The Tutor's Daughter

by Julie Klassen

  A dry chuckle disturbed her concentration.

  “Well, well. Miss Smallwood. And just as I remember her.”

  Prickles of embarrassment and dread rippled through her. She recognized that voice. After so many years, she still did.

  She flew to her feet, caught her slipper heel in her skirt hems, and nearly went sprawling as she spun to face him. In one hand she held the rescued book and raised it over her skittering heart. The other hand she lifted to her hair, fearing it was in as much disarray as her nerves.

  Henry Weston stood there, leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb, his catlike eyes roving her burning cheeks, flicking to her hair, her gown, the book pressed to her chest like a shield, before returning to her face.

  She swallowed convulsively and grasped for composure, reminding herself he was no longer a youth about to toss a mouse under her bedclothes. The thick dark hair framing his face was better groomed than she recalled, his features carved even more sharply than she remembered. Was that a smirk on his face? She coolly lifted her chin. “Mr. Weston.”

  He shook his head. “You have not changed one iota. Still the bluestocking with her nose in a book. Hidden away indoors on such a beautiful day.”

  Something about his smirk and the glint of challenge in his hooded eyes sent logic flying. And suddenly Emma was quite certain Henry Weston had, upon learning she was in residence last night, lost no time in returning to his old tricks.

  She leveled him with an icy glare. “I am surprised you are not too tired to go gallivanting about today, riding and jumping and sneaking up on people.”

  One dark brow rose. “Tired? Why should I be tired?”

  “You were up late last night.”

  Both brows lifted.

  She added, “Up to no good.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What, pray, does that mean?”

  “You know very well.”

  “If you are talking about my . . . disagreement with my father, that is none of your business.”

  “That is not what I am referring to, as well you know. And it is my business.”

  She set aside the book, snatched the tin soldier from the desk, and held it before him, pinched between thumb and index finger. “I found this in my room this morning. Did you drop it or leave it behind intentionally, like a calling card?”

  He frowned at the figure, then reached out and took it from her—careful, she noticed, to avoid brushing her fingers.

  She asked, “A bit old, are you not? To still be playing with toys?”

  He said without expression, as if by rote, “It is not a toy. It is a miniature military figure.”

  How many times she had heard him say the same as a younger man.

  He looked at her, eyes still narrowed. “You found this in your room?”

  “Yes. As you no doubt intended.”

  He pulled a face. “You think I was in your room? That is an inconceivably ludicrous, not to mention scandalous, accusation.”

  Anger flared, but Emma kept her voice even by supreme effort. “I would have hoped it inconceivable, though you were certainly not above clandestine calls to my room at Longstaple.”

  He looked quickly over his shoulder, then stepped nearer. “You might wish to be careful when referring to our days at your father’s academy, Miss Smallwood.” He lowered his voice. “Have you any idea how your statement might be misconstrued by anyone who happened to overhear it?”

  Emma felt her neck and cheeks heat as she replayed the words in her mind. But then she lifted her chin once more. She had done nothing wrong. “My lack of judgment in speaking of it is nothing to yours in doing it in the first place.”

  He chewed his lip as though he had not heard her. “Which room have they put you in?”

  “As if you don’t know.”

  His hard glare wilted her tart tone. She said, “The south wing. Around the corner, last room on the left.” Why was she telling him where to find her if he had not, in fact, already been to her room?

  He pulled another face as he considered her reply. “Lady Weston’s idea, no doubt.”

  He looked at the soldier once more, then slipped it into his coat pocket. “Probably left behind by one of the boys years ago. That room hasn’t been used in ages.”

  He eyed her again, then asked tentatively, “Or had you a particular reason for thinking someone had been in your room—besides the soldier?”

  “Something woke me. I thought I heard someone. And I smelled . . . shaving soap, I believe. Or bay rum.”

  His eyes looked in her direction but were focused on internal thought. Then he straightened. “I promise you, Miss Smallwood, I did not come to your room last night. Most likely no one did. But please do let me know if anything like this happens again. As to what you heard . . . perhaps you did overhear me raising my voice. If so, I apologize.”

  She nodded in acceptance, but he was hiding something—she was sure of it. “I . . . do hope you were not arguing about my father and me being here.”

  He hesitated. “It was a disagreement about . . . family matters. Nothing you need be concerned about.”

  Emma said, “I regret we arrived at a bad time. We did write to let your father know when we were coming.”

  He lifted a hand in a vague gesture. “My father is not keen on details. It is why he leaves much of the estate management to Davies and me.”

  Emma twisted her hands. “Then . . . you don’t mind our being here?”

  Mr. Weston studied her, then looked away. “That has yet to be seen.”

  Since the [ship]wreck at St. Minver . . . two men who ventured too far into the sea to secure a bale of bacon, were overwhelmed by the waves and unfortunately drowned.

  —the West Briton, 1818

  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 Ebbin
gton 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.
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br />   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.”