The Tutor's Daughter Read online

  © 2012 by Julie Klassen

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-6109-0

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design by Jennifer Parker

  Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC

  Author represented by Books and Such Literary Agency

  With love to my uncles,

  Al, Ed,

  Hank & John

  And in loving memory of

  Uncle Bill

  YOUNG GENTLEMEN

  are boarded and instructed in English, Writing, and Arithmetic, at Eighteen Guineas per Annum. They are likewise carefully instructed in the CLASSICS. Drawing, Geography, and the use of the Globes, taught separately on moderate Terms.

  —Hampshire Chronicle advertisement, 1797

  E. England begs leave to acquaint his friends and the public that he receives a limited number of pupils under his care, who are boarded at the rate of fourteen guineas, and carefully instructed in English Grammar, Penmanship and a regular course of Mathematics, together with History, Geography, the use of Globes, and the method of Drawing in Perspective.

  —Stamford Mercury advertisement, 1808

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Author’s Note

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Books by Julie Klassen

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Prologue

  LONGSTAPLE, DEVONSHIRE

  1812

  Something is amiss, Emma thought, immediately upon entering her tidy bedchamber. What is it . . . ?

  She scanned the neatly made bed, orderly side table, and dressing chest. . . . There. She stepped forward, heart squeezing.

  In the special teacup she kept as decoration nestled a clutch of tiny pink roses. The flowers had likely been picked from her aunt’s garden next door, but they had been picked for her, and they had been picked by him, and that was all that mattered.

  She knew instantly who had left them—Phillip Weston. Her favorite from among her father’s many pupils. And likely the only one who knew it was her birthday—her sixteenth. How much kinder Phillip was than his older brother, Henry, who had boarded with them a few years before.

  Emma carefully lifted the cup, bringing the flowers to her nose and breathing in the fragrance of apple-sweet roses and fresh greenery. Mmm . . . She held the cup away, admiring how the flowers’pink petals and green leaves brought out the colorful painting on its side.

  She found herself thinking back to the day her mother had given her this teacup three years before. The very day Henry Weston had nearly broken it. . . .

  Emma untied the ribbon, peeled back the tissue paper—careful not to rip it—and opened the box. Looking inside, pleasure filled her. She had been right about its contents. For she had noticed the prized teacup missing from its place in the china cupboard.

  “It was your grandmother’s,” her mother said. “She purchased it on her wedding trip. All the way to Italy. Can you imagine?”

  “Yes,” Emma breathed, admiring anew the gold-rimmed cup with its detailed painting of a Venetian gondola and bridge. “It’s beautiful. I’ve always admired it.”

  A rare dimple appeared in her mother’s pale cheek. “I know you have.”

  Emma smiled. “Thank you, Mamma.”

  “Happy birthday, my dear.”

  Emma returned the cup and saucer gingerly into the box, planning to carry it up to her bedchamber. She stepped out of the sitting room and—wham—a wooden ball slammed into the wall opposite, nearly knocking the box from her hands. She looked up, infuriated to see one of her father’s pupils smirking at her.

  “Henry Weston!” Emma clutched the box to her young bosom, shielding it with her arms. “Do be careful.”

  His green eyes slid from her face to her arms, and he stepped closer. “What is in the box?”

  “A gift.”

  “Ah, that’s right. It is your birthday. How old are you now—ten?”

  She lifted her chin. “I am thirteen, as you very well know.”

  He reached over, pulled back the paper, and peered into the box. His eyes glinted, and then he chuckled, the chuckle soon growing into a laugh.

  She glared at the smug sixteen-year-old. “I don’t see what is so funny.”

  “It is the perfect gift for you, Emma Smallwood. A single teacup. A single solitary teacup. Have I not often said you will end a spinster?”

  “I will not,” she insisted.

  “Sitting about and reading all day as you do, your head will continue to grow but your limbs will shrivel, and who would want to marry that?”

  “Someone far better than you.”

  He snorted. “If someone marries you, Emma Smallwood, I shall . . . I shall perform the dance of the swords at your wedding breakfast.” He grinned. “Naked.”

  She scoffed in disgust. “Who would want to see that? Besides, who says I would invite you to my wedding?”

  He tweaked her chin in a patronizing fashion. “Bluestocking.”

  She scowled. “Jackanapes!”

  “Emma Smallwood . . .” Her mother appeared in the doorway, eyes flashing. “What word did I hear coming from your mouth? I give you a beautiful gift and you repay me with an ugly word?”

  “Sorry, Mamma.”

  “Hello, Mr. Weston.” Her mother slanted Henry a dismissive look. “Do excuse us.”

  “Mrs. Smallwood.” He bowed and then turned toward the stairs.

  “Emma,” her mother hissed. “Young ladies do not speak to gentlemen in such a manner.”

  “He’s no gentleman,” Emma said, hoping Henry would hear. “He certainly does not act like one.”

  Her mother’s lips tightened. “Be that as it may, it isn’t proper. I want you to go to your room and read the chapter on polite manners in the book I gave y
ou.”

  Emma protested, “Mamma . . .”

  Her mother held up her hand. “Not another word. I know I say you read too many books, but I would rather you read one on the feminine graces than those horrid scholarly tomes of your father’s.”

  “Yes, Mamma.” Emma sighed and carried her cup upstairs.

  Unhappy memory fading, Emma smiled at the sweet bouquet left for her by Henry’s younger brother, Phillip. She wondered what Henry Weston would say if he could see her now and knew who had given her flowers.

  When Henry Weston left the Smallwood Academy, Emma had been relieved, but she would be sad to see Phillip depart. It was difficult to believe two brothers could be so very different.

  Before, however, Lucy had been an hour in the house she had contrived a place for everything and put everything in its place.

  —The Naughty Girl Won, circa 1800

  Chapter 1

  FIVE YEARS LATER

  APRIL 1817

  Twenty-one-year-old Emma Smallwood carefully dusted the collection of favorite books atop her dressing chest. It was the one bit of housekeeping she insisted on doing herself, despite Mrs. Malloy’s protestations. She then carefully wiped her cherished teacup against any dust particle daring to lodge there. The cup and saucer were a gift from her mother—fine porcelain rimmed with real gold.

  Emma set the cup and saucer back atop the leather-bound volume of Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy. She angled the cup to best display the image on its side—a lovely painting of a graceful gondola in Venice.

  Emma had never sipped from the gold-rimmed cup. But she did like to look at it. To remember her mother, gone these two years. To remember a young man who had once left roses inside it. And to imagine visiting Italy someday herself.

  Morning ritual finished, Emma stowed her cleaning supplies and checked the chatelaine watch hooked to her bodice. She closed the cover with a satisfying snap. Precisely as she’d thought. Time to go down and send off their last remaining pupil.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she saw Edward Sims standing in the hall, fidgeting with his valise. He wore a smart frock coat and top hat, and looked the picture of a young man ready to take on the world.

  “All set, Mr. Sims?”

  He turned. “Yes, Miss Smallwood.”

  Though she was only four years his senior, Emma felt a fondness bordering on the maternal when she looked at the young man who had lived with them for most of the last three years. She glanced around the empty hall. “Has my father bid you farewell?”

  Mr. Sims shifted and shook his head. “I have not seen him this morning.”

  Emma forced a smile. “What a pity. He shall be so sorry to have missed you. I know he wanted to be here to see you off.”

  Her father ought to have been there. But no doubt he had gone to the churchyard to visit her grave. Again.

  Mr. Sims gave an awkward smile. “Tell him good-bye for me, and thank him for everything.”

  “I shall.”

  “And I thank you especially, Miss Smallwood. I learned a great deal from you.”

  “You are very welcome, Mr. Sims. I wish you every success at university.”

  From the front window, she watched the young man walk past the Smallwood Academy sign, and down the cobbled lane, feeling the wistful letdown she often felt when a pupil left them. This time all the more, since there were no new students to replace him.

  The house seemed suddenly quiet and empty. She wished Mr. Sims had a younger brother. Six younger brothers. She sighed. Perhaps even amiable Mr. Sims would hesitate to recommend Mr. Smallwood as tutor, considering how little her father had actually been involved in his education. But how would they pay their cook-housekeeper and maid, not to mention the languishing pile of bills, without more pupils?

  Emma walked to the desk in the family sitting room, pulled out the bound notebook she kept there, and flipped past previous lists:

  Books read this year.

  Books to read next.

  Improvements needed to boys’ chambers.

  Economizing measures.

  Places to visit someday.

  New texts and primers to order for next term: None.

  Diversions to improve Papa’s moods/Improvement noted: None.

  Pupils by year.

  Her pupil lists, which had grown shorter with each passing year, included notes on each young man’s character and his plans for the future.

  She turned to the list from three years before, running her finger over the few names, lingering on one in particular.

  Phillip Weston. Kind and amiable. Second son. Plans to follow his brother to Oxford and read the law.

  The brief note hardly did him justice. Phillip Weston had been her only true friend among her father’s pupils over the years.

  Seeing his name caused her to turn to another page. Another list.

  Prospective pupils for the future: Rowan and Julian Weston?

  Emma thought again of the letter she had sent a fortnight before. She knew perfectly well Henry and Phillip Weston had two younger half brothers. Phillip had mentioned them often enough. Julian and Rowan were at least fifteen by now—older than Phillip when he’d been sent to the academy.

  But they had not come.

  She had broached the subject with her father several times in the past, suggesting he write to the boys’ father. But he had hemmed, hawed, and sighed, saying he was sure, if Sir Giles meant to send his younger sons to them, he would have done so already. No, more likely, Sir Giles and his second wife had eschewed their humble establishment in favor of prestigious Winchester, Harrow, or Eton.

  “Well, it would not hurt to ask,” Emma had urged.

  But her father had grimaced and said maybe another day.

  Therefore Emma, who had been acting with increasing frequency as her father’s secretary, had taken up quill and ink and written to Sir Giles in her father’s stead, to ask if he might consider sending his younger sons, as he had his older two.

  She still could hardly believe she had done so. What had come over her? In hindsight, she knew very well. She had read an account of the daring travels of the Russian princess Catherine Dashkov. Reading about the princess’s exploits had inspired Emma’s rare act of bravery—or foolishness—whichever the letter had been. In the end, her letter apparently made no difference. Her assertiveness had been in vain, for there had been no reply. She hoped if Sir Giles had been offended at their presumption that word of it had not reached Phillip, who was, she believed, still away at university.

  Turning a page in her notebook, Emma tapped a quill in ink and began a new list.

  Measures to acquire new pupils.

  Someone knocked on the doorjamb, and Emma looked up. There stood Aunt Jane, who had let herself in through the side door as usual.

  “Mr. Sims departed on schedule?” Jane asked with one of her frequent smiles, punctuated by slightly crooked eyeteeth.

  “Yes. You only just missed him.” Emma set her quill back in its holder.

  Her aunt laid her bonnet on the sideboard and smoothed back her hair. Amidst the brown, Emma glimpsed a few silver hairs that had escaped her ruthless plucking.

  Jane, her father’s sister, younger by six years, had never married. She lived in the house next door, which had been their parents’ home. There she ran a sister school to the Smallwood Academy—a boarding school for young ladies.

  Jane peeled off her gloves. “Dare I ask where your father is?”

  Emma shook her head. “He’s been gone since breakfast.”

  Aunt Jane pulled in her lips in a regretful expression, her shaking head mirroring Emma’s.

  Mrs. Malloy, the Smallwoods’ cook-housekeeper, brought in the tea tray and seemed not in the least surprised to see Jane Smallwood there. In fact, three cups already sat upon the tray.

  “You will join me, I hope?” Emma asked politely, knowing full well her aunt had planned to do so all along.

  “Thank you, my dear.
”

  As if drawn by the warm trail of steam from the kettle or the smell of Mrs. Malloy’s shortbread, the front door opened and Emma’s father shuffled in, head bowed, thin mouth downturned, looking older than his forty-eight years.

  Mrs. Malloy bustled over to take his hat and muffler, scolding, “Mr. Smallwood . . . yer shoes are a right mess! And wet trouser ’ems in the bargain. Did ya swim ’ome?”

  “Do forgive me, Mrs. Malloy,” he said dryly. Irony glinted in his round, blue eyes. “I did not step in that puddle to spite you.” He wiped his shoes and looked across at his daughter and sister. “Am I in time for tea?”

  “Yes,” Emma replied. “Though you have missed Mr. Sims.”

  Her father blinked, clearly surprised and chagrined. “Left already? Good heavens. I wanted to be here. I do hope you passed along my gratitude and farewells.”

  “Of course I did.”

  Her father sat down, rubbing his hands together. “Chilly day. Damp too.”

  “You ought not to have stayed outdoors so long, John,” Jane said. “You’ll catch your death.”

  “I should be so lucky,” he murmured.

  Aunt and niece shared a look of concern.

  Emma poured tea into their plain everyday cups, and conversation dwindled while they partook of the simple repast of hot tea, bread, cheese, and shortbread. Her father ate a little of everything, she noticed, though his appetite was not what it once was.

  Emma nibbled bread and cheese but resisted the shortbread, though it was her favorite. Her slim figure was one of the few things her mother had praised. Emma allowed herself sweets only at Christmas and her birthday.

  She sipped her tea, then set down her cup. “Well, Papa,” she began, “I have started a list.”

  “Another? What is it this time?”

  She felt a flicker of annoyance at his condescending tone but replied evenly, “A list of things we might try to acquire new pupils.”

  “Ah.” He waved a dismissive hand as though the topic were trivial.