The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 2





On her father’s behalf, Emma wrote to Sir Giles, accepting his invitation to tutor his younger sons for a year at Ebbington Manor at the salary he’d offered.

Emma still felt nervous about the prospect, worrying how Phillip and Henry Weston might react to learning they—she—would be coming to their home. She fervently hoped neither of them thought it forward of her or suspected any motive beyond what it was—a good opportunity for her father.

At least, she hoped it would be good for him. She almost prayed it would be so. But, in truth, Emma rarely prayed these days. It seemed clear to her that God had ceased to answer her prayers, so she had ceased asking. She had learned over the years, especially since her mother’s death, to rely on no one but herself. If something needed doing, it would likely be left to her. Had not her recent act—sending an inquiry to Sir Giles—proved that truth once again?

So, as much as she dreaded it, to restore their finances and hopefully her father’s spirits, she would leave her safe, ordered life to help her father teach two pupils in Cornwall. In the home of Phillip and Henry Weston.

Even thinking those words caused Emma’s palms to perspire.





As Aunt Jane had predicted, tenants were easily found for the house. Jane had recalled that the vicar was looking for nearby lodgings for his married sister while her husband was away at sea. She might have stayed with him, but the small vicarage had only one spare room, and the clergyman’s sister had many children.

Emma’s father spoke with the Reverend Mr. Lewis, and arrangements were quickly made. More quickly than Emma had wished. She knew the vicar, yes. But not his sister or her children. What if they did not take care of the furniture and things she and her father were leaving behind? Inwardly, Emma checked herself. The truth was, she cared little how the furnishings fared in their absence. What she did care about were her mother’s teacup and their books. She wondered how many volumes they would be able to take along.

On the same day her father agreed to the terms of the lease, they received a brief reply from Sir Giles, saying he was surprised but pleased the Smallwoods were willing to accept his offer, and that they were welcome to come at their convenience.

The next morning, Emma and her father went to see the booking clerk at the local coaching inn and, with his timetables and advice, planned their best route for the journey. Emma wrote back again to apprise Sir Giles of their expected arrival date and time.

Then they began packing in earnest.

Considering the cost to transport luggage, Emma realized that she and her father could reasonably take only one modest-sized trunk apiece. They would not be able to take all their books. Not by far. She would need to select only her very favorites. With a heavy heart, Emma began the difficult process of sorting and choosing.

She packed up one crate of books she would not take with her, but that she could not bear to leave lying about the house for sticky fingers to find. These she delivered to Aunt Jane’s and asked if she would store them for her.

Jane fingered through the volumes in the crate. Robinson Crusoe, The History of Peter the Great, Gulliver’s Travels, The Juvenile Anecdotes, and more.

“So many children’s books, Emma,” Jane observed. “I doubt you will ever read these again. Why not give them to the church or the parish poor?”

Emma’s stomach twisted. “But I love these old books. I could never give them up. Never.”

Jane held up an old volume of Aesop’s Fables. “You must know these by heart by now.”

With an apologetic shake of her head, Emma gently took the book from her aunt and slid it back into the crate. “Just promise me you will keep them safe.”

That afternoon, her father paused at the open door of Emma’s bedchamber. He looked from her, to the open trunk, to the gowns spread on the bed.

“How goes the packing, my dear?”

“I am finding it very difficult to fit everything I want into one trunk.” Biting her lip, she extracted a bandbox and filled the resulting space with another stack of books. One hat and one bonnet would have to suffice. Then she eyed the two evening gowns.

Watching her, her father said, “Remember it shall not be forever, my dear. Your books will be here waiting for you when we return.”

Emma set aside one evening gown. How many would she really need? It was unlikely they would be asked to join in any formal dinners or parties. They would likely be viewed, after all, as little higher than servants.

Yes, her books would be far more comfort on a cold Cornwall eve than a gown of cool, crisp silk or gauzy muslin.

Other necessities? Her teacup, of course. A small chess set, to help her and her father pass the long evenings. One pair of indoor shoes and a pair of half boots for the coastal walks her father seemed determined to pursue. A warm pelisse, cape, shawl, and gloves, of course. Emma stood there, trying to decide between the Ann Radcliffe novel she held in one hand and the jewelry box she held in the other. Really it might be safer to leave most of her jewelry, modest collection though it was, with Aunt Jane as well.

Finally, she wavered over a small bottle of eau de cologne. Phillip Weston had given it to her the day he left the Smallwood Academy. He had given it to her without fanfare, with only a self-conscious shrug and a mumbled, “Thought you might like to have it.”

It seemed almost ungrateful not to take it with her now. Making up her mind, Emma crammed it into her already-stuffed reticule and pulled the drawstrings tight.



On the first Monday in May, Emma and her father visited Rachel Smallwood’s grave in the churchyard, stopped to say good-bye to the vicar, and then went next door to bid Aunt Jane farewell. Standing there on the path between their houses, Emma received her aunt’s kiss and bestowed a brave smile in return. While her father embraced his sister, Emma turned with a determined sniff and followed the boy and cart transporting their trunks to the coaching inn.

They traveled by stage from Longstaple, Devonshire, to Ebford, Cornwall, stopping every ten to fifteen miles to pay tolls or change horses at one inn or another. Other passengers came and went at various stops along the way—some squeezing beside them inside the coach, others sitting on its roof. At least Emma and her father had inside seats for the daylong journey.

From time to time, she felt her father studying her. When their eyes finally met, he raised his brows in unspoken query, Are you all right? Emma forced a reassuring smile. She did not share his enthusiasm, but she reminded herself—even remonstrated herself—that this had all been her doing. It was too late for second-guessing now.

As the coach jostled onward, Emma tried to keep images and memories of Henry Weston at bay, but they returned to worry her. She tried to read, but doing so in the rocking carriage made her queasy. She clutched her volume of The Female Travellers to her chest and told herself to think of Phillip Weston instead. She and Phillip practicing the minuet in the schoolroom or looking up at the stars together at night. Gentle Phillip comforting her when her mother had fallen ill. . . . But thoughts of his foul-tempered brother prevailed and pestered her throughout the bone-jarring journey.

When Henry Weston had first come to Longstaple, he had been sullen and resentful, keeping to his room, snapping at her whenever she dared speak to him, and forbidding her to touch his belongings. She had quickly learned to avoid him.

The next term, Henry had arrived early, before the other pupils. He seemed less angry and more resigned to being there. When he had quickly become bored with no other boys about, he had even asked her to join him in one game then another—football, cricket, shooting, fencing. . . . But, not being athletically inclined, Emma had refused each boisterous activity in its turn.

“Cards?” he’d asked rather desperately.

“I detest cards,” Emma had said.

“Riding?”

“I haven’t a horse, as you very well know by now.”

Frustrated, he’d scoffed, “Is there nothing you are good for?”

How she had wanted to return the insult with one of her own, but she bit back the angry retort burning on her lips. Very calmly, she’d said they might play a game of chess, if he liked.

Henry had reluctantly agreed. She quickly realized they were rather evenly matched and wisely allowed him to win. After that, chess was the only game he’d asked her to play.

When the other boys arrived, however, Henry began acting surly again, and critical in the bargain. When he came upon her reading—a frequent occurrence—he would pronounce some ominous prediction like, “Boys don’t like bookish bluestockings, you know. You shall end an old maid. See if you don’t.”

And then the pranks had started. . . .

No, Emma did not look forward to seeing Henry Weston again. If only Phillip might be there instead. She sighed, consoling herself with the fact that it was very unlikely self-important Henry Weston would seek out the company of a humble tutor’s daughter he’d once despised.





They arrived in the village of Ebford that evening, and there was no one to meet them. The guard and groom set down their trunks outside the inn, while the hostlers led the weary horses to the back of the establishment to be stabled. Apparently Ebford was the end of the line, at least for the night.

Emma and her father stepped tentatively inside the inn. The dim, low-beamed room was filled with roughly dressed men, pipe and peat smoke, and the odors of ale and fish.

“Wait here,” he whispered, and Emma stood beside the door while her father approached the publican.

Around the room, men cast suspicious looks at him. Emma looked nervously about but saw no sign of Sir Giles or anyone dressed well enough to work for him.

Her father asked the publican if anyone from Ebbington Manor had been in that evening.

The gap-toothed man shook his bald head and said, “No. Now, do ’ee want a pint or don’t ’ee?”

“No, my good man, I am simply inquiring.”

The man stared at John Smallwood a moment longer, then went back to wiping the tankard in his hand.

Giving up, her father turned and led her back outside.

Emma looked up one side of the cobbled lane and down the other. The small village curved in a crescent around the harbor. On either side of the inlet, cliffs rose.

Her father asked, “You wrote and told Sir Giles when to expect us, did you not?”

“Yes. Perhaps he forgot. Or something more important came up.”

He shook his head in frustration. “Sir Giles is too considerate to knowingly neglect us. More likely the letter was misdirected, or the coachman he sent for us has been delayed.”

Emma hoped her father was right.

After waiting another quarter hour, they gave up and hired a youth with a donkey cart to transport them and their trunks to Ebbington Manor.

“Goin’ to the big ’ouse are thee?” the young man asked, his accent deliciously different.

“Yes,” Emma replied. “Do you know where it is?”

“’Course I do. Ever’soul in the parish knaws Ebb-ton.” He pointed to the cliff top on the other side of the harbor. There, a red-gold manor house loomed in the twilight.

The brawny youth helped her into the cart. Her father clambered up beside her, and the young man urged his donkey into motion. They left the village, crossed a river bridge, and began slogging up a steep road, ascending the cliff. The wind increased as they climbed, and the temperature dropped. Emma pulled her pelisse more tightly around herself. The path turned at a sharp switchback and continued to climb.

Below, the village and moored boats in the harbor appeared smaller and smaller. The donkey strained and the young man urged until finally they crested the rise and the path leveled out onto a grassy headland.

Again the sprawling stone manor came into view, its rooflines of varying heights, crowned by fortress-like chimney stacks built, no doubt, to withstand the ravages of the westerly gales.

The path before the manor widened into a drive that forked into two.

“The front er the back of the ’ouse?” their driver asked.

“Oh . . .” Emma hesitated, recalling her earlier supposition that their status at Ebbington Manor would be little higher than servants. But how much higher?

“The front, of course,” her father replied, chin lifted high. “I am an old friend of Sir Giles and the Weston family.”

The young man shrugged, unimpressed, but directed the donkey toward the front of the house.

Emma winced at the picture they must have made. Presuming to come to the front door, not in a fine carriage but in a donkey cart. She wondered what snide comment Henry Weston might have to say about that.

“Perhaps we ought to have gone to the back, Papa,” she whispered. “With our trunks and all.”

“Nonsense.”

Closer now, Emma could see more detail of the house. The stone exterior shone a mellow, pinkish gray by twilight, with newer Georgian sash windows in one section, and older mullioned windows in another. The front door was massive and medieval—dark oak with black iron scrollwork and fittings.

No servant hurried out to meet them, so while the young man helped her down, her father alighted, strode up to the door, and gave three raps with his walking stick.

A minute later, the door was opened a few inches by a manservant in his late fifties.

“Yes?” he asked, squinting from her father to the donkey cart and trunks behind him.

“I am Mr. Smallwood, and this is my daughter, Miss Smallwood.”

The servant blinked. “Are you expected?”

“Yes. I am here to tutor the younger Weston sons.”

Face puckered, the man regarded her father, chewing his lip in worry.

“Who is it, Davies?” a woman asked from behind the door, her voice polished and genteel.

The servant turned his head to reply. “Says his name is Smallwood, my lady. Says he’s the new tutor.”

“Tutor? What tutor?”

At the incredulity in the woman’s tone, Emma’s stomach churned. She opened her reticule to extract Sir Giles’s letter as proof of their invitation. She had not thought she would need it.

The manservant backed from the door, and his face was soon replaced by that of a handsome gentlewoman in evening dress, though Emma noticed her hair was somewhat disheveled and she held the door partially closed.

She said, “Mr. Smallwood, is it?”

Her father removed his hat and bowed. “John Smallwood. And you are Lady Weston, I presume. We have not met in person, but I have had the pleasure of hosting your sons Henry and Phillip at my academy in Longstaple.”

“My stepsons. Yes. I recall hearing your name.” Her countenance rippled with several emotions, there and gone too quickly for Emma to catalog. Then the woman forced an apologetic smile. “I am sorry. We were not expecting you.”

Emma felt her cheeks heat. She could not distinguish her father’s countenance in the dim light but did hear his tone grow mildly defensive. “Were you not? But Sir Giles requested that my daughter and I tutor your younger sons here in the comfort of your own home.”

One arched brow rose. “Did he indeed?”

“Yes. We wrote back to accept more than a fortnight ago.”

Emma added, “And sent word of our travel plans.”

Lady Weston flicked a look at her but addressed her father. “He must have forgotten to mention it.” She glanced over her shoulder, then said, “Unfortunately, you have come upon us at an inopportune time.” She glanced to the waiting trunks. “But I cannot in good conscience, I suppose, ask you to return another time, considering the hour. . . .”

Her father stiffened. “We are very sorry to inconvenience you, my lady. Perhaps this young man will not mind taking us back down to the village. . . .”

Another voice rose from behind the door. A low male voice. “What? Who? . . . Good heavens. I quite forgot that was tonight. . . . I know, but it cannot be helped.”

The door opened farther, and there stood fifty-something Sir Giles in evening attire, though his cravat was missing, exposing the loose skin of his aging neck as it draped into his shirt collar.

“Mr. Smallwood. Please forgive the rude reception. My fault entirely. I am afraid communication is not one of my strong points, as dear Lady Weston is forever reminding me, and with good cause, I fear.” He ducked his head apologetically and looked up from beneath bushy eyebrows. “Please do come in.”

Her father turned to her. “You remember my daughter, Emma?”

The baronet’s eyes widened. “This is little Emma? Why, last I saw her she was no bigger than this.” He stretched forth a hand, chest high.

“Yes, well, children do grow up. As no doubt Henry and Phillip have as well.”

Behind them their driver cleared his throat, and her father turned, digging into his purse. But Sir Giles pulled a crown from his pocket and said, “Allow me.” He tossed the silver coin to the driver. “Thank you, Tommy. Good night.”

The youth caught it handily. “Thank ’ee, sir.”

Her father bent to pick up his smaller valise, but Sir Giles stayed him.

“No, no. Leave them. Our steward shall have them delivered up to your . . . uh, rooms . . . directly. Well, not directly, but do come in.” He held the door open.

Her father gestured for Emma to precede him.

Emma entered the vast two-story hall, trying not to gape. The hall was clearly quite ancient, unlike the modern windows of the side wings she had seen from outside. The hall’s darkly paneled walls were hung with crossed swords and shields.

Sir Giles led the way over the flagstone floor to an open door across the hall. “Do come into the drawing room here.” He turned to his wife. “My dear, would you mind terribly calling for tea and something to eat? I am certain Mr. and Miss Smallwood must be hungry after their long journey.”

Lady Weston’s smile was brittle. “Very well, my dear.” She turned back. “Any preference as to which rooms I have made up?”

Sir Giles appeared embarrassed, no doubt wishing he might have spared his guests the realization that no rooms had yet been prepared for them. He escorted the Smallwoods into the drawing room, gave them another apologetic look, and asked them to excuse him for just a moment.

Even though Sir Giles closed the doors behind him, Emma heard a few words of the tense conversation beyond.

“ . . . north wing.”

“No way to foresee . . .”

“ . . . nothing about a young woman . . .”

“For now.”

A moment later, Sir Giles stepped back into the room. Emma pretended to study a framed map of Cornwall on the wall.

Sir Giles smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Tea and refreshments shall be arriving soon. Might I offer either of you a glass of something while we wait?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a cheerful glass,” her father said.

Emma added, “I shall wait for tea, thank you.”

Sir Giles unstopped a crystal decanter and poured two glasses of brandy. “I imagine it has been quite a taxing day for you. First the journey, then a slapdash reception. I do hope to make it up to you.”

John Smallwood said, “Think nothing of it. We only hope we did not presume in coming.”

“Not at all. Not at all. I am only surprised and delighted you would come.”

“But . . . did you not receive our letters in reply?”

“Oh . . . uh . . . yes. But, well, they reached me at a busy time, and I’m afraid I was not able to give them my full attention. But all shall be taken care of now that you’re here.”

Sir Giles carried a glass to her father, then said, “You will be glad to know we have not neglected the boys’ education entirely. The local vicar has been tutoring them in Latin and Greek, so they are not complete savages.” He chuckled awkwardly.

Her father smiled. “I am glad to hear it.”

Sir Giles carried his own glass to an armchair, where he settled himself comfortably against the cushions. “You mentioned Henry and Phillip.”

“How are they?” her father asked. “Will we be seeing them while we are here?”

“Yes. Phillip is away in Oxford, but he will return home at term end. Henry has just left for a few days on . . . em, family business, but he shall be returning soon.”

Her father beamed. “Excellent.”

Emma forced a smile, even as her stomach knotted at the thought.





Such a trip as we had into Cornwall. . . . If you could have followed us into the earthy old churches . . . and into the strange caverns on the gloomy seashore, and down into the depths of mines, and up to the tops of giddy heights, where the unspeakably green water was roaring.

—Charles Dickens