The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 23





As Emma thought back to the events of the previous night, and Henry’s report of how the morning’s confrontation with his family had gone, she found herself concerned as much for Adam’s fate as for her own safety. She feared what the misinformation being spread about him, and the resulting and increasing ill will against him, might mean for his future. Emma wished she could think of some grand plan, some coup de grâce to put an end to the campaign against Adam, but she could not. She had only one idea. One small plan to attempt to turn the tide in his favor. She didn’t know if it would work, but she had to try.

She had no opportunity on Sunday, but on Monday Emma sat on an antique settee in the hall outside the music room, hoping her plan would succeed. It was the time of day Lady Weston usually left the drawing room and retired to her bedchamber to write letters and nap. Emma hoped she would not stray from that routine today.

Footsteps signaled someone’s approach. Emma leaned back, her head near the door, pretending not to notice anyone or anything except the music. She held her breath as Lady Weston walked toward her, head tipped to one side, regarding her curiously.

“Pray, what are you doing, Miss Smallwood?”

Emma put a finger to her lips. “Shhh. I’m listening.”

Lady Weston frowned at being shushed but cocked her head to the other side. “Ah. Julian has learnt a new piece. What talent that boy has.”

“I agree.”

“Why do you not go inside to hear better?”

Emma shook her head. “I don’t want to disturb him. I think he’s . . . struggling with a few notes. He’s not quite himself today.”

“Nonsense,” Lady Weston insisted. “His playing is superb.” She listened for several moments longer. “In fact, he has never played better.”

Lady Weston took a step closer to the door and closed her eyes to savor. “That is truly beautiful. I wonder what piece that is. Do you know?”

“No.”

“I shall have to ask him.”

“I doubt he knows the name.”

“Don’t be foolish. Of course he knows. Unless . . . are you suggesting it is a piece of his own invention? That would astonish even his proud mamma.”

“No, I am certain he has heard it somewhere before.”

Lady Weston huffed. “Well, enough of this standing in the yard like the lower classes who can’t afford a seat. Let’s go in.” She reached for the door latch.

Emma laid a gentle hand on her sleeve. “First . . . let’s just peek in. Quietly. I’d hate to disturb such a talented musician midmovement.”

“Oh, very well,” Lady Weston whispered. She gingerly inched open the door. Through the gap, she looked across the music room with an indulgent, expectant smile on her face.

Her smile fell away. She stared, dumbfounded, her mouth drooping.

Unable to resist, Emma rose on tiptoe and looked over Lady Weston’s shoulder. There at the pianoforte sat Adam Weston, eyes closed, playing with a slight nodding of his head.

For several moments longer, Lady Weston stood stiff, listening, as if unable to believe what she was seeing, or hearing. Then she slowly, quietly closed the door. Emma slipped back into her seat.

“It is not Julian after all,” Lady Weston murmured.

“Oh?” Emma said noncommittally.

Lady Weston looked at her sharply, but Emma offered no explanation. Nor did she mention she had seen Julian walking out to the stables with Mr. Teague half an hour ago, just before she had asked Adam to play.

“You tricked me, didn’t you?” Lady Weston asked in soft wonder, her tone lacking the asperity Emma would have expected.

“Yes,” Emma whispered, meeting the woman’s gaze and willing her eyes to communicate all she felt. And her deep wish that Adam’s family would come to appreciate him. To accept him.

Lady Weston hesitated, then wandered away, lost in thought.

After Adam finished playing, Emma walked with him back up to his room. A quick look at the chatelaine watch hooked to her bodice told her it was nearly time to go up to the schoolroom for the afternoon lessons. She thanked Adam again for playing for her and hurried upstairs. She had not seen her father since they had dismissed Julian and Rowan after the morning class.

When she entered the schoolroom, she found Rowan already seated at the table, bent over his sketchbook. But there was no sign of her father.

“Good afternoon, Rowan.”

He looked up. “Hello, Miss Smallwood.” He handed her a folded letter. “I was asked to give this to you. I gather your father won’t be joining us.”

“Oh?” This was news to Emma. He hadn’t said anything to her. She unfolded the note and read.

Emma my dear,

I have walked down to see the Chapel of the Rock, since you mentioned how impressed you were with the place when Mr. Weston showed it to you. I should be back in time for afternoon lessons.

J. Smallwood

Her father, gone down to the Chapel of the Rock . . . alone? What was he thinking? Had he even thought to check with Henry about the tides? Emma was certain she had mentioned the danger of the place, and the varying “safe” periods for venturing out to it.

A pinch of worry knotted her brow and stomach. Steady, Emma, she told herself. After all, her father was a highly intelligent man. A teacher, for goodness’ sake. He would not simply walk out into the sea upon a finger of rock without taking precautions.

Yet her father, although no longer melancholy since coming to Ebbington Manor, was still somewhat out of his element there on the coast, being unaccustomed to the sea.

She glanced at the note once more. Noticed the somewhat shaky hand, the scrawled signature. Was he nervous about something? It wasn’t his usual neat hand, though she recognized the customary J and S of his signature at his typical slant. Was it a bit odd of him to sign his name instead of Papa? Being almost always together, they had rarely if ever had occasion to send each other letters, but she found the closing cold. Was he still disappointed in her for striking Lizzie?

She decided to consult Henry’s red notebook to check the tide tables herself. She hoped he would not mind. She excused herself from Rowan and went down to Henry’s study. She believed Henry had ridden off somewhere for a meeting. Still, she knocked softly. When no one answered, she let herself in.

Her gaze swept his cluttered desk, where she had last seen him retrieve the book, but saw no sign of it. She hoped he had not taken it with him for some reason. She swiveled around the room, looking at his shelves and cabinets. A red spine on the bookcase caught her eye and she went to it, slipping out the volume. She sighed with relief, glad to find the book. Apparently he or an industrious maid had tidied up after she had last been there. Perhaps he’d decided her system of a place for everything and everything in its place had merit after all.

She opened the volume and found her way to the current week’s table and that day’s estimated tides. She compared the numbers to the time on her watch. Good. Still three hours before the next high tide. Plenty of time for her father to reach the chapel and return safely.

Emma replaced the book exactly where she’d found it and went back up to the schoolroom. Rowan was still bent over his sketchbook, though Emma could discern little progress. She walked to her father’s desk to review the day’s lesson plans and see if anything else needed doing. Now and again she glanced at her watch or looked out the window. She would see the point, the warning tower, and a patch of grey sky. But no sign of her father.

Grey sky. Not blue. Were they in for some weather? The tide tables, of course, were no guarantee against unexpected storms.

Julian came in and took his seat. “Mr. Smallwood not joining us today?” he asked.

“He should be here anytime now,” Emma said, keeping a calm tone, reminding herself it was foolish to worry. “He went for one of his walks. Down to the Chapel of the Rock.”

“Did he?” Rowan said. “I thought he was going—” He broke off suddenly and glared at Julian. “What? Why did you kick me?”

Julian turned to Emma. “I don’t want to worry you, Miss Smallwood. We all know it’s dangerous down there, but I am sure he’ll be fine. He has been down there before, I trust? With you or Henry?”

She frowned. “Not that I know of. Not with me, in any case.”

“I hope he knew to check the tides.”

A blast of wind shook the schoolroom windows and whistled in through the cracks.

Rowan shook his head. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Davies said he smelled a storm brewing, and he is always right,” Julian added.

“Did he?” Emma asked, anxiety prickling through her. “Did he happen to mention this to my father?”

Julian shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

Emma stood abruptly, her chair legs screeching against the schoolroom floor.

“I had better go and check on him. You two, please read—” she consulted her father’s notes—“the Iliad. From where we left off yesterday until . . . well, until I return.”

Rowan groaned, but Emma did not relent. Her mind was filling with irrational images of her father being swept from the rocks as he walked back from the chapel.

She stopped in her room only long enough to pull on her half boots and pelisse. It took several precious minutes to lace the boots, but she knew she could make up the time by walking faster and more surefooted than she could in her flimsy low-heeled slippers.

When Emma descended the stairs, she noticed Lizzie in the hall, sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair near the front door. Hearing Emma’s footfalls, she looked up from the Lady’s Magazine she’d been flipping through. “Where are you off to?” Lizzie asked.

The two young women had formed an uneasy truce since the incident with the bell tower, but Emma guessed the warm camaraderie between them was gone forever.

“To find my father. Have you seen him?”

“I saw him leave on one of his walks, but that was some time ago now.”

“Apparently he’s gone down to the chapel.”

“Really?” Lizzie’s brows rose. “In this wind?”

Emma swallowed. “If anyone asks, please tell them where I’ve gone.”

Lizzie nodded, and Emma turned to the door.

“Emma?”

Emma turned back. “Yes?”

Lizzie looked sheepish. “I am sorry. For everything.”

Surprise washed over Emma—surprise and relief. “Thank you, Lizzie. I’m sorry too.” She gave the girl a small smile and opened the front door.

“Emma?”

Emma turned back once more.

Lizzie hesitated. “Be careful.”

Emma hurried through the garden, out its gate, and across the windy headland. She took long strides just shy of a running pace, her eyes sweeping the coast path for any sign of her father. Or of Henry returning from his meeting.

She saw no one.

She was halfway across the headland before she realized she had come outside with neither gloves nor bonnet for the first time in years. Take hold of yourself, she silently commanded. This was no time to lose her wits. Tendrils of hair pulled loose and blew across her face. She looked up. Yes, the sky was growing greyer by the second, and the wind was strengthening. Surely her father would notice and make haste home.

She reached the point and looked out, briefly scanning the ocean to the horizon. No sign of a struggling ship, nor of any vessel at all. She looked down at the rocky finger and the chapel at its tip, noticed how the waves hit the sides of the narrow peninsula but did not wash over it. Yet the sea was definitely turbulent today, and with the rising wind, the waves would only increase. She saw no one about. Was her father still inside? It was difficult to judge from that height if the door was indeed closed, or if that appearance was just a trick of shadow on the recessed doorway. Perhaps her father had already begun his return trip, but she could not see him on the steep path hugging the cliff’s edge.

She turned and hurried down the path, recalling how she had done the same after ringing the bell, driven to make certain Henry was all right, to help him if she could. She felt a similar urgency, a similar dread now, but why should she? No ship lay breaking apart on the rocks. No lives were in peril.

At least she hoped not.

Emma steeled herself. The tide table estimated another two hours remained before the causeway was in danger of being submerged. And Henry had assured her the estimates were very accurate.

Still her heart beat hard and her stomach twisted as she made her way around the bend, hoping every second for a glimpse of her father coming up. Had he stopped to catch his breath? Gone into the village?

Where are you, Papa?



Henry slowed his horse at the crossroads. He had taken his usual shortcut to the main road. Left would take him into the village, straight ahead would take him into Stratton, and right would take him south to his meeting with Mr. Trengrouse about commissioning one of his lifeline-shooting devices for the Ebford Harbor.

Henry glanced at the signpost. He knew perfectly well what each carved wooden sign indicated, yet his gaze lingered, noticing how the uppermost signs trembled. The wind was rising. He was not usually put off by the prospect of a little wind and drizzle. He glanced up at the sky. Were they in for worse?

He became aware of a pinching in his gut, a nagging thought just out of recall, as if he were forgetting something. Something important.

“Whoa.” He drew Major to a halt and for a moment sat at the crossroad, thinking. Listening.

Turn back. Go home.

Was it his own voice—his conscience—or God’s still, small voice? He was not certain, but he had learned from repeated error not to ignore these quiet proddings, whether of conscience or of God. Mr. Trengrouse was expecting him, but Mr. Trengrouse could wait.

Henry turned Major’s head and made his way back toward Ebbington Manor. As he rode, he felt the urgency building within him. Was he still worrying about Miss Smallwood after the incident with the fake blood, and the strange tussle at the bell tower? Was that it?

Ahead of him, he saw Mr. Smallwood walking, stick in hand, on one of his walks south. When Henry neared him, he hailed, “Hello, Mr. Smallwood. Everything all right at home?”

“Yes, my boy. As far as I know.”

“Good. Well, don’t go too far. Looks like we’re in for some weather.”

“Just to the Upton cemetery and back.” He lifted a sketched map in his hand. “I don’t mind the damp.”

“Well then, enjoy your walk.” Despite Mr. Smallwood’s words, Henry felt unsettled and continued on toward Ebbington Manor. In the back of his mind he wondered why Mr. Smallwood would walk to the Upton cemetery, and especially at this time of day. Apparently his daughter was conducting the afternoon lessons in his stead.

Reaching the estate grounds, Henry rode to the stables. There the groom hurried out to take charge of his horse, appearing surprised and none too pleased to have him return so soon, causing him more work.

“Leave him saddled,” Henry said. “I . . . forgot something . . . and will likely be on my way again in a few minutes.”

The young man nodded, and Henry hurried into the house by the rear door.

Suddenly Rowan rounded the corner, nearly barreling into him. “Henry!” He gaped in alarm, then quickly recovered. “Thought you’d left for your meeting.”

“I had. What are you doing down here? Why are you not in the schoolroom?”

Rowan stuck out his lower lip. “No one up there. We’re having the afternoon off, apparently.”

Henry studied his brother’s expression, part chin-high defensiveness, part sheepish blush and furtive eyes.

“Where is Miss Smallwood?” he asked.

“Gone to look for her father.”

“Oh? Why?” Henry thought of the grey skies and rising wind.

Rowan hesitated. “She thought he might have gone down to the chapel, but I don’t think he would.”

“To the chapel? Why would she think that?”

Rowan shrugged. “That’s what she said.”

“Dash it,” Henry murmured and took the stairs by threes. He didn’t slow his pace until he’d reached his study. He looked on his desk for the tide book but didn’t see it. That’s strange. He always left it on the desk, for convenience sake, since he consulted it whenever he went down to the chapel and regularly made new estimates. Had she taken it? He certainly hoped she’d consulted it.

He looked this way and that until he spied it on the bookcase. Emma . . . he inwardly chided. A place for everything and everything in its place—whether he liked it or not. He snatched the book from the shelf and flipped it open to the current week. He frowned, and looked at the preceding days to see if he had somehow made a mistake. Then his finger traced that day’s column once more and his heart seemed to skip a beat. The times marked for that day were incorrect. And not in his writing, though a close facsimile. He lifted the book and peered closer. Thunder and turf! Someone had scraped off the ink—taking a thin layer of paper with it—then written in new times. Wrong times.

God in heaven. The tide was on its way in. And with the wind rising and a storm brewing . . . it was far from safe to be venturing out to the Chapel of the Rock. In fact, it was dashed dangerous.

He hurried downstairs. Noticing the darkening sky through the hall windows, Henry detoured to the lamp room for a lantern.

He lit the glass-and-tin oil lamp, then ran outside and back to the stables for his horse. He took the reins from the groom, gripped the lantern handle, mounted, and urged Major into a gallop.

Why on earth would Emma think Mr. Smallwood had walked down to the chapel today of all days, when he had shown no inclination to do so before? When, in fact, he was walking south toward Upton.

Something was wrong about all this. Very wrong.



Emma stood on the beach, at the place where the sand ended and the rocky peninsula began. She surveyed its length—the waves crashing against it from the open sea, sending white spray nearly up to the path at its center.

“Papa, are you there? Papa!” she called toward the distant chapel, but quickly realized yelling was futile. The wind swallowed her words as she uttered them, gobbling them midair, like hungry gulls diving for tossed breadcrumbs.

She should have passed her father if he had gone back, but she had not. She would never rest, or forgive herself, if something happened to him when she might have prevented it. She had to go. She would move quickly, bid him come immediately if he was there, or satisfy herself if he was not. There and back. Every moment she stood there, the water would only get higher. . . .

She stepped out onto the first rock.

As she walked farther out into the sea, the wind strengthened, whipping her skirts and loosening her coil of hair. She held the billowing fabric against her legs so she could look down and see the path in front of her, to gauge the flattest rock, the next step with the surest footing. She consoled herself that at least she was not getting soaked. The wind brushed mist across her cheeks and through her stockings, but the waves still broke several yards away. She hurried on.

Nearing the chapel, she climbed the steep steps, missing Henry’s guiding hand, his firm, confident presence. Ahead of her the door was closed, as it had appeared from above. She supposed her father might have shut it behind himself to keep out the worst of the wind as he surveyed the interior and perhaps prayed in relative peace.

She lifted the latch and pushed open the door. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light seeping in through the high slit windows.

“Papa?” she called, her voice quavering, echoing against the sandstone walls. “Are you in here?”

Only the roar of the sea and the cry of distant gulls answered. Had he fallen asleep on one of the rotting pews? Her gaze swept the baptismal font, the slumping benches, the moldering altar. She walked to the chapel’s far end, to the bricked-over wall that had once led to a larger nave, long lost to the waves.

Empty. No one was there. Then where was her father? Had he come here, but only briefly? Or had he decided against coming to the chapel and gone into the village instead for a bracing toddy or some such? Is that why she had missed him?

She heard something, a scraping sound of wood against stone and whirled. The door opened farther—someone was coming in. She tensed, hoping it was not a stranger—or worse, Mr. Teague. It took her a moment to recognize the figure standing backlit by the outside light, lantern in hand.

When she did, her heart rose in relief.

“Henry! That is . . . Mr. Weston.”

But no answering smile or friendly salutation greeted her in return. “What are you doing in here, woman?” he snapped. “The tide is rising.”

She didn’t like his superior, criticizing tone, the implication that she was feather-brained. “I came looking for my father. Your little book said there was plenty of time. Are you telling me you were wrong?”

“I was not wrong. Someone tampered with the numbers.”

Emma’s stomach dropped, and her irritation with Henry fell away. “Who?”

He crossed the chapel in long strides and held out a hand to her. Not in supplication but in command. “We shall debate theories later. Let’s go. My horse is tethered on the beach.”

She tentatively reached out and gave him her hand. “Have you seen my father?”

He turned, tugging her along beside him. “Yes. He—”

The chapel door slammed shut, followed by the sound of a key scraping in the lock.

“Hey!” Henry called. “We are in here!”

He dropped her hand, set down the lamp, and ran to the door, trying the latch in vain. “Open the door!” He pounded on it like a vengeful blacksmith at his anvil. “Open the door, I say!”

She added her voice to his, hoping its higher octave would pierce the wood. “Hallo! We’re in the chapel. Open the door.”

They listened for a reply. Nothing. Nothing save the wind and the waves. Even the gulls had flown inland.

“Hallo?” she repeated plaintively. “Is anybody there?” She glanced at him and said, “Perhaps it has just blown shut.”

Henry struggled with the latch once more. “And locked itself?” he said darkly. “Hardly.”

“Who would lock the door?” she asked, face puckered. “I thought you had the key in your study.”

“I did. But obviously someone took it.” He put his shoulder to the door and butted it like an angry ram.

“Careful!” Emma urged. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

He hesitated, intense green eyes locking with hers. “Do you not understand, Miss Smallwood. If we do not get out of here, we may do worse than hurt ourselves. We may even die.”

Fear flickered across Emma Smallwood’s face, and Henry immediately regretted voicing his ominous thoughts aloud.

“Surely you exaggerate, Mr. Weston,” she said coolly, clearly determined not to panic. “The tide was not so high when I crossed over and the wind is . . . Well, I have certainly seen worse wind since coming to Cornwall.”

He made no reply, choosing not to reiterate his prediction of doom, or Davies’s warnings of high tides and an approaching storm. Instead he began circling the chapel, looking out one narrow window, then another, trying to see someone to hail. To blame. Or to find some way of escape. But it was hopeless.

Even with Emma’s enticingly small waist, she would never fit through one of those narrow slits.

He moved instead to the bricked-up doorway that had once led to the rest of the church. Perhaps it might be weaker than the thick sandstone walls that had stood the test of years and storms. If only he had some sort of tool. He looked down at the oil lamp he had brought for light. The sturdy metal base might be used to bang against the mortar and loosen the bricks. But it was unlikely to work, and he would surely lose the flame in the process and had no way to light another. If only he had thought to bring a knife . . . or a pistol. He reached up and set the lamp in the window facing the village, hoping someone would see it, and kept looking for a way out.

“Besides,” Miss Smallwood added. “My father will soon guess where I’ve gone and sound the alarm.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, when he doesn’t find me in the schoolroom, he will guess that I’ve gone looking for him.”

“Why did you think he had come here?” Henry asked as his long fingers continued to probe the bricks, looking for cracks, a weakness in the wall.

“Because he left a note.”

“Did he? Are you certain it was his writing?”

Doubt clouded her eyes and tightened her features. “Oh . . . I don’t know. Something did strike me as odd about it.”

“Miss Smallwood, I passed your father walking south when I rode back to the house.”

She gaped at him. “If he didn’t plan to come here, why would he . . . Why would anyone write a note saying he had?”

He looked at her grimly but did not voice his suspicions.

He saw a chill pass over her. She said weakly, “Well, Lizzie knows where I’ve gone. As do Julian and Rowan.”

Pain lanced him. Would either of his half brothers lift a finger to help her?

She added hopefully, “And surely someone saw you coming in this direction?”

“Maybe. But I didn’t think to tell anyone where I was going.”

“That was not very wise.”

He whirled. “I had other things on my mind,” he snapped. “And may I say, your coming out here today was not wise either.”

She swallowed, and the offended retort he saw building within her fizzled away, unspoken. Her shoulders slumped. “You are right. I came charging down here without thinking it through. Like something you would have done.”

He huffed dryly and returned to his inspection. “Like something I did do.” Why had he not thought to look for the key? To be on his guard?

“Look, let’s not argue,” she said. “Let’s figure out a solution. We are both of us clever. I am certain we can think of something.”

“You think all you like.” He inhaled deeply. “I am going to pray.”





. . . behold, the four winds of the heaven strove upon the great sea.

—Daniel 7:2