The Tutor's Daughter Page 12

  Creak.

  Emma’s heart lurched. She froze, listening. A floorboard squeaked in the passage outside her room. It was only someone passing in the corridor, she told herself.

  But . . . why would anyone be walking past her room, there at the end of the passage?

  Emma picked up her chatelaine watch from the bedside table and peered at it by candlelight. Eleven. Surely too late for a servant to be up and about, sweeping floors or some such. The footsteps continued down the corridor and faded away.

  She told herself to return to her book. Whoever it was had gone. Danger past.

  Danger? How foolish. Her choice of reading material had definitely been unwise.

  Emma laid aside the book, turned back the bedclothes, and sat on the edge of her bed. Curiosity nipping at her, she pulled on her wrapper and wiggled her feet into her slippers. Armed with her still-burning candle, she opened the door and listened. She heard the faint sound of retreating footsteps. Leaving her door ajar, she quickly tiptoed down the passage, trying to ignore the many pairs of eyes glaring down at her from the portraits of long-dead ancestors. She passed her father’s room and paused at the top of the stairwell. Hearing nothing from below or above, she continued on, passing doors she had never ventured past before.

  She reached the end of the corridor where it intersected with a perpendicular passage—the north wing Lady Weston and Mrs. Prowse had warned her to stay out of.

  Heart pounding, Emma gingerly leaned forward and peered around the corner. She held her candle at waist level, too nervous to lift it high, uncertain what she might find.

  Down the passage, she saw the retreating back of a man carrying his own candle. As he reached for the door latch of the last room, she glimpsed his profile by candlelight. Wavy hair, strong nose, high cheekbones—the unmistakable profile of Henry Weston. What was he doing? Certainly his room was not in the north wing.

  His head turned in her direction. She jerked back out of sight and pressed against the wall. Had he noticed her light? Were footsteps now coming toward her? She turned and hurried away on the balls of her feet, quickly and quietly scurrying back to her room. Hopefully unseen.

  Early the next morning, Emma again dreamt of Phillip. They were back in Longstaple, even though Phillip was too old to be her father’s pupil any longer. He stood in the Smallwood sitting room as the man he was now—jawline and shoulders wide and masculine, brown hair thick, nose perfect, eyes still blue . . . and warm with admiration. The old affection she felt for him returned.

  He stepped closer and wrapped his arms around her. How strong he was now. His gaze lingered on her face, looking at her fully, openly, nothing hidden, nothing to hide. Warmth and nostalgic longing filled her chest. Yes, this was how it felt to be with Phillip Weston. Good, yet wistful at once.

  Then he leaned toward her and his eyes grew vague and unfocused, looking slightly past her, as if not wanting to see her reaction, in case she hesitated or outright refused. If he did not see it, he need not heed it. . . .

  As his mouth neared hers, she thought, Does he not realize how much older I am? That I am not that girl any longer? That we should not be doing this? Yet she wanted him to kiss her, to feel his mouth on hers.

  “Miss Smallwood?”

  His lips whispered near.

  “Time to rise, miss.”

  Shh. No. I don’t want to miss this. . . .

  Click, clatter—the shutters opening. Emma winced. Sunshine poured over her, chasing the dream away. She begrudgingly opened her eyes and saw Morva folding back the last of the shutters and going to her wardrobe to pull out the next frock in Emma’s limited, predictable rotation.

  Emma lay there a few moments longer, feeling the intoxicating pull of the dream fading but unwilling to miss a single moment. Like honey, sweet and sickening at once. How wanton she was, to wish the feelings to linger. That night in Longstaple was long gone. She could not kiss Phillip in real life. And likely he no longer wanted to do so. Was it so wrong to relish the feeling anyway? To enjoy the way it lingered, leaving her with a wistful awareness, a pleasant unease, as if she had forgotten to do something? Yes, it probably was wrong. But she did not wish it away.

  Morva bent to pick up something from the floor and squinted at it. “Something for thee, miss. Slid under the door while thee slept, looks like.”

  That’s odd, Emma thought, but held out her hand for the folded rectangle.

  Morva gave it to her, expression expectant. Emma ignored her and focused on the letter. No seal marked its perfect fold. She turned it over. There was her name, clearly printed: Miss Smallwood.

  Her curiosity trumped her qualms about arriving late for breakfast. Might it be a kind word from Phillip? Or a word of reprimand from Henry, if he’d seen her about to enter the north wing the night before? She unfolded the single sheet, noticing the studied handwriting, its angles and descenders even and precise. She read:

  Dear Miss Smallwood,

  I thought it was time you received a real love letter. I am too shy to speak to you of my feelings in person, but I want you to know how pleased I am you are with us. You have an ardent admirer here at Ebbington Manor.

  I will be watching you. For I could gaze upon your soft green eyes and sweet lips forever.

  Your Secret Admirer

  What in the world? Emma felt her stomach twist in alarm. Likely not the reaction the author had hoped for. Or was it? She reread “your soft green eyes and sweet lips . . .” and felt her cheeks heat. Who had written this? Was Phillip attracted to her as in her dream? He certainly made it clear he was delighted to see her again. But ardent admiration?

  She did not recognize the handwriting. But three years had passed since she had seen Phillip’s hand. Might he truly admire her?

  Emma felt Morva watching her and quickly folded the letter. She rose and began washing for the day but was conscious of the housemaid’s inquisitive gaze following her movements.

  Morva helped her into a day dress of patterned muslin with green ribbon trim at neckline and sleeves, then finally took her leave.

  Alone at last, Emma looked at the letter once more. She found herself transported back to Aunt Jane’s house a few years ago, when she, then an adolescent with romantic ideals, had first seen the letter her aunt kept on her bedside table.

  “Who’s the letter from, Aunt Jane?” Emma had teased. “A secret admirer?”

  “Yes, actually,” Jane replied. “Though his identity is no secret. His name is Mr. Delbert Farley of Bodmin.” Jane nodded toward the letter. “You may read it if you like.”

  Emma had read the letter, expecting little. But she was impressed. “This is a good letter, Aunt Jane. A very good letter, indeed. How do you know this Mr. Farley?”

  “I met him in the bookshop several months ago,” Jane said. “I happened to be in the High Street and stopped in to poke around. I was skimming through a new volume on steam engines when I noticed a gentleman watching me. I feared he wanted the book for himself, so I offered it to him, but he said he was only interested to know why a ‘lovely lady’ such as myself should find such a book interesting.”

  Jane’s dimple appeared at this.

  “I explained that I was a teacher interested in many things. He told me he was in town visiting his cousin. You know Mr. Gilcrest who bought the forge?”

  Emma nodded. “Vaguely.”

  “Mr. Farley came to help him bring the old place into good working order. At all events, we talked for some time and I soon found myself agreeing to take tea with Mr. Farley before his coach departed.” Jane’s dimple deepened. “He asked the innkeeper for tea for himself and his ‘learned colleague.’”

  Emma’s eyes widened. “What did Mr. Pruett say to that?”

  “Not a word. Mr. Farley was obviously known and respected by the Pruetts, as well as several others in the inn. I felt no qualms about being in his company.”

  Emma exclaimed, “Why did you not tell me this before?”

  “I did not want y
ou to follow my example of talking to strange men! It is one thing at my age, but not at yours.”

  “Oh, Aunt Jane. You are not old!”

  Jane sighed. “Well, on that day, I had never felt younger. Or more interesting. Mr. Farley told me about his china clayworks; I told him about my school. We discussed favorite books. . . . I have rarely enjoyed myself more. When he left, I thought that would be that. But a week later, I received a parcel—the very book I had been skimming.” Jane ran a finger over the volume on her side table. “I knew immediately who had sent it. Perhaps I should not have accepted the gift, but I hadn’t the heart to return it.”

  “Did you ever see him again?”

  “Once. He returned for Mr. Gilcrest’s wedding. He married Alice White, you may recall, and I had been invited to the wedding breakfast. I don’t know if Mr. Farley arranged the invitation or not. But either way, I enjoyed seeing him again.”

  Emma asked eagerly, “And then he wrote you this letter, asking to call on you formally?”

  Jane nodded, her eyes far away.

  Emma looked at the date of the letter and saw it had been written more than a month before. “Have you answered him?”

  Jane shook her head.

  “Why not?”

  Her aunt shrugged, sad but resigned. “Mr. Farley lives in Bodmin, Emma. Nearly thirty miles from here. It seems silly to contemplate uprooting my life, giving up my established school here—my livelihood—for the mere possibility of romance.”

  Now Emma grimaced and pressed a hand to her brow. The memory of her aunt’s practical response to her own “love letter” prompted Emma to be realistic about hers. She likely had no secret admirer. The letter was probably a joke, though a joke in bad taste.

  She recalled the Westons reminiscing about boyhood pranks the previous night, and her stomach soured. Apparently, one of them had decided to poke fun at her—the sure spinster.

  Emma thought of the footsteps she had heard outside her room last night—delivering this letter, she guessed. Whoever it was had probably stifled laughter all the way back to his room. Had Henry Weston delivered another forged love letter, an encore of his long-ago prank? Or had one of his brothers done so in his stead?

  A chill swept over her. She stepped to the wardrobe and wrapped a lightweight shawl around her shoulders, pinning it across her bosom with an old fleur-de-lis brooch of her mother’s. The pin would not cooperate, or perhaps it was her trembling fingers, but her watch read two minutes after the hour by the time she was ready to go downstairs.

  How should she react? She would not. She would not tell anyone. She would handle this herself, as she handled most things in her life. She would act as though nothing had happened. After all, nothing had happened. No harm had been done.

  Looking about the room, Emma lifted the lid of her bandbox and stuck the letter under the hat within. She did not want Morva to be tempted to read it. Then, brushing her hands together, she left her room and made her way down to breakfast.

  Emma hesitated in the threshold to survey the scene within the breakfast room. Henry Weston, Sir Giles, and her father sat engrossed in conversation over coffee as the footman cleared away their used plates. Phillip stood at the sideboard, poking through an assortment of breads with silver serving tongs.

  He glanced over. “Ah, Miss Smallwood. Good morning.”

  Hearing this, the other gentlemen rose and looked her way. Feeling self-conscious, she dipped her head in acknowledgment and stepped inside.

  The gentlemen returned to their seats and their discussion. But Phillip waited for her to join him at the sideboard, an expectant expression on his boyish face. Thinking of the morning’s dream, and the letter, Emma could not quite meet his eyes.

  “And how are you this morning, Emma? I wonder if you slept as poorly as I did, hearing every breeze whistle through the window frames and the whole place shudder every time one of its occupants turned on his bed?”

  For once she could not return his playful grin. “I slept well enough, thank you.”

  He shot her a look of surprise at her officious tone but made no comment as he returned his attention to the breads and muffins.

  Even though Emma had all but convinced herself the letter was insincere, she found her gaze drifting furtively to Phillip as she picked up a plate and helped herself to several items, not paying much attention to what she selected. He seemed the same as yesterday. She did not detect any hidden meanings in his words or looks.

  He glanced over—from her plate, to her face, then back again. “Hungry?”

  She looked down at her plate as though through a fog. It came into focus, and she was chagrined to find it piled high with several types of sausages. Her cheeks heated. “My goodness,” she murmured. “I am not as awake as I thought.”

  He surveyed her no-doubt troubled expression. “Everything all right?”

  “Hm? Oh yes. Everything is fine. I’m fine. Why should I not be fine?”

  Phillip’s lips puckered into an uncertain grin. “No reason. You look fine. Perfectly fine. I’m sorry if I implied otherwise.”

  His eyes sparkled. He was teasing her. “You look fine. Perfectly fine.” What did he mean by that? Was it a veiled reference to the letter, to the compliments about her appearance—her eyes and lips? Emma! She silently scolded herself. Stop being ridiculous.

  Phillip stepped to the unoccupied end of the table and pulled out a chair for her. Dumbly she went forward, feeling slightly ill at ease about sitting next to him. She noticed Henry Weston looking at her. She forced herself to meet his gaze and nod before returning her attention to her meal.

  Rowan and Julian entered the breakfast room, and Emma was relieved to have the attention redirected toward them. Julian looked at her and bowed. He elbowed his brother beside him, and Rowan halfheartedly followed suit.

  Julian smiled. “Good morning, Miss Smallwood.”

  Emma dipped her head. “Julian. Rowan.”

  “And good morning to you too,” Phillip said dryly.

  “Oh, hello, Phillip,” Julian obliged.

  Rowan had already made a beeline for the sideboard. Not only was Rowan several inches taller than his twin but at least a stone heavier as well. He’d recently had a growth spurt, she’d overheard Lady Weston say, assuring Julian he would no doubt catch up with his brother soon.

  Emma felt someone watching her and glanced over to find Henry Weston’s eyes shifting from her to Phillip and back again. When she met his gaze once more, he looked away first.

  Emma suddenly wished Lizzie was not so fond of sleeping late. How self-conscious she felt, the only female in a room of six males. She ought to be used to it, having grown up in a house full of men. But then, her mother had been there, and the men had been boys. And none of them had written to her under the guise of a secret admirer. Well, except for Henry Weston, writing as poor Milton Pugsworth.

  After breakfast, Emma helped her father administer an examination covering significant events of the first century. Both Rowan and Julian performed very well, which was a relief to Emma and her father, not to mention the boys themselves. Apparently, examinations at the “West Country school” their mother had chosen had not gone as well.

  Later that afternoon, Emma went for another walk, and Phillip jogged out to join her. Emma was pleased but reminded herself it was probably just a friendly gesture. It meant nothing. Together they strolled through the garden, Emma admiring the stately old rhododendrons, clumps of primroses, and camellia bushes with dark pink blooms. She asked Phillip to identify species unfamiliar to her, but he was unable to name more than a few.

  They walked in silence for a time, and then she began gently, “I was surprised to hear the boys had been sent away to school. I had thought you might have recommended Smallwood’s.”

  “I did. I do! But it was Lady Weston’s decision to send them to Blundell’s. I don’t know why.”

  Emma said, “Lizzie mentioned Lady Weston wanted them to attend a ‘good, old-fashioned Wes
t Country school.’”

  “That sounds right. Lady Weston is West Country born and bred, after all. Unlike Father.”

  Emma remembered what that red-haired man had said about Sir Giles not being considered “one of them” by the villagers.

  She asked, “How long were the boys at Blundell’s?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I was not home at the time. Three or four months, I think.”

  Emma nodded. “Lizzie mentioned they did not like the school. Something about the schoolmaster and other students treating them unkindly.”

  “So they say. I gather the schoolmaster maintained a different version of events. Something about bad behavior and fighting.”

  “Fighting?” she echoed, recalling how Rowan had stepped between Julian and Mr. McShane.

  “Well, don’t quote me on it. Father said, ‘not exactly fighting.’ Apparently, Julian insists Rowan was only trying to protect him.”

  “I wonder if it is difficult, being so much smaller than his brother.”

  “Yes . . .” Phillip mused. “It certainly can be.”

  Was he referring to himself and Henry? Henry was taller, certainly. But there was not the glaring gap between them as between Rowan and Julian.

  She offered, “At least the disparity is likely only temporary.”

  His eyes sparkled. “Whereas the disparity between Henry and me is permanent?”

  She tucked her chin, regarding him in bemusement. “I never meant to suggest any such thing.” Did Phillip feel inferior in some way to his elder brother? She could not credit it.

  He flicked a playful finger under her chin. “I should hope not. I always rather thought you preferred me to Henry.”

  Emma’s nerves crackled to life. She took a long breath and told herself to stop imagining references to that cursed letter. She swallowed and answered diplomatically, “You and I, being so close in age, naturally became friends. Henry and I did not.”

  He gave her a crooked grin and tweaked her chin once more. “That’s what I like to hear.”