The Tutor's Daughter

Chapter 8





The following evening, Henry sat with his brothers—Phillip, Julian, and Rowan—in the drawing room after dinner. They were sharing a rare jovial mood of relaxation and reminiscing, perhaps because Lady Weston had gone out for the evening to visit a friend, taking Lizzie with her. Sir Giles had eaten with them but then declared himself ready for bed. Henry suspected their father had not, in fact, gone directly to his own bedchamber. Or at least he’d hoped his father had a different destination in mind. But now Henry was sorry Sir Giles hadn’t stayed. He would have enjoyed this—four of his sons talking together, jesting good-naturedly, and laughing about old times.

Phillip said to Julian and Rowan, “It really is too bad the two of you never attended the Smallwood Academy, as Henry and I did. Then you would know what we’re talking about.”

“Well, at least we’ve now met Mr. Smallwood and his daughter,” Rowan said. “The rest we shall have to imagine.”

“I feel I can almost see the Smallwood Academy,” Julian mused, leaning back against the settee. “The small, damp bedchambers, the drafty schoolroom high in the rafters, Mr. Smallwood droning on in clumsy Latin—vomō, vomere, vomuī, vomitus. . . . Mrs. Malloy banging her pot to call you all to dinner—‘Come on, ya dirty litt-ul mumpers. Wash yer ’ands, or I’ll wash ’em fer ya.’”

Phillip burst into guffaws, and Henry bit back a grin. It was a fairly good imitation. But beneath the housekeeper’s gruff exterior—especially when reading the riot act to new pupils—lay a warm, affectionate heart.

Phillip leapt to his feet. “There’s Emma. Let’s ask her to join us. She should be here to defend herself.” Smiling, he hurried from the room before Henry could form a suitable protest.

Henry watched Phillip take Miss Smallwood’s arm as she passed in the hall, tugging and cajoling her into the drawing room.

“There is no one here but us lads,” Phillip teased. “And I know Miss Smallwood has never been intimidated by a roomful of rowdy boys.”

She smiled but looked self-conscious nonetheless.

“We were just telling Julian and Rowan about all they missed by not attending the Smallwood Academy.”

“Oh dear,” she murmured.

Phillip began, “I remember one time when Mr. Smallwood left Emma to administer an examination, and—”

“Did he?” Henry interrupted. “Why would he do that?”

Phillip drew down his lips. “I don’t know. He did so quite often when I was there. I sometimes think I learned as much from the daughter as I did the father.”

“He did not do so while I was there.”

Phillip shrugged. “Emma was younger then.”

And her mother’s health had not yet declined—nor her father’s spirits, Henry thought. He considered pressing the matter but, noticing Miss Smallwood shifting and twisting her hands, decided to let the subject drop.

“At all events,” Phillip continued, “Frank Williams—who’s on his way to becoming a barrister, by the way—opened a jar of the foulest cheese you’d ever smelled, set it beneath his chair, and continued on with his examination without a word. Miss Smallwood, assuming what anyone would in a roomful of boys, calmly opened every window in the schoolroom without missing a single Latin conjugation.”

The four Westons laughed. Even Miss Smallwood allowed a small chuckle.

Julian turned to him. “Henry, it’s your turn to tell us a story—one of your notorious pranks.”

Henry glanced at Miss Smallwood and hesitated. “I . . . don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do. You remember. Knocking on Miss Smallwood’s door in the dead of night, then sneaking away before she answered. Putting the mouse in her stocking, and then in her bed . . .”

“And that love letter you wrote,” Rowan added helpfully. “Signing it with another chap’s name.”

Emma Smallwood’s eyes widened, and she turned to look at him, brows high.

Henry felt his neck heat. His cravat seemed suddenly far too tight.

“That’s right,” Phillip nodded as the memory returned to him. “Pugsworth, was it not?”

Julian grinned at Miss Smallwood, clearly enjoying himself. “Did you really think this Pugsworth fellow in love with you?”

Heaven help him, Henry hoped she wouldn’t burst into disillusioned tears. Not all these years later. And not over Milton Pugsworth.

But Miss Smallwood remained her imperturbable self. “Goodness no,” she said. “For all his faults, Mr. Pugsworth spelled exceptionally well and had the neatest hand I ever saw. Your brother, on the other hand, never did learn to spell. And I recognized his sloppy scratchings the moment I saw them.”

Phillip gave her a long look of amused approval. “Bravo, Emma.”

Miss Smallwood met and held Phillip’s gaze with a smile as sweet and warm as honeyed tea.

Seeing it, uneasiness soured Henry’s stomach. Vomitus, indeed.

A few minutes later, Mr. Smallwood joined them and shared reminiscences of his own. When the stories finally waned, Henry’s old tutor slapped his legs and sighed. “Well, I think I’ll turn in.”

Miss Smallwood rose from the settee beside him. “I shall as well.”

“Good night, gentlemen.” Mr. Smallwood bestowed a general smile and wave to them all.

Henry stood. “I shall walk up with you.”

At the landing, Henry lit a lamp and led the way. He spoke in low tones with Mr. Smallwood, but remained keenly aware of the man’s daughter following quietly behind.

While he and Mr. Smallwood bid each other good night at the top of the stairs, Henry noticed Emma wander ahead into the alcove where his mother’s portrait had been relocated.

When John Smallwood disappeared within his room, Henry could not resist the opportunity to speak with his daughter alone. He walked over and joined her as she stood looking up at his mother’s portrait, lit by stained-glass moonlight and now his lamp as well.

He began quietly, “You recall, of course, that I won the Smallwood spelling contest every year I was there?”

“Yes, Mr. Weston,” she replied evenly, eyes remaining on the portrait.

“And you might also recall that your father declared my handwriting the best he’d ever had the privilege to read?”

“Yes, Mr. Weston.”

He looked at her composed profile and felt admiration fill him. When she said no more, he slowly shook his head, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

“Well done, Miss Smallwood.” He started to turn away but paused to add, “He did admire you, you know. He just didn’t know how to show it.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “Mr. Pugsworth?”

“Yes,” Henry said, then walked away, thinking, Him too.



The following day passed uneventfully, taken up by lessons and a stroll with Lizzie. Emma saw neither Henry nor Phillip all day.

That night, Emma lay in bed reading by candlelight. The novel was The Mysteries of Udolpho, by Ann Radcliffe. It was a gothic romance—not her usual fare—set in a gloomy castle filled with supernatural terrors. Emma wondered why the brooding, haughty villain, Montoni, had Henry Weston’s face. She had read the novel before, years ago. But it seemed more frightening now, here in Ebbington Manor, than it ever had in her snug home in Longstaple. She turned the page and read.

Her heart became faint with terror. Half raising herself from the bed, and gently drawing aside the curtain, she looked toward the door . . . but the lamp that burned on the hearth spread so feeble a light through the apartment, that the remote parts of it were lost in shadow. The noise, however, which she was convinced came from the door, continued. While Emily kept her eyes fixed on the spot, she saw the door move, and then slowly open, and perceived something enter the room, but the extreme duskiness prevented her distinguishing what it was. Almost fainting with terror, she had yet sufficient command over herself to check the shriek that was escaping from her lips. . . .

Creak.

Emma’s heart lurched. She froze, listening. A floorboard squeaked in the passage outside her room. It was only someone passing in the corridor, she told herself.

But . . . why would anyone be walking past her room, there at the end of the passage?

Emma picked up her chatelaine watch from the bedside table and peered at it by candlelight. Eleven. Surely too late for a servant to be up and about, sweeping floors or some such. The footsteps continued down the corridor and faded away.

She told herself to return to her book. Whoever it was had gone. Danger past.

Danger? How foolish. Her choice of reading material had definitely been unwise.

Emma laid aside the book, turned back the bedclothes, and sat on the edge of her bed. Curiosity nipping at her, she pulled on her wrapper and wiggled her feet into her slippers. Armed with her still-burning candle, she opened the door and listened. She heard the faint sound of retreating footsteps. Leaving her door ajar, she quickly tiptoed down the passage, trying to ignore the many pairs of eyes glaring down at her from the portraits of long-dead ancestors. She passed her father’s room and paused at the top of the stairwell. Hearing nothing from below or above, she continued on, passing doors she had never ventured past before.

She reached the end of the corridor where it intersected with a perpendicular passage—the north wing Lady Weston and Mrs. Prowse had warned her to stay out of.

Heart pounding, Emma gingerly leaned forward and peered around the corner. She held her candle at waist level, too nervous to lift it high, uncertain what she might find.

Down the passage, she saw the retreating back of a man carrying his own candle. As he reached for the door latch of the last room, she glimpsed his profile by candlelight. Wavy hair, strong nose, high cheekbones—the unmistakable profile of Henry Weston. What was he doing? Certainly his room was not in the north wing.

His head turned in her direction. She jerked back out of sight and pressed against the wall. Had he noticed her light? Were footsteps now coming toward her? She turned and hurried away on the balls of her feet, quickly and quietly scurrying back to her room. Hopefully unseen.



Early the next morning, Emma again dreamt of Phillip. They were back in Longstaple, even though Phillip was too old to be her father’s pupil any longer. He stood in the Smallwood sitting room as the man he was now—jawline and shoulders wide and masculine, brown hair thick, nose perfect, eyes still blue . . . and warm with admiration. The old affection she felt for him returned.

He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her. How strong he was now. His gaze lingered on her face, looking at her fully, openly, nothing hidden, nothing to hide. Warmth and nostalgic longing filled her chest. Yes, this was how it felt to be with Phillip Weston. Good, yet wistful at once.

Then he leaned toward her and his eyes grew vague and unfocused, looking slightly past her, as if not wanting to see her reaction, in case she hesitated or outright refused. If he did not see it, he need not heed it. . . .

As his mouth neared hers, she thought, Does he not realize how much older I am? That I am not that girl any longer? That we should not be doing this? Yet she wanted him to kiss her, to feel his mouth on hers.

“Miss Smallwood?”

His lips whispered near.

“Time to rise, miss.”

Shh. No. I don’t want to miss this. . . .

Click, clatter—the shutters opening. Emma winced. Sunshine poured over her, chasing the dream away. She begrudgingly opened her eyes and saw Morva folding back the last of the shutters and going to her wardrobe to pull out the next frock in Emma’s limited, predictable rotation.

Emma lay there a few moments longer, feeling the intoxicating pull of the dream fading but unwilling to miss a single moment. Like honey, sweet and sickening at once. How wanton she was, to wish the feelings to linger. That night in Longstaple was long gone. She could not kiss Phillip in real life. And likely he no longer wanted to do so. Was it so wrong to relish the feeling anyway? To enjoy the way it lingered, leaving her with a wistful awareness, a pleasant unease, as if she had forgotten to do something? Yes, it probably was wrong. But she did not wish it away.

Morva bent to pick up something from the floor and squinted at it. “Something for thee, miss. Slid under the door while thee slept, looks like.”

That’s odd, Emma thought, but held out her hand for the folded rectangle.

Morva gave it to her, expression expectant. Emma ignored her and focused on the letter. No seal marked its perfect fold. She turned it over. There was her name, clearly printed: Miss Smallwood.

Her curiosity trumped her qualms about arriving late for breakfast. Might it be a kind word from Phillip? Or a word of reprimand from Henry, if he’d seen her about to enter the north wing the night before? She unfolded the single sheet, noticing the studied handwriting, its angles and descenders even and precise. She read:

Dear Miss Smallwood,

I thought it was time you received a real love letter. I am too shy to speak to you of my feelings in person, but I want you to know how pleased I am you are with us. You have an ardent admirer here at Ebbington Manor.

I will be watching you. For I could gaze upon your soft green eyes and sweet lips forever.

Your Secret Admirer

What in the world? Emma felt her stomach twist in alarm. Likely not the reaction the author had hoped for. Or was it? She reread “your soft green eyes and sweet lips . . .” and felt her cheeks heat. Who had written this? Was Phillip attracted to her as in her dream? He certainly made it clear he was delighted to see her again. But ardent admiration?

She did not recognize the handwriting. But three years had passed since she had seen Phillip’s hand. Might he truly admire her?

Emma felt Morva watching her and quickly folded the letter. She rose and began washing for the day but was conscious of the housemaid’s inquisitive gaze following her movements.

Morva helped her into a day dress of patterned muslin with green ribbon trim at neckline and sleeves, then finally took her leave.

Alone at last, Emma looked at the letter once more. She found herself transported back to Aunt Jane’s house a few years ago, when she, then an adolescent with romantic ideals, had first seen the letter her aunt kept on her bedside table.

“Who’s the letter from, Aunt Jane?” Emma had teased. “A secret admirer?”

“Yes, actually,” Jane replied. “Though his identity is no secret. His name is Mr. Delbert Farley of Bodmin.” Jane nodded toward the letter. “You may read it if you like.”

Emma had read the letter, expecting little. But she was impressed. “This is a good letter, Aunt Jane. A very good letter, indeed. How do you know this Mr. Farley?”

“I met him in the bookshop several months ago,” Jane said. “I happened to be in the High Street and stopped in to poke around. I was skimming through a new volume on steam engines when I noticed a gentleman watching me. I feared he wanted the book for himself, so I offered it to him, but he said he was only interested to know why a ‘lovely lady’ such as myself should find such a book interesting.”

Jane’s dimple appeared at this.

“I explained that I was a teacher interested in many things. He told me he was in town visiting his cousin. You know Mr. Gilcrest who bought the forge?”

Emma nodded. “Vaguely.”

“Mr. Farley came to help him bring the old place into good working order. At all events, we talked for some time and I soon found myself agreeing to take tea with Mr. Farley before his coach departed.” Jane’s dimple deepened. “He asked the innkeeper for tea for himself and his ‘learned colleague.’”

Emma’s eyes widened. “What did Mr. Pruett say to that?”

“Not a word. Mr. Farley was obviously known and respected by the Pruetts, as well as several others in the inn. I felt no qualms about being in his company.”

Emma exclaimed, “Why did you not tell me this before?”

“I did not want you to follow my example of talking to strange men! It is one thing at my age, but not at yours.”

“Oh, Aunt Jane. You are not old!”

Jane sighed. “Well, on that day, I had never felt younger. Or more interesting. Mr. Farley told me about his china clayworks; I told him about my school. We discussed favorite books. . . . I have rarely enjoyed myself more. When he left, I thought that would be that. But a week later, I received a parcel—the very book I had been skimming.” Jane ran a finger over the volume on her side table. “I knew immediately who had sent it. Perhaps I should not have accepted the gift, but I hadn’t the heart to return it.”

“Did you ever see him again?”

“Once. He returned for Mr. Gilcrest’s wedding. He married Alice White, you may recall, and I had been invited to the wedding breakfast. I don’t know if Mr. Farley arranged the invitation or not. But either way, I enjoyed seeing him again.”

Emma asked eagerly, “And then he wrote you this letter, asking to call on you formally?”

Jane nodded, her eyes far away.

Emma looked at the date of the letter and saw it had been written more than a month before. “Have you answered him?”

Jane shook her head.

“Why not?”

Her aunt shrugged, sad but resigned. “Mr. Farley lives in Bodmin, Emma. Nearly thirty miles from here. It seems silly to contemplate uprooting my life, giving up my established school here—my livelihood—for the mere possibility of romance.”

Now Emma grimaced and pressed a hand to her brow. The memory of her aunt’s practical response to her own “love letter” prompted Emma to be realistic about hers. She likely had no secret admirer. The letter was probably a joke, though a joke in bad taste.

She recalled the Westons reminiscing about boyhood pranks the previous night, and her stomach soured. Apparently, one of them had decided to poke fun at her—the sure spinster.

Emma thought of the footsteps she had heard outside her room last night—delivering this letter, she guessed. Whoever it was had probably stifled laughter all the way back to his room. Had Henry Weston delivered another forged love letter, an encore of his long-ago prank? Or had one of his brothers done so in his stead?

A chill swept over her. She stepped to the wardrobe and wrapped a lightweight shawl around her shoulders, pinning it across her bosom with an old fleur-de-lis brooch of her mother’s. The pin would not cooperate, or perhaps it was her trembling fingers, but her watch read two minutes after the hour by the time she was ready to go downstairs.

How should she react? She would not. She would not tell anyone. She would handle this herself, as she handled most things in her life. She would act as though nothing had happened. After all, nothing had happened. No harm had been done.

Looking about the room, Emma lifted the lid of her bandbox and stuck the letter under the hat within. She did not want Morva to be tempted to read it. Then, brushing her hands together, she left her room and made her way down to breakfast.

Emma hesitated in the threshold to survey the scene within the breakfast room. Henry Weston, Sir Giles, and her father sat engrossed in conversation over coffee as the footman cleared away their used plates. Phillip stood at the sideboard, poking through an assortment of breads with silver serving tongs.

He glanced over. “Ah, Miss Smallwood. Good morning.”

Hearing this, the other gentlemen rose and looked her way. Feeling self-conscious, she dipped her head in acknowledgment and stepped inside.

The gentlemen returned to their seats and their discussion. But Phillip waited for her to join him at the sideboard, an expectant expression on his boyish face. Thinking of the morning’s dream, and the letter, Emma could not quite meet his eyes.

“And how are you this morning, Emma? I wonder if you slept as poorly as I did, hearing every breeze whistle through the window frames and the whole place shudder every time one of its occupants turned on his bed?”

For once she could not return his playful grin. “I slept well enough, thank you.”

He shot her a look of surprise at her officious tone but made no comment as he returned his attention to the breads and muffins.

Even though Emma had all but convinced herself the letter was insincere, she found her gaze drifting furtively to Phillip as she picked up a plate and helped herself to several items, not paying much attention to what she selected. He seemed the same as yesterday. She did not detect any hidden meanings in his words or looks.

He glanced over—from her plate, to her face, then back again. “Hungry?”

She looked down at her plate as though through a fog. It came into focus, and she was chagrined to find it piled high with several types of sausages. Her cheeks heated. “My goodness,” she murmured. “I am not as awake as I thought.”

He surveyed her no-doubt troubled expression. “Everything all right?”

“Hm? Oh yes. Everything is fine. I’m fine. Why should I not be fine?”

Phillip’s lips puckered into an uncertain grin. “No reason. You look fine. Perfectly fine. I’m sorry if I implied otherwise.”

His eyes sparkled. He was teasing her. “You look fine. Perfectly fine.” What did he mean by that? Was it a veiled reference to the letter, to the compliments about her appearance—her eyes and lips? Emma! She silently scolded herself. Stop being ridiculous.

Phillip stepped to the unoccupied end of the table and pulled out a chair for her. Dumbly she went forward, feeling slightly ill at ease about sitting next to him. She noticed Henry Weston looking at her. She forced herself to meet his gaze and nod before returning her attention to her meal.

Rowan and Julian entered the breakfast room, and Emma was relieved to have the attention redirected toward them. Julian looked at her and bowed. He elbowed his brother beside him, and Rowan halfheartedly followed suit.

Julian smiled. “Good morning, Miss Smallwood.”

Emma dipped her head. “Julian. Rowan.”

“And good morning to you too,” Phillip said dryly.

“Oh, hello, Phillip,” Julian obliged.

Rowan had already made a beeline for the sideboard. Not only was Rowan several inches taller than his twin but at least a stone heavier as well. He’d recently had a growth spurt, she’d overheard Lady Weston say, assuring Julian he would no doubt catch up with his brother soon.

Emma felt someone watching her and glanced over to find Henry Weston’s eyes shifting from her to Phillip and back again. When she met his gaze once more, he looked away first.

Emma suddenly wished Lizzie was not so fond of sleeping late. How self-conscious she felt, the only female in a room of six males. She ought to be used to it, having grown up in a house full of men. But then, her mother had been there, and the men had been boys. And none of them had written to her under the guise of a secret admirer. Well, except for Henry Weston, writing as poor Milton Pugsworth.

After breakfast, Emma helped her father administer an examination covering significant events of the first century. Both Rowan and Julian performed very well, which was a relief to Emma and her father, not to mention the boys themselves. Apparently, examinations at the “West Country school” their mother had chosen had not gone as well.

Later that afternoon, Emma went for another walk, and Phillip jogged out to join her. Emma was pleased but reminded herself it was probably just a friendly gesture. It meant nothing. Together they strolled through the garden, Emma admiring the stately old rhododendrons, clumps of primroses, and camellia bushes with dark pink blooms. She asked Phillip to identify species unfamiliar to her, but he was unable to name more than a few.

They walked in silence for a time, and then she began gently, “I was surprised to hear the boys had been sent away to school. I had thought you might have recommended Smallwood’s.”

“I did. I do! But it was Lady Weston’s decision to send them to Blundell’s. I don’t know why.”

Emma said, “Lizzie mentioned Lady Weston wanted them to attend a ‘good, old-fashioned West Country school.’”

“That sounds right. Lady Weston is West Country born and bred, after all. Unlike Father.”

Emma remembered what that red-haired man had said about Sir Giles not being considered “one of them” by the villagers.

She asked, “How long were the boys at Blundell’s?”

“I don’t know exactly. I was not home at the time. Three or four months, I think.”

Emma nodded. “Lizzie mentioned they did not like the school. Something about the schoolmaster and other students treating them unkindly.”

“So they say. I gather the schoolmaster maintained a different version of events. Something about bad behavior and fighting.”

“Fighting?” she echoed, recalling how Rowan had stepped between Julian and Mr. McShane.

“Well, don’t quote me on it. Father said, ‘not exactly fighting.’ Apparently, Julian insists Rowan was only trying to protect him.”

“I wonder if it is difficult, being so much smaller than his brother.”

“Yes . . .” Phillip mused. “It certainly can be.”

Was he referring to himself and Henry? Henry was taller, certainly. But there was not the glaring gap between them as between Rowan and Julian.

She offered, “At least the disparity is likely only temporary.”

His eyes sparkled. “Whereas the disparity between Henry and me is permanent?”

She tucked her chin, regarding him in bemusement. “I never meant to suggest any such thing.” Did Phillip feel inferior in some way to his elder brother? She could not credit it.

He flicked a playful finger under her chin. “I should hope not. I always rather thought you preferred me to Henry.”

Emma’s nerves crackled to life. She took a long breath and told herself to stop imagining references to that cursed letter. She swallowed and answered diplomatically, “You and I, being so close in age, naturally became friends. Henry and I did not.”

He gave her a crooked grin and tweaked her chin once more. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Emma’s heart gave a little flutter. His manner toward her was certainly warm. But warm enough to indicate romantic feelings? She wasn’t sure. Pulling her gaze from his, Emma looked beyond the garden wall, across the expanse of grassy headland to the horizon, to where the land faded into the greenish-grey sea beyond. “Shall we venture out to the coast path?” She lifted her face to enjoy the warm sun on her skin. “It is such a lovely day.”

Emma felt his gaze on her profile and glanced at him.

Phillip smiled. “It is indeed.” He opened the garden gate for her, and together they set off toward the ends of the earth.

A few minutes later, they reached the footpath worn in the grass along the cliff’s edge—near but not too near. The wind swirling all about her, Emma looked out at the endless sea beyond and then down to the rocky beach below. They walked northward until the path widened and began its descent to the harbor and village. For a moment they stood at the northwestern-most point, looking down at the harbor intersected by a narrow river making its way out to sea. In the late afternoon sun, the golden sand of the harbor looked damp and wrinkled. The tide had gone out, leaving puddles of trapped water behind and revealing dark rocks usually covered by the sea. One large rock reminded her of a majestic lion lying at rest, from its great head to its low rock paws resting on the sand.

Around the harbor huddled cottages of grey stone with roofs of mossy slate. And there, set apart from the others, one whitewashed house wore a thatched roof like a boy with thick straw-blond hair.

Where the bottom of the cliff met the beach, a rocky peninsula fingered into the sea, forming a natural breakwater for one side of the harbor. An octagon tower stood at the peninsula’s end.

“What is that building?” Emma asked.

Phillip looked in the direction she pointed. “That is the Chapel of the Rock.”

“It looks dangerous, out in the sea like that.”

“It is. When big storms blow in, the chapel is sometimes flooded.”

“Who built it there of all places?”

He shrugged. “I don’t recall much about it, actually. I am sure I’ve heard the story a hundred times but paid little heed. You might ask Henry. He has always been more interested in local history than I have.”

Emma nodded. She would perhaps, if she ever found herself in conversation with the man and had nothing else to fill the awkward silence between them.

“Well.” Phillip pulled his hat down more snugly against the buffeting wind. “Let’s head back. You’re not dressed for this biting wind, and neither am I.”

He offered her his arm, which surprised her, and after a moment’s hesitation, she took it. The ground was spongy and uneven, she reasoned, and she had no interest in turning an ankle.

As she and Phillip returned to the gardens fronting the estate, Lizzie and Henry stepped out of the manor together, engaged in conversation. When Lizzie noticed them, she smiled, waved, and walked toward them. Henry, however, nodded brusquely and continued on his way to the stables without a word.

As Lizzie neared, her gaze dropped from Emma’s and Phillip’s faces to their joined arms. Suddenly self-conscious, Emma extracted her hand from the crook of Phillip’s elbow.

Lizzie looked shrewdly from Phillip’s easy smile to Emma’s no-doubt-embarrassed face. One of her dark brows rose.

Phillip cleared his throat and looked over at Henry’s departing figure. “You know, I have a sudden hankering to ride.”

“So late in the day?” Lizzie asked.

“Yes. Please excuse me, ladies.” He bowed and quickly turned.

Lizzie lingered beside Emma, and together the two young women watched Phillip hurry toward the stables.

“You like Phillip, don’t you,” Lizzie said, turning an expectant gaze her way.

Emma replied, “Of course I like him. We became friends when he lived with us in Longstaple.” Seeing the speculation sparkling in the girl’s eyes, she added quickly, “But only friends.”

“I am glad to hear it. For I don’t have to tell you Lady Weston would be none too pleased about a romance between one of her sons and the tutor’s daughter.”

“Even her stepsons?” Emma asked before she could think the better of it.

“Especially her stepsons. She expects them to marry for money or connections. She reserves thoughts of happiness and love for her own sons, I imagine.”

“And what does she expect of you?” Emma asked.

Lizzie looked at her, surprised by the question. “Not a thing.” She looked away, muttering, “Except to keep my mouth shut.”

Surprise flared through Emma, but she saw the hardening of Lizzie’s jaw and thought better of asking what she was supposed to keep quiet about.

Instead Emma said, “May I ask, Lizzie, how you came to be Lady Weston’s ward?”

Lizzie bowed her head for a moment, and Emma feared she had broached a sad subject.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

Lizzie looked over the garden wall toward the sea. “It is only natural you should be curious.”

Emma waited several moments, but Lizzie said no more. Emma asked gently, “Is Lady Weston some relation to you?”

Lizzie hesitated. “Only very distantly.”

Again Emma waited for the girl to explain.

Glancing at Emma and seeing her expectant expression, Lizzie went on, “Lady Weston introduces me as her ward, the daughter of a distant cousin.”

“I see. And your parents . . . ?”

Lizzie winced. “Must we talk about that?”

Guilt swamped Emma. “No. Not if you don’t want to. But I have lost my mother too. So I can guess how you might feel.”

Lizzie lifted her chin. “You still have your father.”

“Yes.” Emma nodded. “I do.” She imagined Lizzie had lost both of her parents and Lady Weston had taken her in, perhaps because the ailing father or mother had asked it of her on his or her deathbed. That seemed likely, but she reminded herself not to judge anyone too quickly, for the better or worse, until she had all the information.

Lizzie picked a primrose and idly twirled its stem in her small fingers. “How long has your mother been gone?” she asked.

Emma swallowed the lump in her throat. “Nearly two years now.”

Lizzie tossed the flower aside and said darkly, “Mine has been gone far longer.” Suddenly Lizzie brightened and turned to Emma. “What say you to tea and cakes? I could eat a whole plateful myself, and I imagine you are hungry after your walk. Shall we go in and see what we might find?”

Emma blinked at the girl’s sudden change of mood and topic. “Of course. If you like.” And she followed Lizzie into the house.



That evening, Emma made her way downstairs to the steward’s office for dinner—late again, for Morva had forgotten to come and help her change. As she passed, she heard voices coming from the drawing room.

Sir Giles’s voice. “Any success, Henry?”

“No. Not yet,” Henry replied.

“Surely there must be someone,” Lady Weston said. “I still don’t understand what was wrong with Mr. and Mrs. Dyke.”

Intrigued, Emma paused, ignoring a twinge of guilt for eavesdropping.

“They were too severe and too . . . cold.”

“I think you are being purposely obstructive. You simply don’t want to find a suitable person.”

“I don’t see any point in hurrying only to regret our choice later.”

“Do you not? With the Smallwoods under our roof, and the Penberthys invited to visit?”

“No. And I still don’t understand the need for all the secrecy.”

“Nor I.” Phillip’s voice.

“You ought to understand,” Lady Weston argued. “Both of you. It affects you two more than the rest of us. Why should it always fall to me to be the keeper of the Weston family honor? It ought to rest on your shoulders, Giles, or yours, Henry, as eldest son.”

“As you have soundly placed it, madam,” Henry said dryly. “Whether I agree or not.”

Good heavens, Emma thought, continuing down the passage. She knew she ought not to have listened. And now that she had, she ought to forget what she heard. Instead her inquisitive mind began trying to figure out what in the world was going on. And what the secret was. Emma had guessed Lady Weston was hiding something. She had been right.

Again.





In the Early Christian period, the Tower of the Winds was converted for use as a chapel or the baptistery of a nearby church.

—Athens: From the Classical Period to the Present Day