The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 3





Emma and her father were left alone to eat a light supper. Then the housekeeper appeared to lead them to their rooms, candle lamp in hand to light the way.

“You are to have rooms in the south wing,” Mrs. Prowse said as they crossed the hall to a simple Georgian staircase, another addition to the far older main hall.

When they reached the half landing, her father paused, looking up. Emma followed his gaze as he surveyed the soaring ceiling striped by ancient roof timbers, massive and black as pitch.

He asked the housekeeper, “How old is the manor?”

Mrs. Prowse turned and swept her arm in a wide arc. “The hall itself dates back three hundred years. Originally it was all there was to the house, save for side wings for kitchens and stables. But over the centuries additional wings and floors have been built on.”

Ah, Emma thought. That explained the uneasy marriage of Medieval, Tudor, and Georgian architecture she had noticed, both in the exterior and now interior as well.

The middle-aged housekeeper led them up two flights of creaking stairs, pausing to light the candle lamps at each landing. “The north wing lies in that direction,” she said, with a jerk of her chin. “You are not to venture there.” She turned in the opposite direction and guided them down a long corridor, its floor slanting after years of warping and shifting.

She halted before a door midway along its length. “You are to have this room, Mr. Smallwood. And Miss Smallwood shall be around the corner at the end of the next passage.”

Her father frowned. “May we not be closer?”

Knowing how much trouble the housekeeper and her maids had likely already been put to, Emma hurried to say, “It’s all right, Papa. We shall find each other easily enough.”

Mrs. Prowse nodded her approval, then continued officiously, “You haven’t your own man, I take it, Mr. Smallwood?”

“No, I’m afraid not. But I shan’t require much help.”

“Our footman, Jory, will valet for you. And you, miss. Traveling without a maid, I understand?”

“That’s right.” At home, Mrs. Malloy or their maid, Nancy, had helped her dress. And Emma had taken care of her own hair.

“Then I shall send up the second housemaid to assist you.”

Emma felt a twinge of unease, as she always did when acknowledging she needed anyone’s help. But she did. Stays laced up the back, as did most of her frocks. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Mrs. Prowse started to turn away but then lifted a finger. “Oh, and before I forget. You are both to take your meals in the steward’s office from this point forward. Mr. Davies shall be expecting you.”

“I see. Thank you.” Emma realized she had been correct to foresee their status at Ebbington Manor as little higher than the servants. But she felt no pleasure at being right.

Emma bid her father good night and followed the housekeeper around the corner and down a narrower passage. Glancing up, Emma noticed old portraits high on the walls, their many pairs of eyes glaring down at her in the flickering candlelight. A shiver crept up her neck, and Emma suddenly shared her father’s wish that their rooms were closer together.

When Mrs. Prowse opened a door near the end of the passage, Emma stepped inside the room and was pleased to see a candle glowing on the bedside table and a modest fire burning in the hearth.

“Do let me know if you need anything,” the woman said, a hint of kindness in her voice.

“Thank you,” Emma said once more, feeling like a parrot who knew only one phrase by rote. She added a smile to warm her words.

Assuring Emma the maid would be up soon to attend her, the housekeeper took her leave, closing the door behind her.

Emma stepped farther inside and surveyed the room. Her trunk sat near the wardrobe, but she hadn’t the energy to begin unpacking. She’d had the foresight to pack a nightdress, comb, and tooth powder in her hand luggage and would make do with those for the night.

She had only just set these things out on the washstand when a quiet knock sounded. Emma turned. “Yes?”

The door creaked open and a girl’s head appeared. “May I come in?”

Emma was surprised the maid would bother to ask. “Of course.”

The young woman grinned impishly, bouncy dark ringlets framing her charming, freckled face. She wore no apron, and her ivory gown seemed too fine for her station.

Emma said bluntly, “You don’t look like a housemaid.”

The girl curtsied. “I thank you, miss. For I am not a housemaid.”

Emma’s face heated. “Forgive me. It is only that the housekeeper said she would send up the housemaid directly.”

“Did she? Good. I was afraid the old thing wouldn’t think to do so and you’d be left to fend for yourself. So I thought I would pop up and see if you needed any help. I haven’t a lady’s maid either. The housemaid attends me as well.”

“I see.” Emma waited for the young woman to introduce herself, but she merely stood there, smiling sweetly. A pretty girl, Emma thought. Probably seventeen or so. Several years younger than herself.

Emma took the matter in hand, saying, “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Miss Emma Smallwood.” She raised her brows expectantly.

“Oh!” the girl exclaimed. “Do forgive me. How silly I am. I am Lizzie. Lizzie Henshaw.”

Emma waited for her to explain her connection to the family. When she said nothing, Emma prodded, “And you are . . . ?”

The girl gaped. “You’ve never heard of me?” She huffed. “Those boys. I shouldn’t wonder. I am Lady Weston’s ward. I thought you’d know. I’ve lived here for more than three years now. Phillip never mentioned me?”

“Not that I recall.”

Seeing the girl’s crestfallen expression, Emma hastened to add, “I have not seen Phillip for nearly three years, so he very well may have mentioned you and I simply forgot.”

Lizzie shrugged in easy acceptance. “That’s all right. If he did mention me, it was probably full of teasing and jokes. Always likes to tease me. But that’s how young men are, I suppose.”

Lizzie cocked her head to one side, dark eyes glinting. “That reminds me. Have you met the twins yet?”

“No.”

“Your father will have his hands full with those two, if I don’t miss my guess.”

“Oh? How so?”

“They’re not accustomed to sitting in the schoolroom all day. At least not since their governess ran off with the drawing master. And that was years ago now.”

“I thought Sir Giles mentioned a Latin and Greek tutor?”

“Mr. McShane?” The girl nodded. “The vicar comes a few hours each week. And handsome he is too. Though a bit . . . well fed.”

“But is he a good teacher?”

Lizzie wrinkled a freckled nose. “I wouldn’t have any idea about that, would I? I walk by the library now and again to take an eyeful, I confess. But most of what he says is so much gibberish to me.”

How sad, Emma thought. Though she knew things like Latin were “so much gibberish” to most females. And that men—and the majority of women —preferred it that way.

Lizzie continued. “But otherwise, the boys have been allowed to run wild for the most part. Worse than their elder brothers, they are.” She shrugged. “But as I said, that’s how boys are.”

“Well. I suppose we shall meet them tomorrow.”

Another knock sounded, and a diminutive housemaid entered in mobcap and apron. She dropped a curtsy, then hesitated at seeing Lizzie in the room.

“Were you looking for me, Morva?” Lizzie asked.

“Ess, miss. I be in yer room, waitin’ for thee. Her ladyship told me to see to thee first.”

“Well, never mind that,” Lizzie said. “Attend Miss Smallwood first. I am in no hurry, whereas she must be exhausted.”

The young housemaid bit her lip.

“Go on.” Lizzie gestured toward Emma. “And if Lady W. fusses, just tell her I commanded you most imperiously.”

The maid’s brow puckered. “Most what?”

Lizzie paraphrased, “Blame me.” She opened the door, then turned back to wink at Emma. “I shall see you in the morning, I trust?”

“Yes. I should think so.”

“I hope we see a great deal of each other.” Lizzie smiled. “I for one am very glad you’re here.”

Emma smiled stiffly, the girl’s innocent words jabbing her throat—I for one am glad you’re here.

Within minutes the housemaid had helped Emma undress and left to assist Lizzie. Though tired, Emma decided to write in her journal, as she usually did before blowing out her bedside candle at night. She thought it might settle her. She sat in bed, smoothed the bedclothes over her legs, and situated her small, portable writing desk on her lap. Uncorking the inkpot, she dipped her quill and wrote.

How very disconcerting to arrive at Ebbington Manor after careful planning only to find ourselves unexpected and, apparently, unwanted guests. Had we not already let our house, I would have been tempted to turn right around and return home. But it is no longer our home, at least not for the next twelvemonth.

Hopefully, Lady Weston will come around to our being here. If only the younger Westons might take a liking to Papa as Phillip and even Henry Weston did as boys. I do hope Papa will rise to the occasion after his months of gloomy apathy. For if the Weston sons speak highly of their new teacher, that, I think, would go a long way in warming Lady Weston to the idea of an in-residence tutor. Not to mention the tutor’s daughter. Tomorrow will be an important day. I must do what I can to help Papa make a good first impression.

Our cool reception has been salved somewhat by two unexpected consolations. One, Henry Weston is not present at the moment. And two, an unexpected young woman is. Her name is Miss Lizzie Henshaw. Lady Weston’s ward, she said. I suppose she is the daughter of some relation of Lady Weston’s, likely orphaned to have come to live here, apparently permanently. I don’t believe Phillip mentioned her arrival. I wonder why.

At all events, Lizzie seems the most pleasant of the lot, or at least the only one truly glad to see us. She is several years younger than I. Still, I hope we might be friends. I would enjoy having a female friend, I think. It is not my habit to make quick judgments of anyone’s character. But early indications seem quite—

A strange howl reverberated through the door and up Emma’s spine. She froze, quill in hand, heart pounding. There it came again, a high-pitched wail like an ailing child, or a frightened woman, or . . . a ghost. She told herself not to be silly. There was undoubtedly a simple, earthly explanation for the unearthly sound.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut, listening. She heard no answering cry of alarm, but distant footsteps padded rapidly down the corridor. A servant, she guessed. But why would he . . . or she . . . be running unless something was wrong?

Emma reminded herself that she was no longer in their modest household with only Mrs. Malloy and Nancy to look after them. Here at Ebbington Manor, there would be a whole army of servants busy about the place at all hours, lighting fires, bringing water, and who knew what all. It didn’t necessarily mean that anything was amiss.

Did it . . . ?

Plop. A drip of ink landed on her journal page, barely missing her white nightdress. It was enough to shake Emma from her fear-induced stupor. She quickly blotted the ink and stowed her writing things neatly away. Then she forced herself to blow out her candle and close her eyes.

But it was quite some time before she calmed down enough to fall asleep.



In the morning, Emma rose and washed with cold water left in the pitcher from the previous night. She then dressed herself as best she could, checking her watch and hoping the housemaid would arrive so she could finish dressing and get an early start on the day.

Morva finally bustled in, muttering apologies. “Sorry, miss. Not used to having two ladies to attend, along with my other duties.”

Morva helped fasten her long stays and the back of her pin-tucked lavender frock. “There ’ee be. Anything else?”

“Fresh water might be nice, when you have a chance.”

“Oh. Right. And I shall see to the slops. But just now I’m off to . . .” Emma didn’t hear the rest of the small woman’s sentence, for she was already out the door.

Emma looked at herself in the mirror above the washstand. Her green eyes appeared large in her long oval face. Her cheeks pale. She had pinned her hair in a coil at the back of her head, but tawny dark blond fringe fell in wisps over her forehead, and a strand curled over each ear. She reached up to pinch her cheeks, then stopped herself. She should appear well-groomed and competent to make a good impression on their pupils. But beyond that, there was no need to try to look pretty.

Inwardly, she scolded herself for her tense countenance and rapid pulse. She reminded herself that neither Phillip nor Henry Weston were there to see her that morning. Not that she harbored any romantic notions about either man. . . . Still, one did wish to appear improved with age.

Her father was not in his room when Emma passed, so she went down alone. When Emma descended the stairs, there stood Lizzie Henshaw waiting for her, arms spread wide.

“Look at me, up early. It is not my custom, I assure you. Threw Morva into a spin this morning—my ringing for her so early and then having to attend you as well. It’s good for her, I say. Cheeky thing.”

Lizzie winked and propped a fist on her hip. “Why am I up with the birds this morning, you ask? Because I guessed you didn’t even know where to take your breakfast. Am I right?”

“The housekeeper mentioned the steward’s office, I believe.”

“And do you know where that is?”

Emma shook her head. “No idea.”

“That’s what I thought.” Lizzie cheerfully took her arm and led Emma across the hall. “This way.”

“But my father—”

“Has already eaten, gone for a walk, and is no doubt pottering about in the schoolroom by now. Early riser, your papa.”

“Yes,” Emma agreed, disconcerted to find herself getting such a late start on their first day. She had not slept well.

“Lizzie, did you hear anything last night?”

“Like what?”

“A strange wailing?”

Lizzie shook her head. “Probably the wind. It makes strange sounds sometimes. Julian says it’s a ghost, but Lady Weston assures me it’s only the wind.”

She added, “I don’t know why Lady W. insisted on putting you in that drafty room, so far from the rest of the family. . . .” She halted midstride, jerking Emma to a stop beside her. “That’s not true. I do know why. She’s unhappy to find Mr. Smallwood’s daughter so grown. Doesn’t want any unattached females near her precious sons, I imagine. She said to me last night, ‘At least Miss Smallwood is plain.’” Lizzie looked at Emma closely and shook her head. “But I don’t think you’re plain. I think you’re quite lovely, actually. In a quiet sort of way.”

“Th-thank you,” Emma murmured, taken aback by the young woman’s forthright speech and uncomfortable revelations. Lady Weston was an unkind woman, Emma thought, before reminding herself not to judge anyone too quickly.

“I had hoped you would be dining with us,” Lizzie said. “But Lady W. is a stickler about station. Pity. Meals are an absolute bore, especially with both Phillip and Henry away.” She sighed. “Ah, well. Mr. Davies is a decent chap, though a bit long in the tooth and grey in the side-whiskers for you. But perhaps Mr. McShane might suit you.”

Emma frowned. “Miss Henshaw, I—”

“Lizzie, please,” the girl insisted.

“Very well. Lizzie.” Emma did not offer the use of her own Christian name. Not yet. “I hope you aren’t under the misapprehension that I have come here looking for romance.”

Again Lizzie halted. “Have you not? Well, Lady W. shall be relieved to hear it.”

“Why would she think that is why I’ve come?” Emma asked, incredulous.

Lizzie studied Emma shrewdly. “Then, why are you here?”

“To help my father. As I have done for years. We . . . that is, my father teaches a great many subjects, and I assist him. Besides . . . my mother is no longer living. I should not want to be apart from him.”

Lizzie took this in. “I see.”

Emma noticed the girl did not offer any empathetic information about the fate of her own parents, but did not feel she ought to pry. Instead she asked, “Is there a particular reason our arrival came at a bad time?”

Lizzie shrugged. “I don’t know. Everyone was in a frenzy yesterday. I was sent to my room to stay out from underfoot. Something about Henry.”

“Sir Giles mentioned he left on some sort of family business.”

“Did he? I wouldn’t know about that. No one tells me anything. They think I can’t keep a secret.” She leaned nearer and winked. “And between you and me . . . they’re mostly right.”

Emma made a mental note to remember that.

Lizzie tugged on Emma’s arm once more and led her down a side passage. “Mr. Davies has his office back here by the tradesmen’s entrance.” The girl paused at an open doorway. “Here we are.” She gave Emma a wry glance. “Now, don’t get used to a personal escort. I plan to return to my lazy lay-abed ways tomorrow.” She smirked, and Emma could not help grinning in reply.

Lizzie left her, and Emma entered the room alone. Inside, she observed a modest table set with everyday linen and cutlery, and a sideboard bearing a spigot urn, teapot, and trays of assorted breads, cold meats, boiled eggs, and baked goods. A scattering of crumbs and used teacups on the tablecloth told her at least two people had eaten there before her. She helped herself to a cup of tepid tea and a cold egg and sat down to a solitary meal.

Half an hour later, Emma made her way up three flights of stairs to the schoolroom. There she found her father sitting at the desk, paging through a book. Two youths slumped at a table facing him. The room was long and narrow, its ceiling pitched steeply along one wall, with dormer windows overlooking the roof and a patch of coastline beyond.

Her father glanced up when she entered. “Ah, Emma. There you are.” He gestured her forward.

Emma crossed the room and stood beside his desk. How many times had she endured these awkward introductions back in Longstaple whenever new pupils arrived? Somehow she felt even more self-conscious in the Weston schoolroom than she ever had in their own.

“Boys, this is Miss Smallwood, my daughter, who will be assisting me from time to time.” He lifted a hand to each fifteen-year-old as he made the introductions. “Emma, may I present Julian and Rowan Weston.”

“I’m Rowan. He’s Julian,” one of them corrected.

“Oh. Forgive me.”

Emma looked at the boys. Young men, really. They were not identical, she instantly saw, but she could understand how her father might confuse them. Both had dark hair, worn short. Both had blue eyes. But Julian had a rounder face and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, which made him look younger. His eyes were a pale icy blue.

Rowan’s face was longer and more angular, his complexion slightly darker and clear of freckles. His eyes were a deeper blue than Julian’s, his nose wider and his upper lip more pronounced.

Both were handsome, but Julian appeared to be perched on the cusp of manhood, whereas Rowan had already arrived—he could have easily passed for seventeen. At all events, both looked older than she had imagined them.

“I am afraid we have yet to begin,” her father said. “When I arrived up here this morning, I was surprised to find the room in disuse and the trunk still packed.”

Her father had filled his trunk with the maps, schoolbooks, and other texts he’d used in his academy for years.

He continued, “I had to call for the housekeeper and ask for it to be dusted and swept. I am still not organized.”

“I shall put the room to rights,” Emma said. “You go on with your lesson.”

Her father nodded. “Thank you, my dear. Apparently, the vicar has been teaching the boys in their father’s library.”

“Mr. McShane said the schoolroom is for children,” the larger Rowan said, his pronounced upper lip curled. “And we are nearly sixteen.”

Mr. Smallwood gave him a patronizing smile. “I suppose that is true—you are young men now. And perhaps this is a fortuitous arrangement. For I might have my own domain and Mr. McShane his.” He looked at Emma and explained, “I spoke with Sir Giles this morning, and we have decided the vicar shall continue teaching Latin and Greek for now—finish out the week at least. That will allow us a bit more time to settle in here at Ebbington.”

Emma nodded her understanding, and her father returned his attention to the book he’d been paging through.

“Emma, I am trying to find that passage about the importance of the classics in education. Do you recall where it is?”

“Chapter two, I believe. About midway through.”

After flipping a few more pages, his eyes lit. “Ah yes. Here it is. Boys, please turn to page fifteen in your texts.”

The boys opened their books—Julian eagerly, Rowan lethargically.

Her father looked at Julian. “If you will read the first paragraph, Rowan?”

“Julian,” the smaller youth gritted out, his tone not matching his sweet, boyish face.

“Right. I beg your pardon.”

Oh dear, Emma thought. Not a good start. She would have to help her father learn to differentiate the boys and remember which was which.

And perhaps insist he wear his spectacles.

Leaving the males to their first lesson, Emma moved to the trunk in the corner and began to quietly and she hoped unobtrusively unpack her father’s books and supplies. She decided to organize a separate shelf of their own books, to make it easier to extract their volumes when it was time to leave.

She barely noticed when her father released the boys for a respite. And when he announced he was going to take a turn about the grounds to stretch his limbs, she mumbled something and went on sorting. There were many good books on the schoolroom shelves. Books that had likely sat there for years, unread. There was no logic to their order, but Emma began to remedy that. She decided to create an index by subject and author to aid in future reference. She loved to catalog, organize, and make order of chaos.

Those books she was unfamiliar with, she flipped through, reading enough to catalog its subject. Many she found fascinating. What a shame no one read them. If such treasures had been left here in the schoolroom, what must Sir Giles’s library hold? She wondered if he would invite her to peruse it while she was there.

Although, if he was anything like his son Henry, perhaps not.

When Phillip had come to Longstaple, he had happily shared the few books he had brought with him. His older brother, on the other hand, had not. That was what she remembered most about Henry Weston’s arrival all those years ago. . . .

She had been a girl of eleven when he’d first arrived—fourteen, sullen, and resentful. She had only asked if he might like some help putting away his things, her eyes drawn to the stack of books in his trunk. But he had slammed the lid closed.

“I’ll thank you to leave my things alone. There are no dolls here.”

She pointed to two cases of tin soldiers lying on his bed. “Then what are those?”

His green eyes narrowed, hardened. “Miniature military figures. And if I hear them referred to by any other name, or if I find you have so much as touched them, I shall make you very sorry.”

She gasped, then snapped, “I can certainly see why your family sent you away.”

Emma could hardly believe those words had come from her mouth. Never had she said anything so meanspirited in her life. And certainly not to a new pupil. What had come over her? His cold, superior attitude and rudeness were vexing, yes. But no excuse. She had always controlled her tongue, regardless of provocation.

For a second, the flinty layer of glass fell from his eyes, and she glimpsed an unexpected vulnerability. But a moment later, his eyes hardened once more, and his mouth cinched tight. He shut the door in her face—leaving her out in the passage alone.

A girl’s voice interrupted Emma’s reminiscing. “Are you never going to come away?”

Emma turned to see Lizzie standing in the schoolroom doorway, dimples in her cheeks.

“How dedicated you are,” Lizzie continued. “Still working away after all the males have gone. I gather your father decided to start with only half a day today.”

Emma looked around and frowned. “What time is it?”

“After four. You’ve missed tea and will be late for dinner if you don’t go and change now.”

Emma rose from knees she’d just realized were stiff and aching. “Change?”

“Yes, we dress for dinner here, even in uncivilized Cornwall,” Lizzie teased. “And so shall you. For you’ve dust on your hems and on your cheek.”

Self-conscious, Emma’s hand went to her face.

Lizzie withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to her, pointing to the mirror spot on her own cheek as guide.

Emma wiped the spot. “Gone?”

“Better.” Lizzie tugged her hand. “Come on, I shall help you change your frock. Who knows where Morva is this time of day.”

“But don’t you need to change as well?”

“Oh, I have plenty of time,” Lizzie explained. “The family eats a bit later.”

“Ah.” Was Lizzie family, then?

On their way down to Emma’s room, Emma heard Lady Weston greeting her sons on the landing below.

Lizzie grasped her arm and put a finger to her lips. “Shh . . .”

“So how went your first day with the new tutor?” Lady Weston asked.

“A dead bore, Mamma,” Rowan replied in his low voice.

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” boyish Julian amended. “And Miss Smallwood seems amiable.”

Rowan added, “More so than her crusty old father, at any rate.”

Sir Giles spoke up. “Rowan, mind your tongue. Mr. Smallwood is a well-reputed and learned gentleman. He deserves your respect.”

“What has that to say to anything?” Lady Weston objected. “Really, my dear. You mustn’t chastise Rowan for merely stating his opinion.”

Emma was glad her father wasn’t standing there with her, overhearing their words. Increasingly uncomfortable to be eavesdropping, Emma gestured for Lizzie to come away. Giving in, Lizzie followed her quietly down the corridor.

When they’d turned the corner, Lizzie whispered, “Don’t take it to heart. I told you the twins weren’t accustomed to sitting in the schoolroom—except for the few hours Mr. McShane is here, making them recite Latin verbs or some such.”

“But they have never been to school?”

“Oh yes. They did go away to school once. ‘A good old-fashioned West Country school,’ Lady Weston called it.”

Emma was astonished. No one had mentioned a school. “Oh? Which one?”

Lizzie puckered up her face. “I don’t know. Anyway, they didn’t like it. I gather the schoolmaster was a hard man. And the other students a mean lot. So Lady W. fetched them home.”

Emma recalled something Sir Giles had said in his letter about Lady Weston feeling their youngest sons were too delicate to live apart from their mamma. She wondered why they had sent the boys to some unknown school, when surely Phillip must have spoken highly of his years at the Smallwood Academy. She didn’t think even Henry Weston would disparage her father, regardless of his opinion of her.

Inside Emma’s room, Lizzie flung open the wardrobe and flipped through the few gowns hanging there, as eagerly as Emma might flip through a book. “Surely these are not all you brought?”

“Yes, actually.”

Lizzie tsked. “Are tutors really so poor?” She asked it matter-of-factly, without apparent criticism.

“I have a few more at home,” Emma said. “But I could only bring one trunk.”

Lizzie looked at all the books—piled on the floor and stacked on the side table, where Morva had displaced them to unearth the clothing—and said with a wry grin, “And you must have your books.”

“Exactly.”

Lizzie idly picked up the top book on the stack. “I have never cared much for reading.”

Emma jested, “And here I’d hoped we were going to be friends.”

Lizzie looked up at her sharply.

Emma hurried to say, “I was only joking. I realize most women are not as keen on books as I am.”

“A real bluestocking,” Lizzie said. “That’s how Henry described you once when he and Phillip were speaking of your academy.”

Emma lifted her mouth in a humorless smile. “Yes, that sounds like something he would say.”

Lizzie picked up another volume from the bedside table, and Emma’s heart lurched.

“Oh, that’s only my journal,” she said, hurrying over. “You don’t want that.” Emma held out her palm, barely resisting the urge to snatch the journal from the girl’s hand.

Was it her imagination, or did Lizzie hesitate? But a moment later, Lizzie handed it over with her usual dimpled grin.

“Ooh la la! A real gothic romance, I don’t doubt. What secrets and scandals it must contain.” She wagged her eyebrows comically. “Now that’s a book that might very well hold my attention.”

Cradling her journal, Emma made a mental note to add nosy to her list of Lizzie Henshaw’s qualities.

Lizzie helped her change into her favorite gown of ivory muslin with pink flowers embroidered at bodice and hem. Then Emma slipped her arms into an open robe of dusty rose, which buttoned under her bosom and was trimmed with lace at the neckline and cuffs. Lizzie commented that she thought the old-fashioned overdress quite charming and had not seen one in an age. Emma forced a smile and thanked her, and then the two walked downstairs together.

Conversationally, Emma asked, “Phillip was home for Easter, I trust?”

“Yes. For nearly a fortnight before he had to return for the next term.”

“And how did he seem to you?”

“Homesick.”

Emma gave the girl a sidelong glance. “He is not enjoying university?”

“Who could enjoy school? No offense, Miss Smallwood.”

They arrived at the steward’s office, sparing Emma the need to reply. Her father stood just inside, waiting as Mr. Davies poured two glasses of something.

“This is my father, Mr. Smallwood,” Emma began. “May I present Miss Lizzie Henshaw.”

“How do you do, Miss Henshaw.”

At her father’s inquisitive look, Emma added, “Miss Henshaw is Lady Weston’s ward.”

“Ah. I see. Well, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The steward turned and made a sharp bow. “Good evening, Miss Smallwood. Liz—Miss Henshaw.”

“Mr. Davies,” Emma greeted the man, whom she had met briefly when they arrived. He wore the clothes of a gentleman, in bleak black. His slicked-down hair was still dark, though his side-whiskers bristled silver. His face sagged in a weary, hound-dog fashion, and his voice carried an accent strange to her ear. Faded Scots, perhaps?

Her father accepted a glass of sherry. “I was about to ask Mr. Davies when we might be seeing Henry.” He addressed Lizzie, “But perhaps you know?”

Lizzie reared her head back. “I don’t know. I’ve no idea where he’s even gone. Do you know, Davies?”

The steward’s face wrinkled into a grimace. “I . . . That is . . .” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know when Master Henry shall be returning; don’t think anyone knows exactly.”

Lizzie shot Emma an exasperated look. “Told you no one trusts me.” She narrowed her eyes at the steward. “Apparently, not even our Mr. Davies here. Well.” She drew herself up. “I shall leave you to your dinner. Don’t talk about me now.” She fluttered a wave, grinned at Emma, then whirled from the room.

After she had gone, Emma sat at the small table while a servant—by appearance even younger than Julian—served their meal. As they ate, Mr. Davies told them a little about himself. He had been with Lady Weston’s family as their butler when she was a girl. Upon her marriage to Sir Giles, Davies had come with Violet Heale-Weston to Ebbington Manor as steward—overseeing the estate accounts, tenants, and servants. He had been married, but his wife had died several years ago.

Emma’s father mentioned the loss of his own wife, and the two widowers spoke in quiet empathy for some time, allowing Emma—weary from all the upheaval of recent weeks—the luxury of lapsing into silence.

She excused herself as soon as etiquette allowed, retreated to her room, and rang for Morva to help her undress. After the maid left her, Emma sank gratefully into bed with her journal but fell asleep before writing a single word.





Clever girls were looked at with suspicion. They earned the title “bluestockings,” and it was not a term of admiration.

—Sharon Laudermilk and Teresa L. Hamlin, The Regency Companion