The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 24





When the first wave splashed through the westward window, Henry heard Emma gasp from across the chapel. It was soon followed by another whitecap, smacking the slit and sloshing onto the stone floor, wetting her half boots. Henry, who had been banging away at the bricks with a sharp rock he’d found, looked over at Emma, and for a moment both stilled, their eyes meeting in silent understanding. Then he resumed chipping with renewed zeal, and she ran to the door, tried once again to open it, and began yelling for help once more.

Henry’s mind whirled with thoughts of what might happen to them if a powerful storm struck during record-breaking tides. On one hand, Henry was ready to accept his fate if need be. He had enough faith in eternal life that he was not terrified by the prospect of death. Then again, he would prefer to live another fifty years first, God willing.

But he was not ready to accept Emma Smallwood’s death. Not at the hands of someone of his own family. And not while she had doubts about God. Her fate rested like a heavy burden across his shoulders—heavier than a waterlogged sailor, than six of them—weighing down his heart.

As he prayed, he worked. He believed God heard his prayers but did not think the Almighty wanted him to sit idly by, waiting for Him to do everything while Henry reclined at his ease. From the Old Testament Henry had gleaned that even when God promised to give His people the land, He still expected them to go to battle. To do the work. So he prayed and continued to chip away at the mortar.

But it was taking too long.

A quarter of an hour later, the water was up to their ankles, streaming through the westward and southern windows in a steady flow punctuated by bursts as waves crashed against the chapel, shaking the building to its ancient foundations.

They’d tried to batten the west window. But the waves pushed aside each obstacle they’d lodged there. Might the violent sea wash away the chapel as it had the rest of the church—and them with it? If the rising water level didn’t drown them, that might.

From the other windows came patches of stormy grey daylight. It was unlikely anyone would see their lantern until darkness fell. Would the tower still be standing by then?

Across the chapel, Emma paced through the water, still searching for another way of escape or another tool with which to help him chip at the mortar. He noticed her shiver. Of course she was cold. What an idiot he was. Warm enough from his constant effort, he rose and splashed through the water toward her, removing his greatcoat as he went.

Guessing his intention, she shook her head, protesting, “I’ll swim in it.”

You very well might, he thought to himself but thought it wiser not to voice that dire prediction. “Then here,” he said. “Hold this for me.”

She accepted the outer coat, folding it in her arms to keep it above the water while he struggled out of his frock coat with some difficulty, both from the snug, precise cut and from the numbness of his hands.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, standing in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.

She said, “I am not offended by your shirtsleeves, Mr. Weston. I hardly think propriety is our primary concern at present.”

He held out his frock coat to her. “Wear this.”

“But it’s yours. You’ll freeze.”

“Nonsense.” He draped it around her, allowing his hands to linger on her shoulders, to bestow what comfort he could. “I am a hardy Cornish lad, while you are a thin-skinned inland lass.”

She looked up sharply, as though offended, then managed a wobbly grin.

Good. She realized he was teasing. How unfortunate that they were only now beginning to understand each other.

She handed him back his greatcoat and laced her arms through the sleeves of his frock coat. “Thank you, kind sir.” She dipped an elegant curtsy.

He chuckled at her plucky courage, her attempt at humor at such a time. He bowed in his best formal address. Rising, hand to his heart, he said, “My honor and pleasure, Miss Smallwood.”

For a moment they looked at each other and a warm cable of attraction held them. Then another wave burst in and doused them both. Icy water penetrated his fine linen shirtsleeves, wetting them through and sending shivers along his skin.

Emma gasped at the shock of cold, and the moment passed. He pulled on his greatcoat and while he worked the fastenings, he insisted she do the same.

Then he returned to his work. He took one more strike at the mortar, and finally a crack appeared. A thrill of success rose up in him only to be doused the next second. For through the crack, water rushed forth in a thin, high-pressure stream. It was too late. Even if he managed to chip away a hole, their way of escape was now completely underwater. The tide had come in, and the stormy waves had raised the water level even higher. In fact, he had just worsened their situation by opening another aperture, albeit a small one, for water to enter their shaky sanctuary.

No doubt noticing the cessation of his chipping efforts, Emma looked over, hope brightening her eyes. She looked from his face down to the shooting leak, and the hope faded. She bit her lip, probably fighting against tears, and his heart ached to see it.

Lord, please help me save her! How he longed to be her rescuer, her brave knight. To prove he was more than the mischievous troublemaker she remembered and likely still thought him.

Outside the storm worsened. Wind and waves buffeted the stone walls. Water cascaded through the west and south windows with each new wave, and the water level inside the chapel rose to their knees.

Henry sloshed over to the stout, waist-high baptismal font. Its decorative cover was long gone, likely stolen years ago by some young vandal on a dare. Henry yanked a still-sturdy board from a sagging pew and laid it over the top, then gestured Emma over to him. “Come. Let’s get you up on the font. You’ll be drier there.”

She looked at him earnestly. “Is there nothing else we can do?”

“Not that I can think of. Besides pray that someone sees the light and realizes we’re out here.”

“But even if they did, the causeway must be underwater by now.”

“Perhaps not.” He held out his hand to her. “Come.”

She stared at his hand; then her eyes darted back to his face. He guessed why she hesitated. To accept his hand was to accept defeat—that there was nothing to do but wait to drown or be saved. He knew how much Emma Smallwood liked—longed—to be in control. To solve her own problems. She detested feeling helpless, to be at anyone’s mercy. He didn’t like being at anyone’s mercy either, unless that “person” was God. And that’s where they were, he realized. Helpless. And at God’s mercy.

“Come,” he repeated, remaining where he was, hesitant to walk toward her, to force his hand. He wanted her to come to him. To surrender.

Emma realized there was nothing she could do. For the first time in her life, she acknowledged the problem she faced was outside her control. She had likely been just as helpless at her mother’s sickbed, but Emma had never accepted that inevitability. She had never ceased to consult medical books and herbal dictionaries, looking for a cure. She had kept the room spotless, overseen the preparation of the most healthful invalid meals and beef teas. Plied the apothecary with endless questions, and sought a second opinion from a Plymouth physician when her father had not bothered. Not that any of it had availed in the end, but she had tried. Strived.

Now there was nothing she could do to affect the outcome—no second opinions to seek, no books to consult, no father to cajole, no Aunt Jane to call upon. There was nothing to do but pray. Was it hypocritical to turn to God now, when she had done her utmost to be independent, to make her way without Him until this point? She supposed it was. But was that not true of so many deathbed prayers? When one looked upon the prospect of one’s mortality and eternity beyond?

She walked through the water, her steps made slow and arduous by heavy, sodden skirts. Her eyes remained fastened on his.

Another wave sprayed through the window, pelting Emma’s face. Her eyes filled with tears, too many to be blinked away, and salt water both warm and cold ran down her cheeks. She saw answering tears fill his eyes. And somehow she knew the tears were not for himself but for her.

Reaching him, she placed her hand in his. “All right,” she whispered. “I understand.”

Together, they turned toward the font. Eyeing it, Henry gauged its height. “I shall have to lift you.”

“I’m too heavy.”

“Nonsense.” He put his hands on her waist, its slimness somewhat disguised by the coat of his she wore. He lifted her, a bit of an effort with her waterlogged skirts but accomplished handily nonetheless.

For several moments, she sat atop the font, his hands still on her waist as he stood before her, her hands lingering on his forearms. Her face a few inches above his now that she sat perched on the font. He liked looking up at her.

Had he not always done so?

The water reached the top of his tall boots and ran down inside them. He gave an involuntary shiver.

“You must come up here too,” she said. “You’re freezing.”

“There isn’t room for two and I’m fine.”

“I insist, Mr. Weston. I shall not sit here as though on some throne while you stand in frigid water. You’ll catch your death.”

Her lips parted in chagrin at her unfortunate choice of words. Then she began gathering her skirts around her. “Give me your hand,” she commanded.

“Yes, madam. With pleasure.”

Using his uplifted hand as a brace, she gingerly rose to her feet on the board, untangling her skirts as she did so.

“Careful,” he warned.

She stood, and he was relieved she managed to not fall headlong from her perch. She said, “All right. Your turn.”

He began to protest, “I don’t think that is—”

She extended her hand to him. “Please.”

He saw something in her eyes that shut off further objections. He considered various options for ascending the font without knocking her off. This was no time for a game of king of the castle.

His legs were long enough that he could raise one foot to the edge of the font. The water weighed down his other foot, but he thought if he got enough momentum, and levered himself up with his hands, he might make it.

She said, “Take my hand and I’ll pull you up.”

“I’m afraid I’ll only succeed in pulling you down with me.”

“I have a good stance. Let me help you.” She grinned. “Just try to remain vertical so you don’t butt me with your very large head.”

He smirked up at her. “One wonders how I’ve found hats to fit me all these years.”

“I imagine your hatter is exceptionally well paid.”

He placed his hand in hers but warned, “If I start to fall, let go. Do you hear? I don’t want to have to put my back out lifting you up again.”

How ironic that they were teasing each other at such a time. Better than shouting or wailing, he supposed. Yes, much better.

Pushing with his standing leg and bracing arm and allowing Miss Smallwood to help pull him up, Henry managed to heave himself up to his feet. He overshot the mark a bit and felt Miss Smallwood sway backward. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her safely against him.

“Th-thank you,” she murmured.

He did not let her go but kept his arms around her. What a sight they must make: two tall people standing pressed together atop a font. “Well, we made it,” he said lightly, trying to dispel the tension of the unsaid things between them and the encroaching danger.

“Did we?” She looked down at the rising water, then up to the high ceiling. “One step closer to heaven . . .”

“You do know we can’t ascend there on our own power . . . ?” he asked hopefully.

“I do know. I did not sleep through all those Sunday sermons in Longstaple, as you did.”

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I am glad to hear it.”

Emma’s answering grin fell away as quickly as it formed. She whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Henry asked.

“I was not talking to you.”

“Oh . . .” he breathed in awe.

She shook her head. “I should not have joked about heaven. For I am all too aware that I am not all I should be. Not worthy to face God on my own.”

“None of us are,” he whispered. “That is why our merciful God sent His beloved son to suffer and die—to cover our wrongdoing.”

She nodded, though her eyes remained distant, anxious.

He inhaled a ragged breath. “I don’t presume to know what you believe, Emma. But I do know that God loves you and forgives you. And if you acknowledge Him as the only one who can truly save you, save anyone, He will. Maybe not here and now in this world. But in the next. Forever.”

She looked up at him, a smile slowly forming. “I think you’ve missed your calling, Henry Weston. Perhaps you ought to have gone into the church.”

He grinned. “At the moment I’m wishing I had not gone into this particular church, but . . .”

She chuckled, even as tears filled her eyes once more. “I am mostly sad for my father. He was just beginning to recover from losing his wife. And now this.”

He nodded. “I thought of that too.”

“At least he’ll have his sister,” Emma said.

“Yes.” Henry agreed. “Your aunt Jane is quite a remarkable woman. I’ve always liked her.”

“And she you.”

“The only Smallwood female to like me in those days, I’d wager. Then or since.”

“That’s not true,” Emma said; then she ducked her head, self-conscious.

Henry looked at her cheeks, suddenly pink in her pale face, and felt unexpected pleasure warm his heart. Perhaps Emma did like him after all. Then he noticed the slightly bluish cast to her lips. Careful not to jostle her, he left one arm snug around her and gingerly loosed the other, moving his hand up along her arm to her face.

She watched, her expression uncertain, as he slowly lifted his hand toward her mouth.

“Your lips are blue,” he whispered.

She pressed them together, the act restoring a bit of color. Not enough.

He touched his thumb to her lower lip. She jerked back in surprise, and again he tightened his hold to keep her from losing her balance. When she resisted no further, he slowly traced her lower lip, then moved to the upper, circling her mouth and wishing he might do so with his own. Leave it to a man to become amorous at a time like this, he thought wryly—but he made no move to stop himself. Returning to her lower lip, he dragged his finger across its fleshy firmness, feeling his chest tighten at the sight. Yes, he had to kiss her.

He leaned down, looking into her eyes, and seeing no resistance there, lowered his mouth.

“Emma. . . .” he breathed and touched his lips to hers. Her cool lips were warmed and softened under his touch. He kissed her again, more fully, and felt her lips move against his, kissing him back. Satisfaction and pleasure filled him. Pleasure lanced with regret. Why had he waited so long?

He held her close, relishing how her tall, willowy body molded itself to his, supple and firm, yet soft in all the right places.

She snaked her arms up from between them, and wrapped them around his neck in a most un-bluestocking-like fashion that made him forget he’d ever been cold.

He deepened his kiss, her mouth melding to his. He wanted to make up for every lost second, every missed opportunity from the past or unlikely future. He wanted to savor her, breathe her in, and thank her creator for everything about her. From her elegant figure to her soft lips to her keen intelligence. Even her confounded love of order. If only they had more time.

He broke away to catch his breath, but his mouth was soon drawn back to her skin, kissing her temple, her forehead, one cheek, then the other.

“Mr. Weston,” she breathed shakily. “I . . . I think—”

“I think you might call me Henry at this point, don’t you?” he teased.

He glanced down at the water level. Was it his imagination, or had it remained the same as before they climbed atop the font? It certainly didn’t seem to be rising as rapidly as it had been. Henry would take all the time he could get with the woman in his arms.

He caressed her cheek. “Do you think it funny that we are standing on a baptismal font to stay out of the water? Or is it just my odd sense of humor?”

Emma looked into Henry Weston’s face with wonder. Her heart beat rapidly from their kiss and the rush of affection she felt—affection which he evidently returned. She had never felt about Phillip the way she did about the man holding her in his arms.

Suddenly the tower shook. Emma gripped Henry’s shoulders in alarm, and he tightened his hold around her waist. He began reciting the lines from an old hymn in his deep, masculine voice, stroking her cheek with his free hand as he did so.

“Then let the wildest storms arise,

Let tempests mingle earth and skies;

No fatal shipwreck shall I fear,

But all my treasures with me bear.

If Thou, my Jesus, still be nigh,

Cheerful I live, and joyful die;

Secure, when mortal comforts flee,

To find ten thousand worlds in Thee.”

The words echoed within the stone walls, off the carved Greek gods of the four winds, and into Emma Smallwood’s soul. She breathed, “That is beautiful.”

He nodded. “It is. And I take no credit for it. Philip Doddridge wrote those words some sixty years ago.”

“And still very fitting today.” She swallowed. “Especially today.”

Then Emma paused, belatedly realizing that she had indeed heard the words echo off the walls. Had the roar of wind and waves abated somewhat?

She looked toward the west window. “I’m sorry you never got to live the life you wanted. Or see the world. Have an adventure.”

He chuckled low in his throat. “Oh, no? I’d say we were having quite the adventure, you and I. They always said to be careful what you wish for, but I wouldn’t listen.” He sighed theatrically.

She grinned, the act pushing a fat tear from each eye and down her cheeks. Traitorous tears! She was trying so hard to be brave. In control of her emotions.

“And what did you never get to do, Emma Smallwood?” he asked lightly, brushing the tears from her face.

“Nothing that really matters, in hindsight.” She shrugged. “Though I would have liked to travel. And perhaps encourage Aunt Jane to live her life. Live enough for the both of us.”

“No ordinary dreams? Of marriage, perhaps? A family?”

She ducked her head. “Perhaps.” Tears filled her eyes once more.

He cupped her face in both of his hands and kissed her again.

From outside, Emma heard the sound of a voice. Or was it her hopeful imagination, transforming a sea gull cry into a human call?

“Did you hear that?” she whispered, breaking the kiss.

He angled his head, alert, frowning in concentration.

Fragments of words penetrated the chapel door. Followed by the clear peal of a bell. Clang, clang, clang.

The warning bell.

Henry and Emma looked at each other, eyes locking. Then Henry gripped her arms. “You stay here.”

Henry jumped down into the thigh-high water. Clearly some of it had drained out through escape routes too small to do Henry and Emma any good. Even so, the cold water stole his breath.

Gritting his teeth, he slogged to the door, noting that the water level had risen nearly to its latch. Reaching it, he banged on the upper part of the door with his fist. “Open the door! We’re trapped in here!”

He paused. Listened.

“Not so close to the breakwater!” Julian’s voice. “What are you doing?”

“We have to reach the door.” Rowan’s lower voice.

“You’re going to get us both killed.”

“Give me the key.”

“Let’s go back.” Julian’s voice rose. “The waves are too high!”

“Not yet. Give me the key.”

No answer. Henry held his breath.

“Dash it, Julian,” Rowan growled. “Give me the key.”

Crack—the sound of a blow. Fist upon flesh, followed by a thud.

What was happening? Finally there came the sound of metal scraping against metal. A key turning in the lock.

Henry raised his hand to the latch. What awaited beyond? A wall of water? Glancing over his shoulder to assure himself Emma still stood atop the font, Henry jerked the latch and felt it give. The door pushed inward by the force of the water, which rushed in up to his waist but no higher. Relief swamped him. Thank you, Lord!

Outside the door, where steps normally led down to the rocky path, now flowed choppy water, compliments of the storm and spring tides. Though the waves were still heavy, it seemed the storm had subsided. The sea covered the causeway so that the distinction between harbor and open sea was barely discernible. And there in the harbor, partially protected by the breakwater, rocked a small fishing boat. Rowan stood in the bow, legs spread wide. Behind him, on the floor of the boat, Julian struggled to his feet.

Rowan sat down at the oars and pulled hard.

Glancing past the boat to the shore, Henry saw Derrick Teague standing there arms akimbo, Major tossing his head, and Lizzie running headlong down the sand road toward the beach. Had she rung the bell?

Henry called, “Rowan, thank God you’ve come.”

Rowan fought the waves to maneuver the small craft back to the door of the chapel.

From behind Henry came the sound of a splash, and he turned to see Emma wading toward him. Henry met her partway, taking her hand and leading her to the door.

Outside Rowan struggled against the waves to keep the boat close. Straining against the oars, he said, “Julian, throw Henry the rope.”

“Julian . . . !” Derrick Teague called from shore, warning in his voice.

“Throw me the rope,” Henry commanded, stretching out his hand.

Julian looked from Henry, back to Teague on shore. He appeared torn, his loyalties divided. He looked instead at his twin. “You hit me!” he shouted, rubbing his jaw.

“It’s less than you deserve,” Rowan snapped. “Now throw the rope!”

Instead, Julian launched himself at Rowan headfirst, knocking his larger brother against the prow.

“Stop it, Julian!”

The boat quickly moved away from the chapel.

Julian snarled, “Nobody hits me, jackanapes.”

Rowan cocked his fist back and punched him again.

Julian reeled and lost his balance. He toppled backward off the boat, splashing into the churning water.

On shore, Lizzie screamed, hands pressed to her cheeks.

Rowan paled but sat at the oars once more and rowed hard back to the chapel.

Julian’s head appeared above the surface, sputtering and cursing.

Keeping an eye on Julian, Henry said to Rowan, “Miss Smallwood first.”

Struggling to keep his balance as the vessel lurched in the waves, Rowan stood and tossed Henry the mooring line himself, his face tense. “Come on,” he called. “This is only a lull in the storm. The worst is yet to come, according to Davies. Let’s get out of here.”

Henry hurried to comply. Holding the rope and bracing his leg against the doorjamb, Henry extended his other hand to Emma. “In the boat, Emma.”

“But, what about Julian?”

“First, you get in.”

Emma took his hand and extended her other to Rowan, awkwardly half climbing, half falling into the boat.

“I’ll kill you for that, Rowan,” Julian yelled, though he was clearly struggling to keep his head above water.

Henry climbed in behind Emma. The boat rocked violently, even though the water in the south side of the harbor was somewhat less violent than the open sea beyond. Henry took the oars, trying to keep the boat from facing broadside in the waves.

“Throw the rope to Julian,” Henry ordered between gritted teeth.

Rowan shook his head, face white. “He might capsize us. Intentionally.”

“We have to save him,” Emma cried.

Rowan looked at Henry for a decision.

Henry nodded and yelled to Julian, “Hang on. We’ll tow you to shore.”

Lips tight, Rowan threw the rope to Julian. Julian grasped it and pulled his head higher out of the water.

Julian’s weight added more burden, but Henry rowed with all his might, muscles straining, lungs burning.

The boat nearly capsized more than once, then finally scraped its belly against sand.

“Praise God,” Henry sighed.

“Amen,” Emma echoed.

Probably drawn by the bell, villagers appeared along the harbor, Mr. Bray among them.

Derrick Teague strode into the surf, grasped the struggling Julian by the arm, and hauled him up onto the shore. Scowling, he tossed Julian onto his back as so much flotsam. “Botched that, didn’t ’ee, lad.”

Julian coughed and rolled to his side, waterlogged and hacking but safe.

Henry helped Emma from the boat, then paused where he was, resting his hands on his knees, panting in exhaustion. He glanced over at Teague, saw the man glare at him and fist his weathered hands. Henry doubted he had the strength to fight the man at present.

Teague took a step toward him, but Mr. Bray gripped his shoulder.

Teague jerked free and wheeled on the old constable. “What?”

Bray said gently, “I was only going to thank you for helping the lad. Why not go home now while you’re ahead?” The constable said it kindly, yet there was a tenor of steel beneath his words. The men’s eyes locked.

Teague looked away first. “That’s right. I was helpin’ the lad. Remember that.” He turned and stalked away.

Lizzie ran to Henry, splashing through the surf, heedless of her gown. “Oh, Henry! I saw the light in the window and your horse on the beach. That’s when I rang the bell. I was so worried, knowing you were trapped inside.” She threw her arms around him.

Henry knew the girl looked upon him as an older brother and resisted the urge to put her away from him. Instead he awkwardly patted her shoulder. “Well, thankfully Rowan managed to reach us in the boat.”

Henry glowered over her head at Julian and shouted, “What the devil were you thinking, Julian? You have a lot of explaining to do.” Seeing the crowd gathering, Henry added more quietly, “But we shall wait and have it out in the privacy of our own home. Understood?”

His brothers nodded, but Lizzie continued, almost desperately, “I never thought it would come to this. Never!”

Mr. Smallwood jogged onto the scene, face flushed, breathing hard. Had he run all the way from the house? His anxious eyes riveted on his daughter. “Emma!”

Good, Henry thought. Her father was there. She would be safe while he dealt with the chaos that was his family.

Soon after, two carriages rattled onto the beach. The Westons’ landau, driven by their coachman, followed by the two-wheeled cart, driven by the groom.

Sir Giles hopped down from the landau, looking more spry than Henry had seen him in years. Henry guessed he had heard the bell and ordered the carriages. Now, surveying the sodden lot of them—and the assembled, gawking crowd—the baronet took charge. Ignoring their protests and urging haste, he herded his sons toward the family carriage.

Henry allowed his father to lead him into the landau, his half brothers arguing and Julian’s eyes flashing dangerously—though one eye was sure to be black-and-blue before long.

He tried to catch Emma’s attention across the way, but she was deep in earnest conversation with her father. Henry would have to talk to her later. Assuming she would ever want to speak to him—to any Weston—after this.

Emma was relieved to see her father alive and well, when she had feared him in danger but a few hours before. He held her tightly, and she embraced him in return.

“Thanks be to God, Emma. Are you all right?”

“Yes, Papa.” She noted his flushed face and labored breathing with concern. “Are you?”

“Now that I know you’re safe, I am.” He panted to catch his breath. “I was partway to Upton before I suspected I’d been tricked. I hurried back and when I found that forged letter in the schoolroom and no one else, I feared the worst. I alerted Sir Giles and ran down while he called for the carriages.”

He held her a little away from him, anxiously studying her. “What happened?”

Emma glanced at the curious onlookers and hovering groom. “I shall tell you later. All right? When we’re alone.”

He followed her gaze, and the groom quickly ducked, feigning interest in the harness. “Very well.”

Emma looked across the way. Henry was being led into his family’s landau, fussed over by Sir Giles. Henry glanced in her direction and their eyes met across the distance. She saw his lips move but could not make out his words over the shouting of his brothers and the roar of the wind, increasing once more. She shrugged and shook her head, meaning I can’t hear you. Who knew how he interpreted the gesture. He lifted a hand, in salute or in farewell, his face downcast in regret.

Seeing Henry join his family in the fine landau, leaving her and her father to ride alone in the cart, felt like a splash of cold water in her face, waking her from a vivid dream to stark, grey reality.

Realization seeped into Emma like water oozing through a hundred cracks in the wall of her being. He would never be allowed to marry you. Surveying the dozen yards between them, she knew what separated them was far more than physical distance. Henry Weston was the son of a baronet, and his likely heir. He would be Sir Henry after his father’s death, and she would still be plain Miss Smallwood, tutor’s daughter. No birth of distinction, no connections, no wealth. The line of demarcation between them was clearer than any actual line drawn in the sand.

Henry’s damp coat hung on her, as heavy as chain mail. Her knees trembled under its weight. Emma thought of all that had passed between them in the chapel. The way he had looked at her, held her, kissed her. The words he had said. But that had been when he’d thought they would not live to see another day.

Fingers of misgiving kneaded her spine. Had it all been runaway emotion?

She wondered what he was feeling now. Embarrassment? Regret? Might he feel he had inadvertently committed himself to her when he had hoped, perhaps even planned, to marry Miss Penberthy or some other wealthy young lady like her? The last thing Emma wanted was for Henry to feel trapped, obligated to her out of duty alone. She wanted his genuine, unreserved love or nothing at all. Seeing him now, seated with his family, Emma thought the latter the most likely eventuality.

Across the harbor, waves battered the chapel with renewed fury. Emma shivered, wind cutting through her wet clothes like a knife. Noticing, her father removed his coat and draped it around her.

As he helped her into the waiting cart, a terrible rending shuddered through her. A violent cracking, as though a frozen pond had been struck by a mighty fist.

She turned and saw the beleaguered chapel lean and then keel over, crashing into the water with a great splash. The hungry waves licked it, consumed it—and in a matter of moments, buried it beneath the water. Gone forever.

Around the harbor people stared, stunned. Emma looked at Henry in the landau and saw his gaped mouth. His grief.

Poor Henry, Emma thought. He’d loved that place. How disappointed he must be.

She inhaled deeply. At least he was alive.

And so am I, she reminded herself. And that was enough. It was time to be thankful.

And to start living.





The lofty pine is oftenest shaken by the winds; High towers fall with a heavier crash; And the lightning strikes the highest mountain.

—Horace