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, mada
m,” 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
Chapter 9
It was there waiting for her when she returned to her room after dinner the next evening. In her hurry, she almost stepped on it. She hesitated, at first thinking it a fallen scrap of paper, one she’d used to mark her place in the book she was reading. But as she bent to pick it up, she saw it was a folded rectangle—another letter. Instantly, both eagerness and dread filled her. Unfolding the letter with fingers not quite steady, she took it to the window and read by evening’s waning light.
My dear Emma,
How sweet to be under the same roof once more. It reminds me of our days at the Smallwood school, when you and I would sit outside and gaze up at the stars, you reminding me of all their names and me gazing at you. Do you recall that time I sneaked into your room late one night? And what we did? I am thinking of that now, as I write this note and prepare to sneak down to your room in a few minutes. As you read this, know that I am thinking of you. When you next see me, please acknowledge this note by pulling on your earlobe. Your delectable earlobe.
W.
Emma felt a hot flush creep up her neck. W . . . for Weston? Which Weston? She and Phillip had studied astronomy together, true. But the only time he had come into her room was to leave flowers on her birthday. She could not imagine either Henry or Phillip writing something so suggestive. More likely it was Julian or Rowan, playing a trick on her. But how would they know about the stargazing?
She tried to look at the handwriting objectively. It seemed to be in the same hand as the first letter. She had not seen Phillip’s or Henry’s handwriting in years, but she had seen Julian’s and Rowan’s—in their examinations and essays. The hand did not look exactly like either of theirs, she did not think. Perhaps it had been disguised somehow. Yet there was something familiar about the penmanship. What was it?
She looked at the individual letters, their shape. She noticed the t’s had tall ascenders and were crossed with excessively long horizontal lines that intersected the two letters to the right of it as well. But that was not so uncommon.
She decided she would take the letter up to the schoolroom in the morning and compare it to the handwriting in the assignments kept there. She tucked the letter away for the time being, and pulled out her journal.
Tonight I received a second unexpected missive under my door. Signed only by W. I don’t know precisely how to take it. Its words are complimentary for the most part, if presumptuous. But I cannot help suspect a prank at the root of it. For once upon a time a certain Weston brother taught me to suspect even apparent acts of kindness from his hand, and old ways die hard.
Yet, I own a small part of me wonders, dare I say hopes that the letter and its sentiments are sincere. Even I, it appears, am not immune to feminine vanity. It reminds me of the letter Aunt Jane keeps from her former admirer. I suppose it is natural for a young woman (and I am still that, though no longer in the first blush of youth) to long to receive love letters at least once in her life. To experience that heart-racing rapture of romance and poetic nonsense.
However, in this second letter, the writer mentions an occasion when “he” sneaked into my room one night back in Longstaple. And refers to “what we did.” This confuses me. For I don’t recall Phillip ever coming to my room at night. Only one of my father’s pupils ever dared do so.
Emma lifted her quill and paused as the memory of that odd night returned to her. . . .
Illuminated by moonlight, Henry Weston stood a few feet from her bed, staring down at her. She was startled, of course, to awaken to find someone in her room. And once she recognized Henry Weston, she was frightened as well, for it would not be the first time he had sneaked up on her with foul intentions.
What had he in mind this time?
She lay oddly frozen, not able to call out or flee, just waiting for him to say or do something.
He stood there, hesitating. Finally he whispered, “Are you awake?”
Silently she nodded, trusting the moonlight to reveal her answer.
He took a step closer. “I leave on the morrow.”
Again Emma nodded.
Another step brought him to the edge of her bed. What final prank had he planned? Did he mean to go out with a bang, a climactic culmination of all the lesser mischief of the last few years?
“Emma . . .” he whispered, face somber.
Her throat went dry. Good heavens, what did he intend to do?
But he did nothing. Instead he turned on his heel and retreated. At the door, he turned back. “I am sorry. For everything.”
And he was gone.
In the morning, Emma walked down to the breakfast room feeling more anxious than usual. Would he, the letter writer, the author of “Please acknowledge this note by pulling on your delectable earlobe,” be watching her? She plastered on a prosaic expression and stepped inside.
Henry Weston sat alone at the table with a newspaper spread before him and a cup of coffee at his right hand. He glanced up as she entered and politely folded the paper and set it aside. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” she murmured and took a plate from the sideboard. She bypassed the eggs and sausages, which looked greasy and unappealing to her agitated stomach. Instead she placed a muffin and a spoonful of fruit compote on her plate. She took a seat on the opposite side of the table from Henry—not rudely distant, but not too close either.
Phillip came in, beamed at her, bowed, and then went to the sideboard. Emma’s ear began to itch. Her hand was halfway to her earlobe when she felt Henry’s watchful gaze. Had he written the letter after all? Her hand paused midair. Now what should she do with it? She feigned a wave at Phillip’s back. “Good morning,” she said belatedly and foolishly, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her neck.
Phillip turned, smiled, and echoed the greeting.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed Henry look from her face, to Phillip, and back at her. He frowned. “Are you all right, Miss Smallwood?”
“Quite all right, Mr. Weston. And you?”
“I own myself confused.”
“Ah. Well. Such is life.” She did not offer to enlighten him but instead sipped her tea, wishing her earlobe would cease its maddening, prickling itching. She longed to angle her head and rub it against her shoulder, but doubted she was limber enough to accomplish the feat. And how unladylike would that appear?
She set down her teacup with a clank and stood abruptly.
Henry’s eyebrows rose. Phillip turned from his place at the sideboard.
“I find I am not hungry after all. Please excuse me.”
Emma was already out the door when Phillip’s hiss reached her.
“Henry,” he scolded, “what did you say to her?”
“Nothing.”
Emma did not pause to hear the rest of the conversation. Instead she scratched her ear and marched up the stairs, passing Julian and Rowan coming down.
“Good morning, Miss Smallwood.” Julian’s lips curved into a knowing grin. Had he seen her scratch her ear?
“Good morning,” she replied briskly, without pause, and continued on her way to the schoolroom. There, winded, she strode directly to the desk and opened the side drawer. She sat in her father’s chair and began flipping through the papers there—essays and examinations the boys had written. Within one of the essays on first-century events, the t’s struck her. Tall ascenders, crossed with long horizontal lines that marred the let
ters to the right of it. Just as in the “love letter” she had received. The name at the top of the paper?
Rowan Weston.
Emma frowned, feeling little satisfaction at the discovery. Someone might be mimicking Rowan’s hand, she realized, or perhaps all of the Westons crossed their t’s in such a way.
Continuing her search, she next glanced through the verses she had assigned the boys to write after a lesson on classical poetry. She had yet to read them. As she skimmed through them, one brief stanza caught her eye.
I could gaze upon her sad green eyes
And winsome figure endlessly
I pretend to attend well my studies
But in reality, I am studying she.
It was signed with only—W.
The poem certainly seemed to be about her, but here the t’s were not crossed in that exaggerated fashion.
Emma was tempted to ask her father for his opinion, but she didn’t want to worry him. She thought of asking Mr. McShane about the cryptic letter, since he had known the boys, and their handwriting, far longer. But how embarrassed she would be if he laughed and assured her it must be a prank. She guessed that was the case but blushed at the thought of having the vicar declare it obvious. How mortifying that would be. No. She decided she would ask no one. She would figure it out and handle it herself. As she did most things.
She wrote objective comments on the poems and other papers, and returned them to Rowan and Julian when they entered the schoolroom a few minutes later, followed by her father.
Afraid her words—or itching ear—might give her away, Emma decided to retreat from the schoolroom.
Going outside, she wandered through the walled garden alone, glad to be apart from all possible letter writers, so she could think. She watched a tiny olive-brown warbler flitting among the branches of a flowering hawthorn, singing chiff-chaff, chiff-chaff and searching for insects.
A door opened and Henry Weston strode out of the house.
Emma looked away, but not before she saw Mr. Weston raise a hand in greeting. She suppressed a groan. It would be rude to pretend she had not seen him.
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