The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 28





On a fine July day, Emma went out for a walk, a new habit she had taken up since her return from Cornwall. She stopped at the vicarage to pay a call on her father and was surprised to find the vicar’s younger sister, Miss Lewis, there as well, taking a short respite from her sister’s children to visit her brother. And perhaps, Emma wondered, to visit John Smallwood as well? Emma found she rather liked the idea. At least, she liked seeing the happy twinkle in her father’s eyes—something absent for far too long.

Returning to her aunt’s house a short while later, Emma stepped into the former butler’s pantry, which served as Jane’s office. There, she found her aunt reading the post. She started at seeing Emma and abruptly hid the letters behind her back.

Curiosity and suspicion flared through Emma. Had her aunt received news of Henry’s engagement—is that why she didn’t wish Emma to see it?

“How guilty you look, Aunt. I can only guess what the contents of such a letter must be if you feel you have to conceal it from me. You likely wish to shield me from some unhappy news. . . .”

“No, my dear. You are quite mistaken.”

“Am I?”

Impulsively, Jane thrust forth a letter. Emma glanced at it and saw it was addressed to Miss Jane Smallwood. Emma could not immediately identify the hand, yet it seemed vaguely familiar. With a questioning look at her aunt, who nodded acquiescence, Emma unfolded the letter. It began with Dear Miss Smallwood, and was signed Mr. Delbert Farley.

Emma read only the opening line before realizing the letter was indeed none of her business.

“My dear Miss Smallwood. How pleased I was to receive your letter after all this time . . .”

Emma’s gaze flew to her aunt’s face. Her blushing, becoming face.

Stunned, Emma asked, “You wrote to him?”

“I did. My niece would give me no rest until I did so. Neither would my conscience.” Her dimple appeared. “Or my heart.”

The two women smiled at each other—smiles born of shared secrets and dreams yet unrealized.

Emma reached out to squeeze her aunt’s hand. Only then did she realize Jane’s other hand remained behind her back. . . .

Her aunt’s eyes sparkled but she shook her head. “You have pried enough from me for one day, Emma Smallwood.”



Emma continued planning their Derbyshire itinerary, including the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, and the Peak. But a few days later, Emma realized even their more modest tour was unlikely to occur.

Delbert Farley came to call.

Emma met him soon after he arrived, as he and Jane were about to depart for a stroll together around Longstaple. He was a dapper gentleman in his midforties with a charming smile and intelligent brown eyes—eyes which lit up every time he looked at Jane.

That evening, Emma made the rounds and checked on the pupils in her aunt’s stead. Passing the stairwell, she overheard Mr. Farley taking his leave below.

“May I call on you again, Miss Smallwood?” he asked.

“I would like that,” her aunt said without hesitation. “And please, call me Jane.”



Mr. Farley returned the following week. He and Jane spent the afternoon together, and then Emma and her father were invited to join the two for dinner that evening. As they ate, Mr. Farley told them about his life in Bodmin as well as the engineering advancements he hoped to implement in his china clayworkings there. He, in turn, asked her father insightful questions about the proposed charity school and discussed books with Emma. How could Emma fail to like him?

It was clear from Jane’s smiles and manners that she liked him a great deal as well. And though Emma prided herself on not making snap judgments, she thoroughly approved. A kinder, more gentlemanlike, better suited companion for her aunt, Emma could not imagine.

After dinner, Jane and Emma withdrew from the dining room to allow the two men to get better acquainted.

Jane led Emma into the office and whispered, “Emma, I want you to be the first to know. Mr. Farley has asked me to marry him.”

“Oh, Aunt Jane!” Emma took her hands. “I am so glad. Have you accepted him?”

“Yes. But, I am afraid this means our tour of Derbyshire will have to—”

“Of course we shall have to forgo our little tour,” Emma rushed to say. “You and Mr. Farley will want a wedding trip instead, I imagine.”

“Only a short one. He can’t leave his business for long.”

“I understand. I am so happy for you.”

Her aunt’s large eyes grew anxious. “Are you terribly disappointed?”

“No!” Emma protested. “I would not choose a trip over your happiness for the world.”

“If you are certain . . .”

“Of course I am.” Emma squeezed her aunt’s hands. She was happy for her. Truly. Though at the same time, she felt dangerously close to tears.



A few days later, Emma went out for a walk at her regular time. As usual, she stopped by the vicarage to see her father. She was pleased to see how well he was faring, happily occupied with both his fledgling interest in Miss Lewis and his plans for the charity school.

Emma was contemplating similar plans of her own. Jane had offered her the opportunity to take over the girls’ school when she married Mr. Farley and moved to Bodmin. But only if she really wished it. She urged her niece not to hurry into a decision but to give herself time to see if that was what she really wanted. The thought of a useful and secure future ought to have made Emma happy. And she was happy.

Mostly.

On her way back to her aunt’s house, Emma walked past the coaching inn. She paused in front of the destination boards, which listed the various places one might go from there and the schedule of departure times. Penzance, Exeter, Bristol, Bath . . .

Emma sighed. Would she ever go anywhere?

“Miss Smallwood!” a voice hailed her from several yards away.

Startled, Emma turned, stared at the approaching figure, and felt her mouth fall ajar. She blinked, yet the apparition remained. Came closer.

Henry Weston—handsome in green coat, buff trousers, and boots—strode across the lane.

He seemed about to approach her directly but then paused several feet away. The appealing smell of bay rum came with him.

He bowed formally. “Miss Smallwood. A pleasure to see you again.”

“Mr. Weston.” She curtsied. “I . . . am surprised to see you here.”

“Evidently. You look quite shocked. I hope you are not sorry to see me.”

“No. Not at all. What brings you here?”

He looked directly into her eyes. “I came to see you.”

Emma’s heart thumped against her breastbone, but she told herself not to raise her hopes. She reminded herself of what he had said to her before she left: “ . . . certain family obligations must be seen to. And I may not be at liberty to pursue any of those subjects upon which we touched in the chapel. . . .”

What if he had come to tell her he was engaged to Miss Penberthy? Was she supposed to congratulate him and wish him happy? Her stomach knotted. She would need to govern her expression and emotions with all her former restraint if she were to accomplish the feat.

She looked up at him from under her lashes, half in expectation, half in illogical fear of what he might say. He stood there, staring down at her.

Nervously, she blurted, “Your family . . . are in good health, I trust?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “That is, I don’t actually know about Julian. He has been sent away to sea as consequence for his actions. And we have yet to hear word of him.”

“Rowan wrote and explained Julian’s situation,” Emma said. “How is Lady Weston taking it?”

“It has been very hard on her, as you can imagine. However, I will say her disillusionment with her favorite has improved her relationships with everyone else: my father, Rowan, Adam. Even myself. So at least some good has come from Julian’s disgrace.”

Henry waited until a noisy farm wagon had passed, then added, “And as far as Lady Weston herself, she says she is relieved to be free of Teague’s demands at last. Apparently she had wanted to extricate herself from his dealings for some time but was unable to do so while he held the secret over her.”

“No more threats from Mr. Teague?”

He shook his head. “Not yet, anyway. He’s been too busy trying to avoid the new excise man.”

She asked, “How is Adam?”

“Very well, thank you. Mrs. Prowse dotes on him. And Father often plays chess with him of an evening.”

Emma’s heart lifted. “Does he? That’s wonderful!”

Henry added, “Adam always wins.”

They shared a smile at this.

“Lady Weston has even taken to listening to Adam play the pianoforte. I think it soothes her loneliness for Julian.”

Emma nodded, imagining the scene.

Henry inhaled deeply. “All this has been quite a call to arms for my father. He has taken up his role as head of the family with renewed vigor, I’m happy to say. He’s determined to take my brothers in hand while there is still time. And to release me from my responsibilities on the estate, at least for now.”

“I am happy for you, Hen—Mr. Weston.” She managed a tremulous smile.

He pulled his gaze from hers to the destination boards, and crossed his arms. “And you, Miss Smallwood, what are your plans for the future? Going somewhere?”

“No. That is, my aunt and I had planned to travel. But she has recently become engaged to be married, so . . .” Her words trailed away on a shrug.

Henry glanced at her. “That’s too bad. About the trip, I mean. Not the marriage. Your aunt told me about your travel plans in one of her letters.”

Emma stared up at him. “Letters?”

“We’ve exchanged several, yes.”

Incredulous, she asked, “You and . . . my Aunt Jane?”

“Yes. You know I’ve always been fond of her.”

“And she you . . .” Emma murmured, but felt her brow furrow. She stood for a moment, lost in thought, then realized he was looking at her expectantly. “Oh! Pray pardon my manners, Mr. Weston. You must come to Aunt Jane’s house. She will be so happy to see you.”

“Actually, I have just come from your Aunt Jane. She told me you’d gone for a walk and suggested where I might find you.”

“Did she? Oh.” Emma felt even more flustered now. “Well, you must come and take tea with us.”

“With pleasure.” He bowed, then gestured for her to lead the way.

As they walked she asked, “And how is Phillip?”

“He finished out the Trinity term well and is now home for the summer.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“So were we. Relieved and proud.”

Tentatively she asked, “And Lizzie? Rowan mentioned something about Falmouth in his letter.”

“Yes, Lady Weston and I escorted her there to rejoin her mother. She did not want to live with Teague.” Henry shook his head. “I cannot say her mother seemed pleased to see her again, unfortunately.”

“I am sorry to hear it.” And Emma found she truly was sorry for the girl.

Henry continued, “With Phillip home for the summer, Lady Weston was only too happy to deliver Lizzie to Falmouth. She hopes to end the unfortunate connection, as she saw it. She still believes Phillip might yet marry Miss Penberthy, but on that score, we shall have to wait and see.”

“Is Phillip terribly disappointed?” Emma asked.

Henry pursed his lips in thought. “You know, I don’t think he is. Lizzie’s somewhat sordid connections coming to light, not to mention her part in Julian’s schemes, seems to have dampened his interest.”

“And Lizzie’s?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps I am cynical, but I think she was relieved to depart with no harsh consequences and an impressive wardrobe in the bargain.”

Emma chuckled ruefully at his observation, knowing it was probably true, at least in part. Had Lizzie really loved Phillip, or had she only seen him as an entrée to a better life? Emma guessed her feelings had been a bit of both.

At Aunt Jane’s door, the maid, Jenny, let them in, sizing up the returning gentleman caller none too subtly. Untying her bonnet, Emma asked Jenny to let her aunt know she and Mr. Weston had returned and requested tea for three. Noticing a few curious pupils milling about, Emma led the way into her aunt’s private office.

In the confines of the narrow room, Emma was taken once again by Henry Weston’s height, broad shoulders, and sheer masculinity. How intense his golden green eyes were as he looked at her. How she had missed him. Her fingers itched to trace the lines of his face, the grooves on either side of his mouth, his lower lip. . . .

She looked away first. An awkward silence followed.

To her relief, Jenny brought in the tea things a few minutes later, the tray laid with Emma’s own gold-rimmed teacup and two of her aunt’s. “Thank you, Jenny. That will be all.”

After Jenny left them, Emma asked, “Will you take tea?”

“No thank you.”

She was surprised but relieved he’d declined. She wasn’t certain she could have poured with trembling hands.

“Will you be seated?” she offered, gesturing to the guest chair.

“No thank you,” he repeated. “I prefer to stand.”

Her teacup caught his eye, and Henry leaned down and picked it up from its saucer. He angled the cup to see the fine hand-painted image of Venice on its side. “I remember this cup. And I remember you threatening us within an inch of our lives if we dared touch it. And heaven help us if we broke it.”

“That was a long time ago, Mr. Weston,” she said quietly.

Eager to change the subject, she thought of what Henry had said about Sir Giles releasing him from estate responsibilities. She asked, “And what will you do with your newfound freedom? Follow the west winds? Embark on your long-overdue grand tour?”

He chuckled softly, but the laughter did not reach his eyes. “I do hope to travel,” he said. “But not alone.”

She swallowed. “Oh?”

Henry pulled something from his coat pocket and unfolded it. “Here is my itinerary.” He held the piece of paper toward her. “What do you think of it?”

Emma accepted the single sheet and glanced at the list of Italian destinations—cities, churches, ruins, palazzos, and pensiones—preparing to offer some polite comment. Instead she stared. She turned to her aunt’s desk, opened her notebook, and compared it to their own Italian itinerary—the one they’d had to discard. Except for the handwriting, the lists were identical. She glanced up at him, lips parted in astonishment.

He stepped nearer. “I had hoped to travel with my wife, but she is, as yet, unavailable.”

Her neck heated. “Oh . . . why?”

Henry dipped his chin and raised his brows. “Because she has yet to agree to marry me.”

He took her hands in his.

Emma looked down at their joined hands in disbelief. She breathed, “I don’t understand.”

He lifted one of her hands to his lips, pressing a warm kiss there, his breath tickling her skin. “I asked your aunt for a copy and she obliged. I hope you don’t mind.”

How could she mind when she could barely breathe?

“But . . . she never said a word to me.”

“It was our little secret.”

He brought her other hand to his mouth and kissed it in turn.

Emma’s heart hammered. “But . . . Lady Weston would never approve.”

He looked into her eyes and said, “I love you, Emma Smallwood. And I would marry you whether Lady Weston approves or not. But I think she’ll come around. Her pride in Weston superiority has suffered a fatal blow. After everything that happened, I realize you may be reluctant to take the name Weston, but I hope you shall.”

Emma studied his strong, earnest face, and searched his eyes for sincerity.

He gripped her hands tighter. “Will you marry me, Emma Smallwood? Will you be my wife and make me the happiest of men?”

Emma needed to understand. “But . . . you let me leave. You didn’t say anything. I thought . . .”

“I thought you would want nothing more to do with any of us, and with good reason considering your treatment at my family’s hands.” He took a breath and continued. “But even knowing you might very well refuse, still I had to try. I wrote to your aunt to test the waters. And she wrote back, hinting that all was not, perhaps, lost between us. Which, of course, lent me courage. But I would have come even had she not written back. Courage or no.”

Emma shook her head in disbelief. “Henry Weston lacking courage for anything? Inconceivable.”

“You obviously have no idea of the power you hold over me.”

“Power?” She shook her head. “What power?”

“The power to make me happy or miserable for the rest of my life.”

Emma felt a grin tickle the corners of her mouth. “I think I should take great pleasure in doing both.” Her grin bloomed, and she leaned into him.

He wrapped his arms around her. “I certainly hope for more happiness than misery.”

She raised her arms and cupped his face in her hands. “I shall make every endeavor to make it so, my love. In fact, I shall add it to my list.”

He chuckled, a chuckle that deepened into a murmur of pleasure as she stood on tiptoe, bringing her mouth near his.

He whispered, “Does your list include kissing me, Emma Smallwood?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “Items one through four.” She pressed her lips to his and felt a thrill of pleasure run through her. She pulled back slightly, looked into his eyes, and the intensity she saw there thrilled her even more. She kissed him again, angling her head to form her mouth more firmly to his.

He pulled her close, kissing her back with passion that stole her breath and left her knees as firm as pudding. Fortunately, he was holding her so tight she did not fall.

He broke their kiss at last, only to begin placing kisses on her temple, cheek, and chin. “Is that a yes, Emma?”

“You know it is.”

Tightening his hold around her waist, he lifted her off her feet and whirled her around the narrow office, accidentally knocking a glass vase and her china cup from the tea tray.

In a flash, Henry released her and lunged for the gold-rimmed cup, catching it just as the vase hit the floor and shattered.

Emma stood stunned, hands pressed to her mouth.

“That was close,” Henry said, rising with the rescued cup. He blew out a relieved breath. “That would have ended my chances, I imagine.”

She looked down at the broken, insignificant vase, imagining her cherished cup in fragments of green and gold. But instead of the grief she expected, she felt an unexpected bubble of mirth rising up in her. Of freedom. She chuckled. “I would have married you anyway, clumsy fellow, even had you broken it.”

He lifted the cup to his eye level and inspected it once more. “You know, this poor cup needs a partner. When we go to Venice on our wedding trip, I shall buy you a matched set.”

She smiled. “I’d rather have the other wedding gift you once promised me.”

His dark brows rose. “Oh?”

“You once vowed that if I ever married, you would perform the dance of the swords at my wedding breakfast.”

A slow grin stole over his handsome face. “I was hoping you forgot.” He set down the cup and stepped closer. “Do you also recall what I promised to wear while dancing it?”

The brazen man didn’t so much as blush, but Emma felt her cheeks heat at the thought.

His eyes twinkled as he drew her close once more. “Though perhaps we ought to save that particular performance for our wedding night.”

Emma’s cheeks burned all the more.

The door creaked open, and her aunt popped her head in, expression uncertain. “I heard something crash. Is everything all right?” Jane looked from the broken vase to Henry, his arm around Emma, to Emma’s smile. Surprise and delight brightened her aunt’s face.

For a moment they all stood there, the smiles of aunt and niece widening as they looked at each other. Scores of unspoken words passed between them, enough words to fill a book.

“Better than all right, from the looks of things,” Jane said, dimple blazing, and slowly closed the door, leaving them alone once more.

Emma leaned up and kissed Henry again.

She was certainly glad she’d had the pleasure of drinking from that cup. But she would not have chosen it over the man in her arms for all the world.





Author’s Note





Thank you for reading The Tutor’s Daughter. I hope you enjoyed it. Now for a few historical notes.

For anyone tempted to think poorly of parents who would send away a child like Adam Weston, I wanted to mention my inspiration for this character’s situation. One of Jane Austen’s older brothers was cared for, along with a mentally disabled uncle, by a family who lived in a nearby village. I had read a little about this before, but a recent visit to the Jane Austen Centre in Bath, England, brought this little-known fact back to the forefront of my mind. The museum guide told us that young George Austen was sent to live with a foster family due to some mental or physical impairment, though the extent of his disability is not known with certainty. (Some suggest he had epilepsy and may have been deaf and unable to speak as well.) There is no record of George visiting his family after he was sent away and none of Jane’s existing letters mentions him. However, the Austens did pay for his upkeep, and Jane’s father wrote of him, “We have this comfort, he cannot be a bad or a wicked child.” Some authors have criticized the Austen family, and others have defended them, reminding us that, given the era, the Austens behaved humanely and responsibly toward George, who lived peacefully and comfortably for seventy-two years, far longer than Jane herself. I tend to agree.

Also note that the Mr. (Henry) Trengrouse mentioned in the book was a real person from Helston, Cornwall. After witnessing the drowning deaths of over one hundred men during a shipwreck, he devoted his life and fortune to the invention of lifesaving equipment, such as his rocket line apparatus.

Another real person mentioned in the book was John Bray.

As is often the case, truth can be stranger—and more difficult to believe—than fiction. With that in mind, if you had difficulty believing that a man on horseback could rescue shipwreck victims, I am happy to tell you that I based that scene on the firsthand account of John Bray, who actually performed such a rescue as recorded in his An Account of Wrecks, 1750–1830 on the North Coast of Cornwall. For the descriptions of shipwrecks, wreckers, and law regarding them, I relied very heavily on this slim volume, not printed until after Mr. Bray’s death.

John Bray lived his entire long life around the area of Bude, Cornwall, the inspiration for the fictional coastal village depicted in this novel. My husband and I had the pleasure of visiting Bude during our second trip to England—a serendipitous, unplanned stop in our whirlwind tour of Devon and Cornwall. From our hotel on the north side of the harbor or “haven,” I spied a large red-stone manor high on the cliff opposite and instantly thought, “I want to set a book there.”

When we asked a local woman, she told us the place was called “Efford.” Further research revealed that the house was Efford Down House, and built by the same family who once owned Ebbingford Manor, an even older manor house nearby. I based fictional Ebbington Manor on a combination of these two historic houses.

My husband and I enjoyed walking up the cliff and along the scenic coast path to take in the wild, windswept views. Atop this headland stands an octagonal tower which inspired my Chapel of the Rock. It is actually a former coastguard lookout, known as Compass Point, built in 1840. From this vantage, we could also view the rocky breakwater extending across the harbor below. (According to Ecclesiastical record, there had once been a chapel out there, where a monk kept a fire constantly burning to warn of the rocks beyond. But that chapel washed away centuries ago.)

There is something thought-provoking and reverent about the stone octagon high on the headland. Something soul-stirring about looking out its narrow slit windows toward the endless sea beyond. If you ever have the opportunity to travel to Cornwall, I hope you will visit the lookout. In the meantime, I invite you to visit my Web site (www.julieklassen.com) to see a few photos of this beautiful place.

Before I close, I would like to thank my husband, who bravely drove on the “wrong” side of narrow roads lined with stone walls so I could see the southwest of England. Thanks, honey.

Fond appreciation goes to Cari Weber and Raela Schoenherr for their brainstorming input and insightful reviews. To Connie Mattison, special education teacher, for reviewing the Adam sections. And to Mark Sackett for suggesting flower varieties for a Cornwall garden. I would also like to thank my pastor, Ken Lewis, my agent, Wendy Lawton, my editor, Karen Schurrer, and as always, my readers. I appreciate you all.