn opened, and Jane Smallwood stepped outside, apparently having seen them arrive. “Emma!” She beamed and walked forward, arms outstretched.

Emma entered her embrace and felt tears prick her eyes. She had not realized just how much she missed her aunt.

Aware of Henry behind her, Emma turned. “And you remember Mr. Weston.”

“Of course I do.” Jane Smallwood smiled. “How good to see you again, Henry.”

“And you, Miss Smallwood. You are looking well, I must say. How are you?”

“Very well, I thank you. Better now that I am with my dear niece again. Thank you for bringing her.”

“My pleasure. I am only sorry Mr. Smallwood has gone out for the day. Can you not stay longer? You would be most welcome at Ebbington Manor. . . .”

“Thank you, no. I’ve left the other girls in the care of my maid and Mrs. Malloy—you remember Mrs. Malloy?”

“Yes, a very capable woman.”

“Indeed. But she has her duties as cook-housekeeper for my brother’s tenants, so I cannot ask her to stay on longer. But thank you just the same.”

“Very well. I will leave you two to visit.” Henry turned to Emma. “And, Miss Smallwood, do feel free to tell your aunt about Adam. I trust her discretion.” He drew himself up. “I shall return at two o’clock to see you off and collect Emma.”

Jane smiled once more. “That is very kind of you, Henry. Thank you.”

Her eyes shone with speculation as she watched the tall young man walk away.

“Well. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Yes,” Emma said. “Mr. Weston is full of surprises.”

“Is he?” One of Jane’s thin brows rose high.

Emma hurried to explain that she was merely referring to all of Henry’s endeavors, describing his warning tower and his work with the village council.

“Very impressive, yes,” her aunt agreed, opening the inn door for Emma. “The two of you are getting on better than you predicted, I take it?”

“Yes, I suppose we are.”

The two ladies entered the inn and took seats at the table where Jane had left her carpetbag and cloak. Jane ordered refreshments from the innkeeper, then asked Emma, “And who is this Adam Henry mentioned?”

Emma leaned close and confided all she knew about Adam Weston. She ended by saying, “I thought of writing to tell you about him but was not sure I should, in case the letter might be misdirected. I haven’t even told Father.”

Jane nodded. “I am surprised Lady Weston thinks they shall be able to keep him a secret after everything that has happened.”

“It is unfortunate she wishes to do so.”

“Yes. What does Phillip say about it?”

Emma had mentioned in one of her letters that Phillip had returned from Oxford. She replied, “He says he feels trapped between what Henry wants for Adam and what Lady Weston wants.”

Jane’s eyes were distant in thought. “I can imagine. How strange to be reunited with a brother he never knew.”

The two Miss Smallwoods went on to speak of other topics. Emma shared details about her father’s marked improvement in spirits, and Jane, in turn, shared news from Longstaple—their tenant, Mrs. Welborn, had asked her unmarried sister to stay with her, to help with the children. And Mr. Gilcrest had sold the forge for a larger one in Plymouth.

“I am sorry to hear it,” Emma said, thinking that with his departure went any hope of his cousin and Jane’s former admirer, Mr. Farley, returning to Longstaple. How unfortunate.

The innkeeper brought tea and a light meal, and their discussion moved on to other things. The time flew quickly, and all too soon, Jane’s coach was called.

Henry appeared as promised and carried Jane’s bag out to the coach. “I was telling Emma she ought to ask you to Ebbington Manor whenever you might be at liberty to visit. Please do consider yourself invited, Miss Smallwood. You would be most welcome.”

“Thank you, Henry. I shall consider it.”

Jane hugged Emma and climbed inside the coach. The few outside passengers took their seats, the guard climbed up on the rear and blew his long horn, and the horses pulled in tandem. As the coach moved down the lane, Jane waved from the window and Emma waved back, tears blurring her vision.

She stared after the coach until it disappeared, aware of the man waiting patiently beside her but unwilling to turn until she had blinked away all her tears.

Finally, Emma sighed and turned, forcing a smile. “Shall we go?”

Henry laid his palm before her, and she placed her hand in his. And unless she was mistaken, he held her hand several moments longer than absolutely necessary to simply help her into his curricle.





When a wreck took place—it might be within a stone’s throw of the land—in many cases the sailors perished beneath the very eyes of those on shore who could do no other than stand as helpless witnesses of the tragedy.

—A.K. Hamilton Jenkin, editor, An Account of Wrecks