The wave passed. Henry’s head broke the surface and he gasped a mouthful of air. He pulled the man with all his strength, but he was very heavy with his waterlogged clothing and likely water in his lungs as well. Henry wasn’t even sure the poor man managed one breath before another wave broke over them. This wave knocked them over and rolled the horse upside down, so that Henry and the sailor were trapped beneath him.
Lord, help us, Henry prayed desperately.
His horse quickly righted, and Henry gasped for breath, yanking the sailor’s head above water. Major turned toward shore and swam, then walked with Henry and the half-drowned sailor onto the beach.
By this time, a few others had arrived on the scene. Mr. Bray and the sailor’s brother rolled the poor man on the ground until a good deal of salt water sprang from his mouth.
The sailor coughed and sputtered, and his brother fell to his knees, first praising God, then leaning down to kiss his brother on each cheek.
Wearily, Henry dismounted. His legs nearly buckled beneath him, and he leaned against his horse, wrapping an arm around his neck in gratitude, and for support.
Suddenly, Miss Smallwood appeared before him like a beautiful mirage. Her green eyes, bright with tears, looked huge in her pale face, her pink lips vibrant in contrast. Her hair had come loose in the wind and framed her face, fair strands flying loose and brushing her cheeks and mouth.
“You did it,” she breathed. “My heart nearly stopped when I saw you go under. Now I know how you felt standing on shore all those years ago. I felt so helpless watching you. All I could do was pray.”
He looked into her eyes. “Did you?”
She nodded. “How I prayed you would live.”
And then she was in his arms, leaning into him, pressing herself against his sodden chest, her cheek against his shoulder. He knew he ought to keep her at arm’s distance—she would get soaked, catch her death. Instead he wrapped his free hand around her waist—her very small waist—and drew her nearer.
For several beats of his heart they stood like that, still. Savoring her warmth, her nearness. His other hand still lay on Major’s neck, in a strange triangle embrace. Man, woman, horse. Then sounds from around them broke into his awareness, and perhaps into hers as well, for she slowly righted herself, pulling away, her color high with embarrassment.
“I am just so glad you are all right,” she murmured in excuse, head ducked.
For one second more he allowed his hand to remain at her waist, relishing the feel of the deep curve between ribs and hip. Then he realized that for him to feel that specific detail meant she wore no coat, only a thin cape over her frock.
“Emma, I’m afraid you’re soaked through. Sorry about that.”
“Sorry?” She gave a little laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Not when you’ve spent most of the last thirty minutes underwater.”
Had it only been that long? It had felt like hours. He let go of his horse and his legs wobbled again, but through sheer stubbornness he kept to his feet.
He said, “You had better go back and change into dry things.”
“So should you.”
“Yes. But first I shall see to this valiant fellow.” He patted Major’s neck once more.
Emma patted the horse as well, and for a moment their fingers touched.
“A valiant fellow, indeed,” she echoed softly.
And when Henry glanced at her, his heart tightened to see her looking not at his horse as she said the words, but at him.
Sir Giles and her father appeared on the scene, fussing over Henry and asking questions of the constable, Mr. Bray. Sir Giles put his greatcoat around Henry’s shoulders and her father, belatedly, did the same for her. Emma avoided their gazes, feeling self-conscious. But she was relieved to see nothing in Sir Giles’s demeanor or her father’s to suggest they had seen her embrace Henry.
Mr. Bray asked what he should do about the rescued men. Henry said they could be sheltered in one of the Ebbington cellars that lined the beach, and Sir Giles agreed, assuring the constable he would have food and blankets sent down. Mr. Bray thanked the Westons for their generosity and said he would oversee the arrangements.
While the men discussed all this, Emma glimpsed several villagers tentatively approach, taking stock of the situation—the rescued sailors, the constable, Sir Giles—and then turn away in resignation.
Derrick Teague lounged against the doorjamb of his whitewashed cottage, looking directly at her. The smirk on his rugged face told her he had seen the embarrassing embrace. When Henry turned to see what had caught her attention, Teague retreated inside.
Finally the donkey cart was summoned to deliver them all back up to the manor, Henry’s weary horse tethered alongside.
It is against the sometimes shadowy backdrop of upper and middle class elegance that the real drama of life in Cornwall—red blooded, crude and vigorous—is enacted.
—R. M. Barton, Life in Cornwall in the Early Nineteenth Century
Chapter 22
During the ride back, Emma remained silent. Within her, elation wrestled with dismay. She had embraced Henry Weston. She had struck Lizzie Henshaw. Both acts were completely unlike her normal reserve. What had come over her?
When they reached Ebbington Manor, Sir Giles urged Henry to take himself directly inside, but Henry refused, insisting he would see to his horse first. Sir Giles went with him into the stables, determined to send the groom to ride out for the physician, though Henry insisted he was fine.
Rowan and Julian hurried from the house and followed them, peppering both with questions about what had happened down at the harbor.
Emma entered the manor, damp and spent. She slogged through the hall, dreading the inevitable confrontations ahead. Her father followed behind, full of concern and questions.
“Please, Papa. Let us wait until we are upstairs alone and I have changed into dry things.”
Reluctantly, he agreed.
Emma retreated into her bedchamber and rang for Morva. She wondered if word of her slapping Lizzie had already reached the servants, and if so, whether the housemaid would even come. While she waited, she removed her wet outer garments and pulled on dry stockings.
A few minutes later, Morva entered, looking behind herself before closing the door. She turned to Emma and said timidly, “Lady Weston says, thee art to show thyself in the drawing room in half an hour’s time.”
Emma nodded. She had anticipated just such a summons. She half expected Morva to leave without offering to help her change.
Instead the housemaid came forward, hands clasped, eyes bright and eager. “I shouldn’t ask, but I must knaw. Did ’ee really strike Miss Henshaw?”
Emma sighed. “I am afraid so.” And apparently Lizzie had lost no time in telling absolutely everyone.
Morva helped her change, and afterward Emma wrapped a shawl around her shoulders to ward off the lingering chill. Then she walked to her father’s bedchamber.
She told him everything that had happened. Well, not quite everything. She did not mention embracing Henry Weston, and thankfully, he had apparently not seen her do so.
John Smallwood somberly shook his head. “Emma . . . I am shocked. You actually struck Miss Henshaw?”
“Yes. She would not let me go—I had no other choice.”
“But to strike another person, Emma, regardless of the provocation . . . I . . . I don’t know what to say. It isn’t fitting for our station. For a lady. . . .”
“Then perhaps I am not a lady, because I would do the same again given the situation.”
“But the ward of our hostess? A girl so much younger than yourself? Really, Emma. That was reckless. Imprudent.”
She turned to face him. “Papa, do you not understand? Henry Weston commanded me to ring the bell. To sound the alarm, to rouse help for the crew of that floundering ship. And Lizzie held me by the arm to prevent me. What was I to do?”
“She must not have understood the situation. Or misunderstood your aim.
You might have reasoned with her, instead of resorting to violence.”
“Reason with her—for how long? Till one of the crew drowned? Half the crew?”
“Surely it would not have come to that.”
Realizing further argument was futile, Emma held her tongue and drew her shoulders back. “I had better go down. Lady Weston has asked to see me.”
“Apologize, my dear—for all our sakes.”
Emma sighed. “I will do my best to make peace if it is within my power to do so.”
She left her father and made her way down the stairs and into the drawing room. Lady Weston’s domain. Her throne room where she sat as judge.
Around the room sat the jury—Julian, Rowan, Phillip, Lizzie, and Sir Giles. How Emma wished Henry were there as well.
When the footman had closed the door behind Emma, Lady Weston glared at her in righteous indignation. “You struck my ward? A girl of barely seventeen?”
“Yes. I am not proud of it. But she would not let me go and I felt I had no other recourse.”
Lizzie said pitifully, “I thought Henry meant for me to ring the bell. And I was about to go up, but she held on to me. I think she wanted to do it herself, to impress Henry, since she’s obviously in love with him.”
Indignant, Emma snapped, “That’s not true!”
One of Lady Weston’s eyebrows rose high. “Which part?”
Instead of answering, Emma turned to Rowan. “You must have seen me struggling to free myself.”
Rowan screwed up his face. “I saw the two of you struggling, but I cannot say with certainty who was trying to restrain whom.”
Emma turned to Julian. “You remember. You told me Lizzie held me back because she feared the wreckers—or whoever knocked down the warning tower—might take revenge if we raised the alarm.”
Julian blinked innocently. “Did I say that? I don’t recall it.”
Apprehension needled through Emma. There was nothing else she could say. It was their word against hers. And three to one in the bargain. If only Phillip had been there. But he hadn’t run out until after she rang the bell.
Emma forced her chin to remain level. She had done nothing wrong—well, nothing so terribly wrong. She would not hang her head in shame like a convicted criminal. Though that was certainly the way Lady Weston and even Phillip seemed to be regarding her. A swift glance at her old friend stabbed her in the heart. He clearly believed Lizzie’s tale of injustice. How painful to see the disillusionment and disappointment in his eyes.
Emma clasped her hands to stop their trembling and waited for Lady Weston to pronounce judgment. To send her and her poor father packing, most likely.
Sir Giles spoke up. “No doubt a big misunderstanding all around, my dears. The important thing is that lives were saved, thanks to Henry. I sent him up for a hot bath and have insisted Dr. Morgan pay a call to make certain he is all right. I shall speak to Henry about this matter later, but for now, he has had enough trouble for one day. We shall postpone any further discussion about this until tomorrow.”
Emma thought Lady Weston would object, but she said nothing, merely flicked a hand in Emma’s direction and turned her head as though she could not stand the sight of her.
Knowing herself dismissed, Emma turned and walked from the room, feeling several pairs of eyes on her back. It was nearly time for dinner, but she had no appetite. She went upstairs, reported the conversation to her anxious father, and retired to her room early. To think, to worry, and perhaps. . . . even to pray.
Later that night, Emma was already in bed, though still wide awake, when someone knocked softly on her door. Instantly, she tensed. Was it Lizzie, come to retaliate? Or, whoever drew that picture, ready to make good on his threat?
Now, Emma, she admonished herself. Whoever had sneaked into her room previously had not bothered to knock.
She climbed out of bed, drawing her wrapper around herself, and tiptoed to the door.
“Who’s there?” she asked, detesting the tremor in her voice, her weakness. She pressed an ear against the door to listen.
“It’s Henry.” After a pause, he added, “Weston,” as though she wouldn’t know which Henry he was, or as if unsure where they stood in terms of formality. It seemed foolish to stand on formality now, when she had stood in his arms, wet and pressed against him, only hours before.
What did he want? Surely not to continue that embrace. . . . She swallowed at the thought.
She unlatched her door and inched it open. He was fully dressed, unlike her, and held a candle on a humble pewter holder.
“I am sorry to disturb you,” he said. “Were you asleep?”
“Far from it.”
“That’s what I was counting on. I know it isn’t done, but may I come in?” He held up his free hand, palm forward. “I only want to speak with you a moment.”
Relief and foolish disappointment entwined in her stomach.
She supposed it was little worse than him being seen standing outside her door late at night. And truly, after the whole world had seemed to turn against her, she welcomed a chance to explain. Would he believe her, when the others had not? Why should she think that?
She nodded and opened the door. He slipped inside, and she shut it quietly behind him.
His glance skittered around her bedchamber before returning to her face. “Is your room always so dashed neat?”
“I am afraid so. Though you must forgive the unmade bed.”
“I shall try,” he quipped, but then his expression sobered. “It has been a difficult day for you, I imagine. I have heard Lizzie’s version of events, but I should like to hear yours. I know you to be an honest woman, Emma Smallwood, for all your annoying perfection.”
She pulled a face—regretful, self-conscious. “Hardly perfect.”
His brows rose. “You did slap her, then?”
“I did.”
“My goodness. I should have liked to see that.”
She shook her head. “No, you wouldn’t. It was not funny.”
“You’re right. I think humor is my way of coping with a stressful day.”
She nodded, scanning his face feature by feature, as though cataloging them for one of her lists. “Are you all right? After . . . everything?”
“I think so, yes. And Dr. Morgan concurs.”
“And the sailors?”
“Davies tells me they fare well enough—he and Jory carried down food and blankets several hours ago.”
“And your horse?”
“Well rubbed down, in the warmest stall with the warmest blanket and an extra portion of oats.”
“He deserves it.”
“Yes, he does.” He studied her face. “What happened after I left you on the point?”
She told him everything, ending with, “At the time, Julian said she did it because she feared retaliation from the wreckers. Whatever the case, I ought not to have struck her. Not in the face. And not so hard.”
Henry grimaced and ran a hand through his wavy hair, still damp from his bath. “She had it coming.”
She waited, expecting him to add, “If what you say is true,” or something like it. But he did not.
Her heart squeezed in relief. “I’m afraid no one else believed me, as you probably know by now. Even my own father is very disappointed in me. He is certain Lady Weston will insist on dismissing him on my account. And perhaps, considering everything, that would be for the best.”
“Never say so. I shan’t have you leave in undeserved disgrace. Besides . . . Adam would miss you.”
“And I him.”
For a moment their gazes caught and held. She wondered if he was thinking of their embrace on the beach, as she was.
He cleared his throat. “Well . . . I had better let you get back to bed. I shall speak to my father in the morning and clear up everything.”
“Thank you.” She wondered if they would believe him. After all, Henry was not on the best of terms with several members of his family. Perhaps he’
d chosen to believe her only to spite Lady Weston.
She didn’t care. Having one ally was such a relief, she could have kissed him then and there.
Perhaps it was well, then, that he had decided to take his leave.
In the morning, Henry rose early and met with his father in the library. Phillip joined them. Henry assured them that he had indeed asked Miss Smallwood to ring the bell and believed she had acted honorably, considering the precipitous situation. Time being of the essence, a slap may very well have been the most expedient method for removing herself from Lizzie’s grasp.
Sir Giles looked bewildered. “But why would Lizzie seek to impede her?”
Henry hesitated. “Perhaps it was as Miss Smallwood said—Lizzie feared retribution from the wreckers.”
“Julian denied saying that, by the way,” Phillip added. “We have only Miss Smallwood’s account of it.”
“It’s the most plausible explanation,” Henry insisted. “We all knew retribution was likely, especially after the tower was knocked down. What possible motive could Miss Smallwood have to lie about it?” He glanced at Phillip, surprised he did not come to Miss Smallwood’s defense. Henry began to doubt he’d correctly guessed the identity of Phillip’s “lovely girl of humble circumstances.”
Sir Giles countered, “What motive could Lizzie or your brothers have to lie?”
Henry had his theories about that, but he was not ready to voice them. He hoped he was wrong.
Phillip said, “Lizzie claims Miss Smallwood held on to her. She said she thought Miss Smallwood wanted to ring the bell herself to impress you, because . . . she’s in love with you.”
Shock ran through him. “Ridiculous! Level-headed Miss Smallwood would never resort to such a juvenile act. She is not some jealous schoolroom miss, whatever Lizzie Henshaw might say . . . or be. And certainly not when lives were at stake, no matter how she felt about me.”
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