The Tutor's Daughter

by Julie Klassen

  She waited as he crossed the garden toward her, broad shoulders squared, stride long and confident.

  “Hello. It’s good to see you out-of-doors,” he said. “Do you mind if I speak with you a moment?”

  Instant alarm flared through her. “I . . . no. Of course not.”

  He stepped nearer and said confidentially, “I noticed you seemed a bit . . . em . . . distracted at breakfast. Is everything all right?”

  She hesitated. If he had written the letter—in jest, of course—she would not give him the satisfaction of admitting she had given it a second thought. If Phillip had written it—in sincerity—then that was her secret to relish close to her heart. And if Rowan or Julian had written it . . . Did she really want to get either young man in trouble with his stern, older half brother?

  No.

  “Everything is fine.” She swung her gaze from his discerning eyes to the colorful garden. “I only wanted a bit of fresh air.”

  His gaze remained on her profile. She could feel his scrutiny.

  In the distance a dog barked. An unseen insect tickled her ear, and it began to itch all over again. Still she felt him watching her.

  She remembered thinking that, if she ever found herself in awkward conversation with Henry Weston, she would ask him about the chapel to fill the silence between them. She did so now.

  “Might I ask, Mr. Weston, about the Chapel of the Rock? Phillip mentioned you were something of an expert in local history.”

  His brows rose at the sudden change of topic. “I wouldn’t say ‘expert,’ but I am interested in history, yes.”

  Relieved his gaze had at last wavered from her face, she continued, “Have you ever been in the chapel?”

  “Of course. Would you like to see it?”

  Emma glanced at him in surprise. “Go inside, you mean?”

  He nodded.

  “I thought Phillip said it was unsafe.”

  “It is. Unless you are very familiar with the tides at every season and have become somewhat of an expert at predicting the weather—or at least at noticing the approach of storms.”

  Emma said, “And you are expert on both tides and the weather, I suppose?”

  He pursed his lips. “I am, yes. And before you accuse me of being boastful, remember I have lived here my entire life, save my few years at Longstaple and then at Oxford.”

  “Phillip has lived here most of his life as well, and he has never ventured down there, I don’t think.”

  “I believe he may have gone out there once as part of some boyhood dare, but yes, he has always been leery of the water, and I don’t blame him. However, while Phillip has little interest in his environment, I am something of an enthusiast.”

  Yes, she did recall his interest, the books he’d read, the weathervane he’d built in Longstaple, the rain gauge he’d placed in their garden.

  He gestured with his hand. “Here, come with me up to my study, and I shall prove it.”

  She swallowed, hesitant yet undeniably curious. “Very well.”

  He led the way up to the first floor and along the corridor to a room she had never entered. He opened the door and gestured her inside before him.

  “You go ahead,” she murmured. She hovered in the threshold as he stepped inside a modest-sized gentleman’s study, lined with books and dominated by a cluttered desk.

  He strode to the desk—she would have it put to rights in two shakes were it hers—and from one of several piles pulled a red leather-bound notebook. He flipped open the cover and leafed through its pages.

  “Here we are. Week-by-week predictions of daily low and high tides, based on previous data and the known cycle. I’ve hired a local lad to report the high-water marks in the harbor. I periodically check these and revise the estimates, if necessary. Factors like spring tides or neap tides affect water levels, but barring storms, this gives me an accurate forecast of when it is safe to visit the chapel.”

  Emma tentatively walked over to the desk. He turned the book toward her, and she glanced at the dates and times in orderly columns with rows for estimates and actualities. Impressive.

  “So.” He looked at her expectantly. “Shall we go?”

  Emma blinked. “Now?”

  “Did you not say you would like to see inside?”

  “Well . . . yes. If you are certain it is safe.”

  “Perfectly safe.” He extracted his pocket watch and glanced at it. “That is, for the next four hours.”

  Emma followed him to the door, twisting her hands. “Should we not at least let someone know where we are going? Just in case?”

  “Ever the prudent Miss Smallwood.” He inhaled and drew himself up. “No. You are quite right. I shall inform my father and you inform yours.” He tilted his head in thought. “And perhaps you would be more comfortable if someone accompanied us?”

  Emma swallowed. “Perhaps.”

  He nodded. “Phillip might oblige. He seems to seek out your company at every opportunity.”

  Had everyone noticed? Emma wondered. “I don’t know that he would enjoy going down there. Perhaps Lizzie?”

  Henry shrugged. “As you like.”

  They found Lizzie in the drawing room, working on needlepoint chair covers with Lady Weston. Emma would not have braved entering on her own, but Henry showed no such hesitance. At Henry’s invitation, Lizzie quickly agreed to accompany them, pinning her needle into the coarse fabric and rising with apparent relief.

  Lady Weston’s eyebrows rose over the spectacles she wore for close work. “Why anyone would want to go to that damp old place is beyond me.” She looked at Lizzie shrewdly. “Unless it is to get out of work one finds tedious.”

  “It is only that I long for fresh air,” Lizzie said. “But I shall return soon and finish. I promise.”

  Looking unconvinced, Lady Weston nevertheless dismissed the girl and sent her on her way.

  The ladies retrieved their cloaks and bonnets and, together with Henry, left the grounds. They followed the coast path, turning at the switchback as it descended toward the fishermen’s cottages, harbor, and beach below.

  Lizzie accompanied them as far as the strand, but when they reached the place where the beach gave way to jutting rock, she hesitated, then stopped altogether. “You two go ahead. I shall wait for you here.”

  “Do come, Lizzie,” Emma urged, reluctant to go out alone with Henry. “Mr. Weston says it is perfectly safe. And it is such a fine day—barely a cloud in sight.”

  Lizzie looked out at the ancient chapel. The sun glinted off the choppy water, causing her eyes to squint into mere slits. The wind was stronger beside the sea and blew thin coils of black hair across her face.

  “No, that’s all right,” she said. “You two go on. I’ll be all right here on my own.”

  “Very well. We shall meet you back here shortly,” Henry said, and gestured for Emma to precede him.

  With a last beseeching look at Lizzie, Emma turned and stepped out onto the rocky peninsula. It rose several feet above water level and was dry and sound. She kept her eyes focused on the uneven rocks, making sure of her footing. She did not wish to trip and make a fool of herself in front of the man behind her. The wind, though not overly strong, made all but the most basic conversation difficult, and Emma decided to save her questions until they arrived.

  The chapel had been built upon a level of rocks several feet higher than the path they now trod. A series of rock steps, worn narrow and slick by time and waves, led up to the higher level. Passing her, Henry loped up the few stairs, then reached back down to offer a hand.

  She ignored it. “I can manage. Thank you.” She lifted her skirt hems slightly so she would not trip and carefully navigated the steps.

  Reaching the top, she paused, gazing up at the tall sandstone octagon with a wooden door and a cross on its roof.

  Henry said, “The original door rotted away years ago. I replaced it with this one myself.”

  “Yourself?”

  “Well, the
estate carpenter helped me hang it. It’s a two-man job.”

  “I’m surprised you would know how to do such a thing.”

  “You would be surprised by many things about me, I think.”

  For a moment she met his gaze, wondering what he meant. Then self-consciousness crept in, and she returned her gaze to the building. “I feel as though I have seen something like this before.”

  He nodded. “It was built to resemble Greece’s Tower of the Winds.”

  “Ah. Yes,” Emma said. “I have seen drawings in Father’s books. But why would anyone build a chapel here?”

  “Hundreds of years ago, this was part of a larger seaside church,” Henry explained. “A chapel-of-ease for the local people, where the vicar from Stratton would hold services once a month. But the years and the waves eroded all but this side chapel and the peninsula we’re standing on. The village council plans to reinforce and extend the causeway into a more effective breakwater, and the surveyor proposes pulling this old place down to accomplish it. But I hate to see it go.”

  At that, Henry lifted the latch and opened the door.

  “It isn’t kept locked?” Emma asked.

  He shook his head. “I have the key in my study, but I don’t think it right to lock the door, as though I own the place. It belongs to the whole village, though I seem to be the only person who comes here with any regularity.” He preceded her inside, as if to demonstrate his confidence in the safety of entering.

  Tentatively, she stepped in after him. She hoped this wasn’t one of his tricks and resolved to remain between him and the door. Her half boots scraped against the paving-stone floor. The interior was cool and dim but not dark. Sunlight sliced into the tower from four narrow slit windows—in every other of the eight stone walls. She glanced around the octagon, perhaps twenty-five feet across. At the far end stood a modest, moldering altar and the remnants of a few sagging, rotting pews. To one side of the altar stood an old baptismal font—a stout waist-high pillar with a recessed basin for christening babies. In the wall behind the font, Emma saw the outline of an arched doorway now bricked over and sealed.

  Henry followed the direction of her gaze. “That doorway led to the nave before it was washed away.”

  Emma nodded her understanding. She stepped to one of the high open windows—the one facing west—and craned her neck to peer out at the sea beyond. It gave one a feeling of lostness, of panic, seeing no land. Just endless miles of sea.

  From behind her, Henry said, “History has it that in the fifteenth century, a monk lived here. He kept a fire constantly burning in this window to warn boats of the rocks beneath.”

  Emma shivered involuntarily, thinking a fire sounded very good at the moment. She moved away to inspect the font instead.

  Henry continued, “The monk lived here well into his nineties, long after the chapel had fallen out of church use. Then came a day when fishermen foretold of a terrible storm coming. They warned the monk, but he refused to leave. The fishermen were right, as it turns out. Ebford was hit by the worst winter storm known before or since. The sea rose and covered the causeway, and the water became too rough for any boat to reach him. They say that old monk did not fight his fate. He calmly kept his light burning as long as he could, ready to meet his maker. The rest of the church was washed away, and the monk with it. Only this tower remained.”

  Emma shivered again, and Mr. Weston noticed.

  “You’re cold. Here, take this.”

  He began to peel off his greatcoat, but she stayed him with a hand to his sleeve. “Don’t. I’m fine.”

  Realizing she had touched him, she snatched back her hand and forced a chuckle. “It is only your gruesome story.”

  “I don’t find it gruesome at all. I admire that old monk. This was his home, and he was devoted to it. This is where he worshiped God and served mankind. He lived a long, full life and died without fear, knowing heaven awaited him.”

  Emptiness gnawed at Emma. Could she face death without fear? If she were to show up at heaven’s door tomorrow, would God even recognize her, when it had been so long since she’d bothered to call on Him?

  Henry stepped to the west-facing window she had abandoned and looked out. “I like coming here to think now and again. To pray. Sometimes looking through these windows, I see more clearly. And am able to focus on what is truly important.”

  Emma turned to look at him, surprised by his earnest words. “And what is truly important, in your view?”

  He glanced at her, gave a sardonic chuckle, and then returned his gaze to the sea. “I don’t presume you’d care to hear it.”

  “I would.”

  For several moments he said nothing, and she began to think he would not answer. Then he said quietly, “Each of these four windows faces one of the cardinal points of the compass.” He pointed to the window to the right. “When I face north I think of God, the Almighty, the North Star. When I face east, I see the village and think of the people who live and work there. My duty toward them. And when I look south, toward Ebbington Manor, I think of the family God has given me, with all its blessings and trials. . . .”

  His words trailed away, and he seemed lost in thought.

  Emma prompted, “And west?”

  He made no answer, simply staring out at the sea beyond. She thought he had not heard her, or had no intention of answering. But then he said, as if to himself, “All my life might have been.”

  Emma blinked. Had she heard him correctly? How had Henry Weston, heir to Ebbington Manor, been disappointed in life? Unsure of what to say, she instead glanced up at the figures carved above each window. She knew her Greek mythology. She had even taught a course on it last year in her father’s stead.

  She gestured to the largest winged figure. “That is Boreas, the Greek god of the north wind. His three brothers are . . .” She pointed to the second figure, then the next, pivoting as she faced each direction. “Zephyrus, the west wind. Notus, the south wind. And Eurus, the east wind.”

  Henry nodded. “That’s right. Your father taught us Greek mythology when I was in Longstaple.”

  Emma’s mind was busy recalling what she’d read on the subject. “Unlike the kind Zephyrus, Boreas was known for his fierce character and terrible storms. But when Boreas fell in love with the beautiful Oreithyia, he left behind his fierce character to win her over.”

  “Stuff and nonsense, of course,” Henry said with a sardonic grin.

  But Emma paid him no heed, suddenly struck by an ironic thought. She said, “Four brothers. And four very different Weston brothers. How interesting.”

  He scowled. “Not true.”

  Her head reared back. “Which part?”

  He made no answer, but his scowl remained.

  Emma said evenly, “I did not mean to imply that I saw in you the fierce character of the north wind.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and slanted her a dark look. “Did you not?”

  She lifted her chin. “I have not had sufficient time to determine which brother best matches the character of each wind.”

  He pulled a face. “I would not waste your time. Besides, we both know which of us you view as the kind Zephyrus.”

  True, Emma thought. But she deemed it wiser to neither confirm nor deny his supposition. Instead she drew herself up and consulted her chatelaine watch. “Well, I had better be getting back. I usually help my father tidy the schoolroom about this time.” Actually, she had plenty of time to return, but she was suddenly eager to leave the tower and return to the open skies.

  “Very well.”

  Remembering her resolve, Emma led the way to the door, lifted the latch, and opened it, allowing light and breeze to enter, and tension to flee.

  Emma started picking her way toward the stairs. A light sun-shower began to fall, making the rocks slick.

  “Miss Smallwood, wait.”

  She turned as Henry shut the door and obliged by waiting for him to join her.

  He reached her si
de and offered his hand. “Please. Allow me.”

  This time, she hesitated only an instant before placing her gloved hand in his.

  He helped her down the stairs, and together they crossed the causeway. Emma wondered if it was her imagination or if the water surged nearer the walkway than it had on their way out. Either way, she was relieved to step back onto the sand.

  Looking up, she saw Lizzie talking to a man on the beach. A man too well dressed to be a passing fisherman. As they neared, Emma recognized him as the red-haired man who had spoken to her on the point, and in Mr. Davies’s office.

  Emma wondered if Lizzie knew him or if he had taken it upon himself to strike up a conversation as he had with her. Emma certainly hoped she and Henry had not exposed Lizzie to harassment by leaving her alone. Yet Lizzie’s posture as she stood near the man spoke of familiarity. Though perhaps not a friendly familiarity, for both wore somber expressions.

  Lizzie glanced up at them, and for a moment her face fell, as if chagrined to be found with the man. She had obviously not seen them coming. But in the next second Emma wondered if she had only imagined the expression, for Lizzie brightened, smiled, and waved. She walked abruptly away from the man, hurrying over to meet them.

  “I am so glad to see you two. You were gone an age.”

  “Are you all right?” Emma asked. “Was that man bothering you?”

  “Him? Heavens no.” She flopped her hand in a dismissive gesture. “We were just passing the time.”

  Emma glanced at Henry and noted the tightening of his jaw. Perhaps he did not approve of Lizzie speaking with the man either.

  He asked, “What did Teague want with you?”

  Lizzie gave him a look of surprise. “Do you know him?”

  “I know of him. And if half of what is said of him is true, I don’t . . . But I should not malign a man I barely know.”

  Lizzie looked at him shrewdly. “I believe you just did.”

  “You’re quite right. I beg your pardon,” Henry said. “Shall we go?”

  He offered an elbow to Lizzie, then turned and offered his other arm to Emma. Together they began the long walk back up the steep cliffside path.