The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 5





That evening, Emma, her father, and Mr. Davies were just finishing their dinner when Henry Weston knocked on the open office door. Emma’s body tensed as though expecting a blow.

Davies made to rise, but Mr. Weston raised his palm. “Don’t get up. I am only here to greet Mr. Smallwood.”

Her father rose from the table. “Henry!” He beamed and strode across the room, hand extended.

Ignoring Emma, Henry Weston walked forward and shook her father’s hand.

He looked very elegant in evening clothes, Emma noticed. Cravat and patterned waistcoat showed between the lapels of his dark coat. A white shirt collar framed each side of his well-defined jaw.

Her fathered pummeled the younger man’s shoulder good-naturedly. “Good heavens, taller than I am. How are you, my boy?”

Mr. Weston said, “I am well. Though I regret I was not here when you first arrived, and that your welcome was not all it should have been.”

“Now, now, not another word about that,” her father said. “We are very happy to be here, Emma and I, especially now that you are among us.” He turned to her. “Are we not, my dear?”

Emma’s smile felt stiff. “Oh . . . yes.”

Her father tilted his head back to better view Henry’s face. “Seeing you again does my heart good.”

A hint of a smile lifted Mr. Weston’s mouth. “And mine. What good memories I have of my years in Longstaple with you.” He looked at the steward. “Mr. Smallwood was my tutor before Oxford, Mr. Davies. Do you recall? Phillip’s as well.”

“I do recall, yes,” Mr. Davies said dryly. “I sent the payments, after all.”

If Henry heard this, he gave no indication, his eyes tilting upward in memory. “Happy days.”

Emma nearly choked to hear him categorize them as such. Suspicion flared through her. What was he up to?

Her father went on to say he hoped they would be seeing a great deal of each other now that Henry had come home.

Mr. Weston, in turn, suggested they might play a game of backgammon of an evening, and her father heartily agreed.

Henry’s gaze swept the table, avoiding Emma, before returning to Mr. Smallwood. “Well, I shall let you return to your dinner. Again, welcome to Ebbington Manor. If there’s anything you need while you’re here, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

As though he is the host, Emma thought. Perhaps he was.

Her father smiled. “Thank you.”

Henry gave a slight bow, nodded toward Emma without meeting her eyes, then turned and left the room.

Her father resumed his seat. “Well,” he began, spooning into his pudding. “He has certainly turned out well, I must say.”

A conclusion based on what? Emma wondered. A few polite words? It would take more than that to convince her he had changed from the churlish Henry of old.

After dinner, Emma went upstairs. It was still early, but she looked forward to writing in her journal and reading for several hours before she went to sleep. The image of Henry Weston’s face, seven years older and apparently benign, made her suspicious. Had he set a trap in her room—did some prank await her? Was that what explained the pleasant looks and warm greetings?

He’s a grown man now, Emma, she told herself. He would not do something so juvenile. She reminded herself how vehemently he had denied entering her room and leaving the toy soldier.

Stepping inside, she looked around. The room seemed as she had left it. She regarded her bed. Emma made her own bed every morning, before Morva had the opportunity. Was that a slight lump beneath the bedclothes, or only her imagination?

It was all too easy to recall that long-ago night when Emma had climbed into her bed at home, ignoring a small lump beneath her bedclothes. The lump that sprang to life as she pulled up the covers, clawing in desperation, scratching against her leg and squeaking piteously. Emma’s skin crawled even now at the memory. She had screamed, she was embarrassed to recall. And Mrs. Malloy had come running with her stout candle lamp and threw back the bedclothes, exposing a writhing stocking—a mouse had been trapped inside and the end tied.

The boys had all been summoned and the responsible party asked to step forward. But the four boys with them at the time stood unified in their solidarity with protestations of innocence.

Emma knew very well it had been Henry Weston who had done it. But her father, partial to Henry, had not wanted to make a fuss. Henry was, after all, the eldest son and heir of Sir Giles, Baronet. It was a great privilege to have him at the Smallwood Academy.

Now unwilling to risk a surprise, Emma gingerly approached the bed. With an anticipatory shiver, she patted down the bedclothes, then folded them back for good measure. Nothing. Only then did she notice the freshly laundered smell of the sheets and realized the logical explanation. It must have been Morva’s day to change the sheets, and in her hurry the housemaid had remade the bed in less than pristine fashion.

Emma shook her head at herself and began getting ready for bed, pulling the bell cord to summon Morva to help her undress. After the maid had done so, Emma settled into bed with her portable writing desk and journal.

I saw Henry Weston today for the first time in nearly seven years. He has grown taller, his shoulders broader. His features are more defined than I recall, angling sharply from broad, high cheekbones to a jutting chin. He has thick dark brows and wavy collar-length hair. His eyes are deeply hooded and golden green. Cat’s eyes.

Beyond his knowing smirk, I see little vestige of the youth who came to Longstaple years ago. He is all man now. All hard lines and confidence. I feared him as a girl, and the years have only served to make him more intimidating.

With a little shudder, Emma laid aside her journal in favor of a book.

Later, when she lay tucked under the bedclothes in the dark, thinking over the events of the day and her encounters with Henry Weston, she tentatively sniffed the air but smelled nothing save lye and woodsmoke. She listened for any strange sounds, but nothing stirred in her bedchamber. Yet from somewhere, through floorboards or snaking through stairwells, came the distant sound of a pianoforte being played. There was one in the music room, of course. But she had yet to hear anyone play it and was surprised to hear someone playing now, so late at night.

She wondered who played. Lizzie, perhaps? She supposed a girl like her would count playing the pianoforte among her many accomplishments.

Henry crossed her mind—his return correlating with the sudden music. But she did not recall him ever playing their old harpsichord in Longstaple. During the tour of the house, Lizzie had mentioned that Julian and Rowan played. It was probably one of them.

Emma relaxed back against her pillows, telling herself it did not matter who played. It was a pleasant enough sound, from what she could hear of the faint melody. Mozart, perhaps? Whoever played did so well, it seemed, though she was no judge, and perhaps the distance filtered out any sour notes.

She would ask in the morning, she decided. And with that, she rolled over and went to sleep.



While Rowan and Julian took their Latin and Greek lessons from Mr. McShane the next day, Emma went looking for Lizzie.

She found the girl sitting alone in the drawing room with her embroidery. From the doorway, Emma noticed several details about the room she hadn’t noticed the night of their arrival. The beamed ceiling showed this room had also once been part of the massive hall. Rich, dark tapestries graced the walls, and a watercolor of Ebbington Manor hung above the mantel.

Seeing no sign of Lady Weston, Emma felt comfortable stepping inside. She asked, “Was that you I heard playing the pianoforte last night?”

Lizzie looked up from her embroidery hoop. “Hm?”

“The pianoforte. I heard someone playing last night.”

“Really? Wasn’t me. I haven’t played in an age. Though I should practice I know. Was the playing good or ill?”

“Good, I think.”

“Then it definitely wasn’t me.” Lizzie chuckled.

Lady Weston entered the room, and Emma instantly felt out of place.

Lizzie said easily, “Hello, my lady. Miss Smallwood was just telling me she heard someone playing the pianoforte last night.”

The woman paused, then slowly turned. “Last night? What time was this?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Emma said. “I had already gone to bed. Maybe ten thirty or eleven.”

“So late . . .” Lady Weston mused. “And already in bed, you say? Perhaps you were dreaming.”

Emma felt her brow pucker. “I don’t think so. . . . No. I am quite certain I was awake.”

“Hmm . . .” Lady Weston murmured. “Perhaps you only imagined it. Such odd noises this old house makes, especially when the wind howls. When you have been here longer, you shall grow accustomed to it.”

Emma said, “I doubt the wind howls Mozart.”

Lady Weston’s eyes lit. “Mozart, was it? Then it must have been Julian. Such talent that dear boy has. Perhaps he slipped back down to play after he was supposed to be in bed. And who could reprimand him for that? When an artiste feels the muse, the muse must have its way.”

“I did not realize Julian was so accomplished,” Emma said. “I shall look forward to hearing him play again sometime.”

Lady Weston traced a finger against her chin in thought. “Yes. In fact, that is an excellent notion. He should play for us all one of these evenings. I shall suggest it. It has been far too long since we have enjoyed any entertainment. An evening of music. How delightful. Lizzie may play as well.”

“Oh no,” Lizzie grimaced. “You don’t want that, I assure you. I play very ill.”

“Then practice, my girl. Did I not hire a music tutor for you only last year?”

“Yes, Lady Weston. And you were very good to do so, I am sure. Perhaps Miss Smallwood would play for us instead?” Lizzie turned eager eyes in Emma’s direction.

“Thank you, Lizzie. But I don’t play nearly as well as Julian evidently does. Perhaps his should be a solo performance.”

“Apparently,” Lady Weston said dryly. “Now if you girls will excuse me.” She turned and left the room, seemingly forgetting whatever errand or purpose had brought her into the drawing room in the first place.

A short time later, Emma left the drawing room as Julian and Rowan exited the library with Mr. McShane.

The vicar hailed her, all smiles. “Hello. You must be Miss Smallwood. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Gerald McShane.” He bowed.

Emma crossed the hall toward them. “How do you do.” She returned the man’s bow with a belated curtsy.

The clergyman’s eyes shone. “Rowan and Julian told me about you and your father, and I have been eager to meet you.”

“My father has gone for a walk but should be back directly. I . . . hope you don’t mind us being here. We did not realize the boys already had a tutor.”

He dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. “I have only been teaching them Latin and a bit of Greek. Attempting it, at any rate. I’ve told Lady Weston several times that I am not equal to the task of preparing these two for university. So I was quite relieved to learn a proper tutor had been engaged.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“And your father? Was he unhappy to find an upstart had usurped two of his subjects?”

“Not at all. In fact, he plans to enjoy a long walk every time you come to teach.”

Mr. McShane grinned. “Glad to be of service.”

Emma turned to acknowledge the two young men. “Hello, Mr. Weston. Mr. Weston.”

Julian said politely, “You may call us by our Christian names, if you like.”

“Thank you, Julian. But I am afraid I must ask you to call me Miss Smallwood.” Emma tilted her head to regard the smaller youth. “I understand you are a talented musician.”

Julian tilted his head in mirror image to hers, one brow high. “You must have been talking to Mamma.”

“Yes, but I heard you myself last night.”

“Last night?”

“Yes, Lady Weston said it must have been you.”

Julian and Rowan exchanged a look.

Julian said briskly, “Might have been. I don’t recall.”

Don’t recall? Emma wondered—it had only been last night.

“He does sleepwalk sometimes,” Rowan added helpfully. “Perhaps that explains it.”

Emma looked quizzically from Rowan back to Julian. “Well. Whatever the case, I hope you will play again sometime when we are all of us awake to enjoy it.”

Julian grinned wryly. “But what if I don’t play half so well when I’m awake?”

“I’m sure you shall do very well.” She turned to the vicar, hands primly clasped. “Forgive me, Mr. McShane, I did not intend to interrupt your lessons.”

“Not at all. In fact, why do we not all go into the music room right now and listen to Julian play for us? I for one have had my fill of Latin verbs.”

“Hear, hear,” Rowan seconded.

Emma hesitated. “If . . . you are certain you don’t mind.”

Assurances were given, and Emma followed the three males down the hall and into the music room.

There Julian seated himself at the pianoforte. “What shall I play—any requests?”

When no one said anything, Emma suggested, “Perhaps the piece you played last night?”

Julian pulled a face. “I don’t recall what I played. But here is Mozart’s ‘Turkish March.’” He launched into the piece with youthful vigor. The march was up-tempo, spirited, and boisterous. Julian’s fingers flew over the keys, his skill evident.

Then why did Emma have the nagging feeling that he was not the musician she had heard the previous night?

Henry Weston strode into the room, expression tight. He looked from face to face, then visibly relaxed.

Julian looked up from the keyboard, brow quirked in question. Henry gestured for him to continue and sat next to Mr. McShane to listen.

As the last chord faded, Lady Weston walked in wearing a frown. She pinned Emma with a pointed look. “I said I would arrange a concert.”

Emma swallowed. “I . . .”

“Forgive me.” Mr. McShane rose, speaking up in her defense. “It was my idea to ask Julian to play. Just a little diversion from our lessons.”

“Oh. I see.” Lady Weston gave the clergyman a brittle smile. “Well then. No harm done.”

Hoping to avoid Henry Weston, Emma was the first to leave the music room a few minutes later. She made her way toward the stairs, glancing down the rear passage toward the tradesman’s entrance. There she saw Mr. Davies talking quietly to an elderly couple. He gestured for them to wait where they were, then turned and walked into the hall. As Emma mounted the stairs, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Mr. Davies hail Henry Weston as he exited the music room.

“That couple is here. The Dykes,” the steward said quietly. “Will you conduct the interview in my office or in your study?”

“Your office, if you don’t mind, Davies. I think that would be more discreet.”

“Very good, sir.”

Emma wondered idly what that was about but decided it was none of her concern. Putting it from her mind, she retreated to the schoolroom and lost herself in a thick volume of Cornwall history.

She spent more than an hour reading about Cornwall, its rousing history of rebellions, battles, pirates, and shipwrecks, as well as its superstitions and legends—giants, piskies, mermaids, and ghosts. She came across an interesting chapter about the county’s long tradition of smuggling and wrecking. One infamous smuggler was John Heale of Stratton. Was not Stratton a village nearby?

Her father and the boys came into the schoolroom before she could read further. She helped her father with the afternoon lessons, then returned to her book until it was time to dress for dinner.

She arrived at Mr. Davies’s office early and was disconcerted to find Henry Weston sitting with his steward and two well-dressed gentlemen, going over drawn plans of some kind. She slipped from the room unseen, crossed the hall, and stepped into the library to wait until they had gone. Newspapers lay spread on the desk—both local and London papers. She glanced at the headings. Parliamentary news. Accounts of the ongoing social season. She had no interest in the latter but did wonder why the Weston family had not gone to London for the season. As a baronet, Sir Giles did not have a seat in parliament, but Emma would have thought Lady Weston would enjoy the whirl of social events anyway—and welcome the opportunity to meet prospective future brides for her sons or stepsons.

The door opened behind her, and Emma jerked back. Caught.

Sir Giles smiled benignly from the doorway. “Hello, Miss Smallwood.”

“Sir Giles. Forgive me. I am only waiting for Mr. Davies and your son to finish their meeting.”

“Ah yes. Meeting with Mr. Green and our surveyor, I believe. About plans for a new canal. Or was it reinforcing the breakwater? I forget which.”

He glanced at the desk she was standing so near.

She hurried to explain, “I was just skimming the news. I haven’t read any since leaving Longstaple and was curious to know what is going on in the world.”

“You are very welcome to do so, my dear. In fact, help yourself to anything in here you find to interest you. I am afraid I am woefully out of date on current affairs myself. Can’t conjure the interest I once did.” He gestured for her to take a seat. “Make yourself comfortable. Or feel free to take the papers with you to read at your leisure. Henry is through with them.”

“But if you mean to read them, I wouldn’t want—”

“I don’t mean to read them. There will only be more tomorrow.” He turned toward the door.

“Please don’t leave on my account,” she said.

He lifted a staying hand. “No, no. I only came looking for Henry. I forgot about the meeting but will go look in now.”

“If you are certain.”

“I am. In fact, I will send in the hallboy to let you know when the meeting concludes and dinner is served. Might be late tonight, I fear.”

Emma sat down. “That is very kind. Thank you. I do enjoy reading.”

Sir Giles opened the door. “Yes,” he said. “Phillip once mentioned you were very well-read.”

Had he? Pleasure warmed Emma at the thought.

“Now, if you will excuse me.”

Sir Giles took his leave, and Emma began reading. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through mullioned windows and onto the gleaming oak desk, making the library a cheerful, sunny place—perfect for reading. She began by perusing the Royal Cornwall Gazette and the West Briton.

In local news from a week past, she read of the ongoing investigation into a shipwreck earlier in the spring off the North Cornwall coast. The ship owners were complaining of missing cargo, despite dispatching agents to salvage the crates of tinware and silver cutlery.

She also found a mention of Henry Weston of Ebbington Manor traveling to Helston as guest of Mr. Trengrouse to watch a demonstration of a new invention—a rocket apparatus to shoot a lifeline out to ships in trouble. Emma wondered how the demonstration had gone.

In the current edition of the West Briton, she read a brief article about the Ebford village council voting down Mr. Weston’s proposal to acquire a lifeboat from the Plymouth dockyard. She wondered why. One more article caught her eye:

Wrecking at Godreavy

The brig Neptune was driven on shore in St. Ives Bay. Some of the ruffians who assembled under pretence of protecting the property actually robbed the captain of his watch and plundered all the unfortunate seamen of their clothes. One of the crew, who got on shore almost naked, saw a number of miscreants employed in carrying off some rope and remonstrated with them on the atrocity of their conduct. He was told that, unless he immediately departed and refrained from molesting them, they would strangle him on the spot.

Emma shivered. “Uncivilized Cornwall” is right, she thought, recalling Lizzie saying the phrase.

She set aside the local news and began reading the latest Times. In the advertisements, Emma skimmed past notices from milliners and modistes, but her gaze was snagged by a London auction house advertising the auction of a new shipment of tinware and silver cutlery. That was a strange coincidence. Or was it?

A knock interrupted her. She looked up, self-conscious to be found sitting at Sir Giles’s desk as though some fine lady. She was relieved to see it was only the hallboy.

“Dinner is served, miss.”

“Thank you.” Emma rose, taking the London paper and one of the local ones with her, planning to read more later in her room.

She walked back down to the steward’s office, relieved to find only Mr. Davies and her father within. Setting the papers aside, she joined them for a hearty meal of steak-and-kidney pie, green salad, fruit, and fig tart. While they ate, Mr. Davies told her father about the meeting that had gone later than planned. The men had met to consider plans to extend and reinforce the harbor breakwater. They had also discussed the idea of building a canal and sea lock, which would allow larger vessels to enter their port, regardless of tide levels. This would bring in much-needed trade for the area.

Emma listened with interest, impressed to hear Henry Weston was involved in such important projects, though she would have been loath to admit it aloud. She wondered if she would have the nerve to ask him about his various endeavors. Probably not. She had seen little of him since his return, and he seemed to prefer it that way.

During a lull in the conversation, Emma brought up what she had discovered in the library. “I was reading the newspapers earlier and noticed a strange coincidence—an auction notice for tinware and silver cutlery, less than two months after a ship’s cargo of the same went missing here in Cornwall.”

Mr. Davies looked at her sharply.

What had she said? She added with a lame little laugh, “Is that not interesting?”

Mr. Davies stared at her. “Why would you bring that up?”

Emma faltered, “I . . . was only making conversation.”

Mr. Davies held her gaze. “Were you?”

“Yes. What else?”

Her father looked from one to the other, bemused.

The steward glanced at her father, then back at her. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Nothing. Merely . . . curious.”

After the final course, Mr. Davies abruptly excused himself, and Emma and her father exchanged perplexed looks. She wondered why her comment had apparently offended the man. Did he think she was turning up her nose at the local people—by assuming a theft where there was likely no wrongdoing?

She and her father talked companionably for ten or fifteen minutes longer, discussing the day and their lesson plans for the morrow. When she rose to take her leave, her father remained behind, hoping Henry Weston might seek him out after his own dinner for a game of backgammon.

Newspapers under her arm, Emma left the office alone and crossed the hall. She saw Mr. Davies standing at the drawing room door, talking with Lady Weston. At the sound of her echoing footsteps, Davies looked over his shoulder and Lady Weston followed his gaze. They both sent her veiled looks, Davies’s expression self-conscious, and Lady Weston’s speculative. They ceased talking as Emma passed and began up the stairs, giving Emma the distinct impression they had been speaking about her. Their silence and watchful gazes pricked her spine with each step. She could not ascend from their sight quickly enough.



In the morning, Emma washed, cleaned her teeth, brushed and pinned her hair, and then made her bed while waiting for Morva. After the maid appeared and helped her dress, Emma took the newspapers downstairs, planning to return them to the library after breakfast.

When she arrived in the steward’s office, she found Mr. Davies sitting at his breakfast, his own copy of the day’s news spread before him. He looked up as she entered and began folding the paper aside.

“Don’t stop reading on my account.” She smiled, lifting her own copies of the West Briton and Times. “I have brought something to read as well. Sir Giles was kind enough to lend them to me.”

Davis nodded and returned to his coffee without a word. She hoped he wasn’t still upset about her comment last night.

Emma filled her plate and sat across from the steward. She thought him a nice enough man yet never felt completely at her ease in his presence unless her father was there to help carry the conversation.

She tried to read as she ate but felt self-conscious—every bite, every sip of coffee seemed loud and echoing in the high-ceilinged space. She had left the Times folded to the auction house advertisement, and she noticed the steward’s gaze stray to it more than once. His eggs remained untouched, congealing on his plate.

Emma laid her index finger on the paper and slid it across the table. “I’m finished with this one. Would you like to see it?”

“Oh . . .” Mr. Davies puffed out his cheeks and fidgeted. “No, no. I have little interest in London news.”

The silence between them lengthened awkwardly. Emma finished her breakfast and excused herself as quickly as she could.

Wanting to escape the tension in the manor—some of which she had inadvertently caused—Emma left the newspapers in the library and decided she would see what drew her father out of doors every day. Was the view from the cliff path really so appealing?

Her father had already left, being the early riser he was. But there was no reason she could not go for a stroll on her own. She returned to her room and pulled on a long-sleeved pelisse over her day dress, tied a bonnet under her chin, and tugged on gloves as well. For though it was early May, her father had warned her of the chilly winds blowing in over the ridgeline.

As she came downstairs, her father was just coming in through the rear entrance, cheeks ruddy, collar turned up. When she told him where she was going, he nodded approvingly, and then took himself into the steward’s office for a second cup of tea and a biscuit. His appetite had certainly improved since coming to Cornwall. Emma categorized that as a good sign.

Emma ventured outside. Her half boots crunched over the pebbled drive and through the garden, its pathways lined with herbaceous borders, the stone walls hung with ivy and flowering vines. Clearly, spring came early in Cornwall, and the air smelled of apple blossoms, hyacinth, and lily of the valley. As she walked, Emma glimpsed many varieties they did not grow in Longstaple, like the fig and bay trees on the entrance drive—evidence of Cornwall’s mild, semitropical climate, provided the trees had shelter from the wind.

Pushing through the garden gate, Emma left the manor grounds for the first time since they’d arrived. She crested a shallow rise, and the wind picked up, pulling at her bonnet. Yet the sunshine warmed her enough that the walk was pleasant. She breathed deeply the cool, fresh air and for a moment could understand why her father, why men like Henry Weston, were so often drawn out of doors.

Walking through long grass dotted with pink thrift and swaths of bluebells, she crossed the headland toward the horizon, where the land fell away and the sea faded into forever. Reaching the footpath paralleling the coast, she took a few tentative steps closer to the cliff’s edge. Her heart gave a little thrill as she surveyed the sharp drop to jagged cliffs and rocky beaches below. Crashing waves struck jutting rocks in bursts of white mountains and flying spray. And beyond, sunlight shimmered on blue-green water.

Beautiful.

She looked farther out, ever westward, as far as the eye could see. Did the Americas really lie in that direction, far beyond her vision, her imagination? So she had read. How big the ocean must be. How small it made her feel.

Emma remembered reading that North Cornwall was one of the more remote parts of the western peninsula. Now she could see how true that was for herself.

“And what do ’ee think of our Kernow?” a gravelly voice asked from near her shoulder.

Emma started. Turning, she was surprised to see the red-haired man she had first seen in Mr. Davies’s office. She had heard no one approach over the sound of the wind.

“I . . . I don’t believe I’ve . . . heard that term before,” she stammered, nervous to be alone with the man.

He nodded. “That’s what we Cornish call this land. But the Westons don’t consider themselves true Cornish folk. And nor do we.”

“But the Westons have lived here for years.”

“Sir Giles may live at Ebb-ton now, but his ancestors let it out to tenants year after year. Or came down only for summers, or on business—this is where they made their fortune in mining, after all. But they sold off their interests in the mines long ago.”

Emma digested this, then rebutted, “The Weston sons have all been born and raised here at Ebbington.”

“Perhaps. But the elder two were sent away to larn a proper accent.”

“I assure you that was not in my father’s syllabus.”

He shrugged. “Hardly matters what they larned. They be gentlemen—others will do arl the work for ’em.”

“And what is it you do?” Emma asked boldly, resenting the man’s derision toward her hosts.

He replied as though she’d asked the question in earnest. “Most men hereabouts forge a living from the sea—working on sloops, or loading and unloading vessels in our harbor. Some are fishermen, or work in the pilchard salting sheds. A few work the lime kiln.”

“And you, sir?”

He gazed out into the Atlantic, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I suppose ’ee could say I forge my living from the sea as well.”

Though still uncertain of the man’s connection to Ebbington Manor—let alone his name—Emma hesitated to pry further. Prolonging a private conversation with him did not seem wise.

Galloping horse hooves caught her ear, and she glanced over her shoulder. She felt both relieved and chagrined to see Henry Weston riding toward them, a scowl on his haughty face.

She glanced back at the red-haired man, but he was already walking away. He tipped his cap to her in profile but did not wait for Mr. Weston to join them.

Henry reined in his horse and glowered at the man’s back before looking darkly down at Emma. “What were you doing talking to that man?”

Emma lifted her chin to look him in the eye. “He was talking to me. I was only being polite.”

“Well, don’t be. Do you hear me, Miss Smallwood? Stay away from him.”



That evening, Henry David Weston stood, staring into the looking glass as his valet, Merryn, gave his tailcoat a final brushing. But it wasn’t his own face Henry saw in reflection, but rather Miss Smallwood’s.

He thought back to their conversation in the schoolroom two days before. He had lied when he’d told her she had not changed. For she had changed, at least physically, since he had last seen her some six or seven years before. She was still tall and thin, but her figure conveyed willowy elegance rather than the leggy colt clumsiness he remembered. Her face had thrown off little-girldom and become more defined, with high cheekbones and a good mouth. She held herself with a dignity and admirable posture—when she wasn’t scuttling about on her knees on the schoolroom floor. He smirked at the memory of his first sight of her in Ebbington, her backside greeting him as she bowed down to her beloved books.

How strange that he still enjoyed provoking her. Perhaps it was because she had always been so dashed reserved, so in control of her emotions—assuming she had any. She guarded her reactions and words as though she wore bit and bridle and God himself held the reins.

Her hair was a bit darker than he remembered, golden brown and primly arranged in place of the stringy blond straw he recalled from her youth. And he’d been struck by her eyes. He’d forgotten they were green, like his. A soft green—when not snapping with irritation or challenge as they had today, when he’d rebuked her for talking to that man—a stranger to her—all alone on the point. Her irritation he did remember, and all too well.

He thought of Miss Smallwood’s question—whether he minded her and her father being at Ebbington Manor. That he had answered truthfully. Normally he prided himself on making quick, sound decisions. A man of clarity and action. But he still wasn’t sure what to think of their presence. Yes, his half brothers needed someone to take them in hand. Gerald McShane had done what he could, but Mr. Smallwood had far greater experience. Yet the timing was so dashed awful. What a week for his old tutor and his daughter to join them—with so many things up in the air. So many arrangements to be made. And Lady Weston still demanding utter secrecy. It was going to be doubly difficult to keep their secret concealed with Emma Smallwood under their roof. She had always been too clever for her own good.

Or his.





Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other.

—Benjamin Franklin