The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 20





The next day, a fine June morning, Emma decided to join her father for his early walk along the coast and tell him all about her visit with Aunt Jane. When she went downstairs, however, Mr. Davies informed her she had just missed her father, but if she hurried, she might yet catch him. Thanking the steward, Emma hurried out into the passage and nearly ran into Henry Weston in riding clothes.

“Good morning, Miss Smallwood,” he said, removing his hat. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“I was hoping to catch my father and join him for his walk.”

Henry opened the door for her. “I shall walk with you as far as the stables.”

As they crunched across the gravel path, Mr. Weston turned his head to look over the garden wall toward the coast. He stopped in his tracks.

Emma turned, following his gaze. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Henry pointed to the horizon. A horizon no longer broken by a wooden tower.

His jaw clenched. “Pardon me.” He turned and strode out the garden gate and jogged across the headland. Emma hitched up her skirt and ran after him.

Winded, sides aching, she caught up with him as he neared the tower. Or what was left of it.

Splintered posts and planks lay haphazardly on the ground.

Surveying the damage, Emma panted to catch her breath. “Did the wind knock it over?”

Henry kicked at a fallen post. “See this? Marks from a saw. No wind did that. Unless it was one of your nefarious wind gods.”

Emma shivered. “Why would anyone do such a thing? Simple vandalism, or . . . ?”

Henry shook his head, expression hard. “No. Other motives were at work here.”

“What motives?”

“Greedy wreckers, I’d wager.” He yanked off his hat and ran an agitated hand through his hair. “You heard what Julian and Rowan said yesterday.”

Heavy dismay filled her at the loss of all his work and plans. “Yes, but I still can’t believe anyone would truly object to saving lives.”

“Remember that cargo from wrecks is often considered free for the taking when there are no survivors. So any effort to save life is viewed by some as depriving the poor of what is regarded as God’s grace to them.”

“Can people really be so heartless, poor or not?”

He picked up a severed chunk of wood and hurled it off the cliff. “Apparently.”

Taking in the stern set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes, she asked tentatively, “What will you do?”

Henry Weston inhaled through flared nostrils, clearly trying to master his anger. “I shall report this to our constable, Mr. Bray. Though I doubt there is anything he can do. Then I will rebuild.”

News spread quickly across the estate. Members of his family and clusters of servants and tenants ventured out to see the damage, going away with somber faces, whispered warnings, and “Did I not tell you this would happen?”

Henry had sent a groom with a message for Mr. Bray. The grey-haired constable rode his horse across the headland an hour later. Reaching the point, he dismounted and grasped Henry’s hand. He surveyed the scene, shook his head, and said he would do what he could, though he offered little hope of the perpetrators being identified or brought to justice.

When the constable turned to remount his horse, Miss Smallwood walked over and stood beside Henry.

He glanced down at her, self-conscious to have her witness the failure of his project he’d been so proud of the day before. He’d not thought to post guard. He had truly believed Julian and Rowan had exaggerated the risk. He looked away from her concerned, gentle eyes. Instead he watched Mr. Bray ride away toward the cliff path. He nodded in the man’s direction. “There goes the bravest person I know.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I told you that most people believe it’s too dangerous to enter the breaking sea to try to rescue sailors. But Mr. Bray has done so numerous times.”

Together Henry and Miss Smallwood watched the man as he disappeared down the path. There was nothing about the man’s average size or grey head that made him an obvious candidate for such feats of bravery.

She asked, “What did he say about the tower?”

Henry exhaled. “He will make inquiries. But even if he learns who did it, it will be difficult to prove, and more difficult to find a jury to convict those responsible.”

Miss Smallwood opened her mouth, closed it, and then said, “How well do you know Mr. Teague?”

He turned to look at her. “By reputation mostly. Why?”

“I met him in Mr. Davies’s office when you were building the tower. He predicted it would not last long.”

Henry tucked this away for later consideration. He said judiciously, “An accurate prediction doesn’t make him guilty. Julian and Rowan said basically the same thing to me, as did Lady Weston. We all knew it would not be a popular project.”

She nodded. “Does this alter your plans to rebuild?”

He shook his head. “We shall reconstruct the original tower for the time being. But I think I shall also hire a stonemason to design and build a tower as sturdy as the Chapel of the Rock. Let’s see the greedy curs knock that down.”

The two of them stood in silence for several minutes. Above them seabirds floated in twos and threes above the cliff tops, and the sun shone cheerfully, at odds with the dismal scene. Behind them the other onlookers lost interest and returned to the house.

Henry inhaled. “May I tell you my favorite shipwreck story?”

She looked up at him. “Of course.”

Thinking of his last gruesome story, he said, “Don’t worry, this one has a mostly happy ending. And a moral.”

“A moral?” she asked in surprise. “Is it a made-up story, then, like one of Aesop’s fables?”

“No. It is a true story. Told to me by Mr. Bray himself.”

“Go on.”

He nodded and gathered his thoughts. “A ship from America, laden with salt fish and oil, wrecked right there off the Chapel of the Rock.” He lifted his chin toward the distant landmark below.

“At the moment the ship struck, the captain and his wife were at prayer in the cabin. One of the sailors saw them and asked, ‘Is this a time for you to pray? You had better save your lives.’ And he swore at them bitterly.”

“Soon the bottom of the ship parted. The cabin drove farther in on the rocks, and the masts fell toward the chapel, so that the captain, his lady, and many sailors were able to crawl across the masts and onto shore. Most everyone was saved—except for the bitter sailor who’d rebuked the captain for praying. He was drowned, and a stout lad also.”

Emma nodded. “Yes, I can see how a praying man like yourself might like that story.”

Hearing her defensive tone, he looked at her. “It is a true story.” Slowly, her averted face and rigid posture registered in his mind, and he felt his brows rise in question. “Do you not pray, Miss Smallwood?”

She avoided his gaze. “No.”

“God is speaking to you every day,” he said softly. “You might return the favor.”

She raised her chin. “I don’t hear Him.”

“Do you listen?”

She looked at him, clearly offended, then turned away again. “I used to pray, until I found God was not listening, at least not to my prayers.”

Henry heard the inner voice of caution but barreled ahead. “He was listening. But He doesn’t always answer the way we would like Him to.”

She turned to him, eyes flashing. “And what about that stout lad who drowned? Did he swear at the captain for praying too? Is that why he died?”

Henry shook his head sadly. “Probably not.”

“Then why did he die?” she challenged. “No doubt he had a mother somewhere, praying for him. Or a sister.”

Henry saw her chin quiver and realized she was thinking of her own mother. A sheen of tears brightened her eyes, but she fiercely blinked them away, clearly determined not to cry in front of him.

“It’s a fallen world,” he said gently. “Sometimes bad things just happen.”

“Yes,” she breathed, staring off into the sea, “they do.”

He pressed her hand briefly, then drew himself up. “Forgive me, Miss Smallwood. Your prayers or lack thereof are between you and God and are not for me to mettle with or judge.”

Looking up at him from beneath damp lashes, she slowly shook her head. “You have certainly changed, Mr. Weston. In Longstaple, you all but slept through Sunday services.”

A humorless chuckle escaped him. “I was not a complete heathen, Miss Smallwood. Simply a bored adolescent.”

“Lizzie tells me that nowadays, after you attend church with your family, you also go to a Wesleyan preaching service. May I ask what draws you there?”

Henry nodded. It was a question he’d had to answer before. “The lively singing and preaching. The extemporaneous prayers. I feel . . . awakened there, after years of . . . as you say, being asleep. I have become more grateful for God’s pardoning love. More aware of my need of Him.” Henry stopped and pulled a face. “Sorry. I am sounding like a preacher now. You must make allowances for a well-meaning muttonhead.”

She braved a wobbly grin. “Must I?”

“No.” He smiled ruefully. “But I would sincerely appreciate it.”



That night Emma awoke to gentle strains of music in the distance. It struck her as a pleasant surprise. It had been too long since she’d heard it—since the Ebbington “ghost” had favored them with a song. She recalled her discussion with Henry Weston about whether or not Adam might possess any musical ability. Henry had doubted it, but Emma was not convinced. Maintaining her theory of the identity of the “ghost,” she felt no alarm, only the desire to verify her supposition. And to hear the music better.

She slid her arms into her wrapper and pulled on stockings, deciding to forgo shoes.

She crept quietly past her father’s room and down the stairs. She knew her way around the house better now, so this time, she lit no lamp to light her way, and in her silent stocking feet, she hoped to give no advance warning of her approach.

Tiptoeing across the hall, she paused before the music room. . . . Yes, the “ghost” was still playing. Gently, tentatively, she released the door latch with a gentle click and paused, listening.

Relief. He had not heard it over the music, for the playing continued. She ever so slowly inched open the door, then slipped inside. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears as she pressed her back against the wall and stood still in the shadows.

As her eyes adjusted, she saw that moonlight from the transom spilled weakly onto the pianoforte and its player. Emma’s heart exulted. It was Adam, as she’d thought. She wondered how he read the score, for he had no candle and certainly the dim moonlight was insufficient to read music by.

As her eyes adjusted further, she could better see his face. It appeared as though his eyes were closed as he played. Was it only a trick of the shadows? From where she stood she could see no sheet music, but perhaps it was her angle and the poor lighting.

Soon she gave up wondering and simply absorbed the gentle, sweet melody. She did not know the piece or its composer. But she did know she liked it. So much more pleasing than the banging, dramatic pieces Julian favored.

Emma listened for a few more minutes. Then, turning, she was startled to see a figure leaning against the shadowy back wall on the opposite side of the door. Her heart raced. But then she recognized Henry Weston and expelled a sigh of relief.

He glanced over and silently opened the door for her. She slipped out of the room, and he followed, quietly closing the door behind them.

As they crossed the hall together, Henry said, “You were right again, Miss Smallwood.”

She liked hearing those words more than she should have, she knew. She cherished praise of her intelligence like some women cherished compliments on their beauty.

She whispered, “I wonder if Lady Weston was so eager to credit Julian because she wanted to hide Adam’s existence, or if she truly believed such talent could only come from her own child.”

“Both, probably.”

At the foot at the stairs, she turned to Henry and gripped his arm. “Let’s not tell anyone. Not yet.”

Henry looked down at her expectantly, and Emma suddenly realized she was still gripping his forearm. And that he wore only shirtsleeves. She felt thick, ropey muscles beneath her fingers. She swallowed and pulled her hand away.

Embarrassed, she risked looking up into his face by the moonlight leaking in through the hall’s unshuttered windows. Was it a trick of the shadows or did his eyes darken? Did he lean closer?

Her heart thumped. Goodness. She was standing alone with Henry Weston late at night, him in his shirtsleeves and her in her nightclothes. With her in stocking feet, he loomed even taller than usual. He would have to lean down to—

“Have you something in mind?” he whispered, his face suddenly very near hers. She smelled bay rum cologne. Felt his warm breath.

“Yes,” she murmured, her gaze drifting to his mouth.

“Some . . . plan?”

Plan? She blinked. Oh, right—Adam. She took a shaky breath and stepped back. “Not yet, but I am working on it.”



After breakfast the next morning, Emma went up to the schoolroom for some old sheet music she had seen in the cupboard. Then she went to visit Adam.

He recognized her now and seemed at his ease in her company, or at least not distressed by her showing up at his door. He sat in his armchair with a pad and drawing pencil, sketching a new battle scene, but glanced up as she crossed the room.

Softly she began, “I heard you playing the pianoforte last night.”

He looked up at her, stricken. “I’m not to leave my room.”

“That’s all right. I was glad to hear you. You play very well.”

Adam set aside his drawing. He rose and went to the table, pulling the chess board front and center.

“Adam,” Emma asked, laying a piece of sheet music on the table before him. “Do you read music?”

He shook his head. “I read books.”

“I know you do. But not music?” She ran a finger over the score. “Does this mean anything to you?”

His glance skittered from the score to the chess pieces. “My mar looks at pages like that when she plays.”

Emma’s eager mind and curiosity were roused. “May I ask . . . how do you play the pianoforte if you cannot read music?”

He shrugged, sliding the music back toward her, off the chessboard. “I play what I hear.”

“What you hear?”

He nodded.

“So . . .” She tried to keep the incredulity from her tone. “You heard music played, remembered it, and now can play the piece by ear?”

His focus remained on the chess set as he set up the pieces. “I play with my hands, Emma. Not my ear.”

“Of course. I meant . . . how?”

Again the unruffled shrug. “I don’t know.”

“And where did you hear the music you were playing last night?”

Adam thought a moment. “The village hall. My par, Mr. Hobbes, takes me there to hear music sometimes.”

She shook her head in wonder. “That is quite a memory you have. A gift.”

Adam did not seem as impressed as she was but finished setting up the chess pieces.

“Do you ever play the music you hear Julian play?”

He looked up at the ceiling. “Is he the one who plays very loud?”

“Yes,” she allowed.

“It hurts my ears.”

Emma smiled. “Mine too.”

She glanced down at the chessboard. For the first time she noticed Adam had set up the pieces in correct position for a proper game. “Who taught you to set up the pieces like that?”

“Henry.”

That’s when she saw it. For a moment she thought it was a trick of the light, or her imagination. But then her hand reached out of its own accord and touched it, and it didn’t disappear. She picked it up, astonished and disconcerted. The white queen with oriental features—the one depicted in the bloody drawing. The original from her own chess set that Henry had taken years ago but said had recently gone missing.

“Adam, where did you get this?” she breathed.

“It matches.”

“I know. But where did you find it?”

He turned and pointed to a valise on the side table. “In my case. Yesterday.”

Emma’s mind reeled. How had it ended up in Adam’s room? Glancing around at the violent battle scenes pinned to the walls, she swallowed the queasy dread rising in her throat.

Had Adam drawn the beheaded queen after all?

A chill passed over her at the thought.

Emma wondered whether or not Henry knew Adam had the queen. If he already knew, why hadn’t he said so?



That afternoon, Lizzie came to Emma’s room and asked her to take a turn with her in the garden. The girl was already dressed for the out-of-doors, her large straw hat tied with lace beneath her chin. She stuck out her hands. “Look, I am even wearing gloves.”

Emma agreed to join her, pulling on a bonnet and gloves of her own.

As they passed the drawing room on the way to the side door, they heard Henry and Lady Weston arguing within—Lady Weston recommending an acquaintance in Falmouth to care for Adam, and Henry rebutting that a distance of more than fifty miles was too great to allow for regular visits.

Lizzie tugged Emma’s arm, pulling her more quickly toward the door, out of earshot of the tense conversation.

“He really vexes her, you know,” Lizzie said, shaking her head.

Emma extracted her arm to shut the door behind them and then followed Lizzie into the garden. “Who does . . . Adam?”

Lizzie turned to wait for her, brushing a breeze-blown curl from the corner of her mouth. “Well, yes. Him too. But I meant Henry. Always refusing to call her Mother, going against her wishes by bringing Adam here, and now refusing to find a place for him.”

Lizzie took Emma’s arm again. Pea gravel crunched under their slippers. Sunlight shone on orange-red poppies, steel-blue globe flowers, and violet clematis, intensifying their vibrant colors.

As the girls strolled through the garden enjoying the sunshine and sweet smells, Emma commented on the first vexation in Lizzie’s long list. “I suppose since Henry remembers his real mamma, the one who birthed him, he finds it difficult to call another woman by that name. It’s only natural he should miss her and want to remember her. I can understand that, having lost my own mother. Certainly you can as well.”

“Why should I understand it?”

“Well . . .” Emma faltered. “Because you lost your mother too.”

Lizzie snorted softly. “Wouldn’t say I lost her, exactly. Though I suppose my father did. Lost her to the excise man.”

Emma frowned. “I don’t understand. I thought both your parents were gone.”

Lizzie pulled her arm from Emma’s and bent to pick a spent bloom. “I never said so. You simply assumed.”

“No. I distinctly recall you saying your mother had been gone far longer than mine.”

“Gone, yes. But not dead. At least as far as I know.”

“And your father?”

Lizzie sighed. “I never knew my father, but I had a stepfather. Briefly.”

“Oh. Is he . . . ?”

“Alive and well and pulling all our strings.”

Emma gaped at the girl. “But . . . I thought you were here because . . . that you were Lady Weston’s ward because she had taken you in after . . .” She let her words trail away.

“Lady Weston did take me in ‘after,’” Lizzie said. “After my mother took up with another man, left me with my new so-called stepfather, and he saw fit to be rid of me.” She tossed the spent bloom to the ground. “How naive you are.” She gave Emma a look of world-wise superiority. “You assumed I was an orphan and kind Lady Weston took me in out of the goodness of her heart?”

“Well . . . yes.”

Lizzie shook her head. “That is a fiction. You read too many books, Emma. I have always said so.”

Emma stared at the stranger before her. She barely recognized this Lizzie Henshaw with the blazing eyes, curled lip, and sharp tongue.

“Put that in your journal, why don’t you,” Lizzie snapped. She whirled away from Emma, pointing over the garden wall toward the fallen tower, where workmen were already beginning repairs. “And as to the warning tower, Henry went directly against Lady Weston’s wishes in having it built.”

Emma blinked and thought quickly to follow this lurch in topic. “But why should she object to that? Henry told me about the villagers’ rights to the cargo if there are no survivors, but why should Lady Weston care about that?”

Lizzie slowly shook her head, eyes glinting. “And here I thought you were clever.”





Eternal Father, strong to save,

Whose arm hath bound the restless wave . . .

Oh, hear us when we cry to Thee,

For those in peril on the sea!

—William Whiting, 1860