The Tutor's Daughter Page 19

Ahead of them, out on the headland point, stood a figure, his back to them, an easel before him. Rowan.

  Emma wondered if he would mind being disturbed. She and Lizzie exchanged a look, then approached him tentatively.

  Emma said, “Hello, Rowan.”

  He glanced over, expression guilty. Was he so self-conscious about his work?

  “Miss Smallwood. I . . . Am I late for afternoon lessons?”

  “Not at all. Forgive us. We did not mean to disturb you.”

  “That’s all right. It’s nothing important.”

  Emma glanced from the painting on the easel to the actual scene before them. The calm sea shimmered blue-grey in the sunshine, and upon it floated a green sailing vessel, white sails unfurled and taut, rigging rattling in the wind, approaching the waiting harbor north of them.

  Emma looked back toward the painting once more. Rowan had painted a nighttime scene. A dark, stormy sea capped with ominous waves and a red sloop tilted dangerously on its side, breaking up on jagged rocks beyond the mouth of the harbor. A tiny figure of a man, mouth agape, stretched his arm toward the viewer, begging for help.

  Emma blinked. She asked tentatively, “Is this . . . from your imagination?”

  Rowan shook his head, eyes on his painting. “From memory.”

  Emma stared at his profile. “You witnessed a shipwreck?”

  “More than one. There are many wrecks along this coast.”

  “Are there?”

  He nodded.

  Lizzie said, “Approaching an exposed coastline like this is always dangerous. But the natural breakwater there”—she pointed to the rocky peninsula, jutting partway across the harbor, the chapel at its tip—“narrows the entrance and increases the risk.”

  Emma was surprised the girl would know anything about it.

  Rowan nodded his agreement. “Many a ship has struck those rocks. And many a man drowned just beyond the safe haven of the harbor.”

  Emma shivered at the thought of going under those icy waves. She gestured toward Rowan’s painting. “When did this happen?”

  “Early this spring.”

  “Did the crew survive?”

  Rowan shook his head. “Not one.”

  “Was there nothing to be done?” Emma asked.

  His lip curled. “Do you mean, besides wait for the bodies and cargo to wash ashore?”

  Again Emma shivered. “Yes, before that.”

  Rowan shrugged. “John Bray tried. He always tries.”

  “Who is John Bray?”

  “Local constable and salvage agent.”

  Lizzie sniffed. “I hear the man causes more trouble than he solves.”

  Rowan shot her a dark look but made no reply.

  Emma gazed at the painting once more. “Well . . . it is really quite good, Rowan.”

  A voice came from over her shoulder. “It is indeed.”

  Emma whirled around, surprised to see Henry Weston standing there, looking from the painting to his brother with a gleam of nearly paternal pride in his eyes. She had not heard him approach over the wind.

  “Not as good as it could be,” Rowan began. “Not even as good as—”

  “No rebuttals, Rowan,” Henry interrupted. “Miss Smallwood is not one to hand out compliments lightly. If she says the painting is good, then it is indeed.”

  A look passed between the brothers, some undercurrent Emma couldn’t place. Henry turned to her. “You have a good eye, Miss Smallwood.”

  “Um . . . thank you,” Emma murmured, consternated by Henry Weston’s praise. “Were you here when the shipwreck occurred?”

  Henry looked at the painting once more, eyes suddenly fierce. “Unfortunately, I was not.” His face contorted. “Poor souls.”

  A moment of wind-strummed silence followed.

  Henry inhaled and drew himself up. “Well, I’m off to check the water levels and visit the chapel.” He tugged on his hat brim, turned his face into the wind, and strode away.

  Watching him go, Emma was relieved he did not ask her to accompany him again, for she would have demurred.

  Lizzie took her arm. “Let’s leave Rowan to his painting, shall we? You promised me a walk, and I long to stretch my legs.”

  Still gazing after Henry’s retreating figure, Emma shook herself mentally awake. “Of course.”

  They bid Rowan farewell, and the two young women continued their walk along the coast path.

  But Emma’s thoughts remained on Henry Weston. “I find it interesting that Mr. Weston is so drawn to that abandoned chapel when he doesn’t even attend church.”

  “Oh, but he does,” Lizzie said, looking at her askance. “He usually attends with the family in the morning, and then goes to an evening service at the Wesleyan chapel in Stratton.”

  Emma was astonished. “Does he?”

  Lizzie’s look of confusion cleared. “That’s right. He hasn’t gone with us since you arrived. Two weeks ago, I believe, a traveling preacher was in the area for some special early meeting Henry didn’t want to miss, so he went there instead of St. Andrew’s. I don’t know where he was this last Sunday. Gone somewhere on more family business, I think.”

  Emma realized she had simply assumed Henry Weston was an unbeliever—though come to think of it, he had spoken of God in the chapel. Guilt pinching her, she asked, “Does his family mind?”

  “Lady Weston doesn’t approve of him associating with dissenters, but when have those two ever seen eye to eye on anything?”

  “And Sir Giles?”

  Lizzie shrugged. “I’ve never heard him object. I think he’s just relieved Henry still attends St. Andrew’s with the family.”

  “I see . . .” Emma digested this new information.

  They walked on for a few minutes more, listening to the wind, the surf, and the sea gulls.

  Then Lizzie asked, “Have you heard we are to have visitors, Miss Smallwood?”

  “Oh?”

  Lizzie nodded. “Mrs. and Miss Penberthy.” She began parroting Lady Weston’s affected voice, “The dearest friend, and her most eligible daughter.” Then Lizzie added almost glumly, “We’re even to have a party with dancing in her honor.”

  Lizzie’s dour tone surprised Emma, considering how little amusement life at Ebbington Manor usually afforded the young woman.

  “You should enjoy that,” she said gently.

  Lizzie frowned and shook her head. “Not likely.”

  “Why not? What is the matter?”

  “Oh, Emma. May I call you Emma?”

  “Yes, if you like.”

  “I am so worried, and I have no one to confide in. May I tell you my troubling secret?”

  Emma hesitated. She had no wish to place herself in an awkward position between ward and host family.

  Apparently noticing her hesitation, Lizzie said, “I shan’t use names, if that will make you feel better. That way, if asked, you can say you truly didn’t know. Please, Emma. I must tell someone or I shall burst. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep for worrying.”

  Vaguely in the back of Emma’s mind, a verse she had heard as a child whispered to her. “Cast all your cares upon Him for He cares for you.” But she did not say the words aloud. After all, as distant as she had been from God since her mother’s death, who was she to offer pat religious comforts?

  Instead Emma said quietly, “Very well. But no names.”

  Gratefully, Lizzie nodded, and led the way to a bench overlooking the sea. She plopped down and Emma sat beside her, carefully arranging her skirts.

  “You see,” Lizzie began, “Lady Weston hopes, or should I say plans, that one of the Weston brothers should marry this Miss Penberthy. She is apparently quite the little heiress. Her father made a tidy fortune in tin mining, I believe. Lady Weston would very much like to see her friend’s daughter marry into the family—and bring along a good deal of money into the marriage, of course. Very fond of money, Lady Weston is.”

  Emma waited, wondering and fearing what Lizzie’s interest could be in
all of this.

  Lizzie gripped her hands together and looked out toward the horizon. “You see, I have formed a secret . . . attachment to one of the Weston brothers. Foolish, I know. But this was several months ago, before—” She was about to say a name but corrected herself. “Before he came home. And now I regret that foolish promise I made to . . . shall we say, a younger Mr. Weston. For since then I have fallen hopelessly in love with . . . an older Mr. Weston. And now I fear that Lady Weston means for him to marry Miss Penberthy with her five thousand pounds, and where shall that leave me?”

  Emma’s mind whirled. She didn’t want to know whom Lizzie spoke of, yet found herself drawing conclusions even as she told herself not to. Younger brother . . . Phillip? Older brother . . . Henry?

  Had Phillip actually formed an attachment with Lizzie Henshaw? Is that really why he had left Oxford and returned to Ebbington—to see Lizzie, and not Emma and her father as he’d protested? Emma hoped it wasn’t true. But nor did she like the thought of her dear friend having his heart broken if the girl he loved had transferred her affections to his older brother.

  She wondered which man Lady Weston had in mind for this Miss Penberthy. Henry, the eldest son? Or Phillip, whom Lady Weston clearly preferred?

  Emma asked carefully, “Does this . . . older brother . . . return your affection?”

  Lizzie’s eyes were wide and plaintive. “I think so. Oh, I dearly hope so.”

  Did Henry Weston love Lizzie Henshaw? It was difficult to believe. Yet Emma had certainly noticed his kindness, his politeness to his stepmother’s ward. If it was more than that, Emma had seen no indication. But then again, neither had she seen any hints of romance between Lizzie and Phillip—other than, perhaps, seeing them talking together in the garden. But they might have been discussing any number of unromantic topics.

  Had Lizzie, with her charming looks and neglected education, really managed to turn the heads of both Phillip and Henry Weston, leading her to disappoint one of them?

  Emma supposed some young women lived for such romantic ideals. But personally, Emma would find it loathsome to put herself and two brothers in such a predicament.

  Lizzie said imploringly, “You see now why I’m upset? Why I’m worried?”

  Emma nodded. She did indeed.

  As dancing is the accomplishment most calculated to display a fine form, elegant taste, and graceful carriage to advantage . . . [beauty] cannot choose a more effective exhibition.

  —The Mirror of the Graces, 1811

  Chapter 13

  Mrs. and Miss Penberthy wrote to inform the Westons they would arrive on Friday and depart on Sunday afternoon. Lady Weston had hoped for a longer visit but consoled herself with the notion that it would be easier to maintain an unwavering picture of familial perfection during a shorter interval.

  The Penberthy ladies would reach Ebbington Manor late in the afternoon, in time to dress for dinner, followed by cards and an early evening as they were sure to be tired from their journey.

  On Saturday, each young man would be given an hour to entertain Miss Penberthy and demonstrate his virtues. Even Julian and Rowan, though too young for twenty-year-old Tressa, would have their chance to impress, for Lady Weston would not miss the opportunity to display the superior talents and charms of her natural sons.

  Henry had overheard Lady Weston tell Lizzie, “How could any woman regard my accomplished sons and not imagine her own future offspring painting and playing with such skill if only she were to marry a Weston?”

  Henry was to take Miss Penberthy riding, and Phillip was to give her a tour of the estate. Nothing too lengthy, for they would all need time to prepare for an early dinner followed by an evening party, complete with dancing and a midnight supper afterward. A small private ball, just like those Violet Weston remembered so fondly from her youth.

  Mr. Davies had arranged for musicians from the village to play. And, wishing to have sufficient couples for a proper ball, Lady Weston had even invited Miss Smallwood to join them. Altogether then, there would be five gentlemen and five ladies: Sir Giles, Henry, Phillip, Rowan, and Julian. Lady Weston, Mrs. Penberthy, Miss Penberthy, Lizzie, and Miss Smallwood.

  Overhearing the guest list, Sir Giles protested, “But, my dear, you have forgotten Mr. Smallwood.”

  Lady Weston wrinkled her powdered nose. “Mr. Smallwood shall take his dinner with Davies, as usual.”

  “But surely we might at least ask him to join us for the party afterward?”

  She protested, “But then we should have an uneven number of men and women for dancing.”

  “I don’t care for dancing, my dear, as you know. And Mr. Smallwood as I recall is an excellent dancer. Mrs. Penberthy is out of mourning and may wish to dance. We don’t want her monopolizing the eligible gentlemen, do we?”

  She considered this. “I suppose you have a point, my dear.”

  “And might it not look well, my love, that we have our own private tutor in residence?”

  Lady Weston narrowed her eyes in shrewd contemplation. “Very well. Mr. Smallwood may join us.”

  She turned and leveled first Phillip, then Henry with a stern glare. “But we shall hear no tales of boyhood escapades with the tutor’s daughter. Do I make myself clear?”

  Friday afternoon arrived, and with it their guests. The Penberthys were warmly greeted by Lady Weston and Sir Giles and shown to their rooms to rest and change before dinner.

  Henry’s valet helped him dress for the occasion. For once, Henry did not urge the exacting fellow to quit fussing and make haste. Henry was in no hurry. He dreaded the upcoming dinner—the awkward conversation and pointed expectation.

  Merryn began tying Henry’s cravat in the simple barrel knot Henry usually preferred.

  Seeing his valet’s long-suffering expression, Henry suggested, “Perhaps the waterfall tie tonight?”

  Merryn’s fidgeting fingers paused, and he stared up at his master with wide eyes, which brightened from shock to extreme pleasure in a heartbeat. “Yes, sir!” He pulled the cravat from Henry’s neck, retrieved a longer one from the cupboard, and began the process all over again, tying and arranging the white linen until it cascaded over his waistcoat. Henry felt the dandy, but Merryn assured him he looked very elegant.

  Finally Henry could put off the inevitable no longer. He thanked Merryn, took a deep breath, and steeled himself to join the others.

  Trotting down the stairs, Henry prayed for patience, for the grace to treat their guests kindly, and for much-needed self-control to hold his tongue.

  A few minutes later, Henry took his chair in the candlelit dining room. He noticed that Miss Penberthy had been seated directly opposite him and next to Phillip.

  Her appearance was better than he recalled, he admitted to himself. Her ginger hair, well dressed atop her head, flattered her round face. Her brown eyes were large and pleasing, her complexion and figure tolerable. She fawned over neither Phillip nor Henry himself. Instead, she directed most of her attention toward his father, politely asking about his health in the most respectful tones. Another point in her favor.

  Henry asked himself for the tenth time if it was his duty to try to woo this woman, to help Phillip and his family? Marriage to an heiress like Tressa Penberthy would help the Westons greatly. And the reality was, neither he nor Phillip could hope to achieve a more advantageous match. Especially since their present financial situation did not allow them the expense of London seasons and the inherent “marriage market” they offered.

  In many ways, it was unfortunate that both he and Phillip preferred someone else. Still, Henry decided he would be polite and do his best to keep an open mind about Miss Tressa Penberthy.

  On Saturday morning, Henry and Miss Penberthy rode together, the lady looking undeniably smart in a sleek burgundy riding habit and jaunty hat. During the ride, Henry chose several less-than-smooth tracks but did not provoke complaints from the heiress as he’d expected and perhaps secretly hoped. Instead, Miss Penberthy demonst
rated a stoic endurance. He even saw a knowing gleam of challenge in her eyes, as if she knew what he was up to.

  She spoke little, now and again asking a question about the property—where the estate boundaries lay, how old the house was, and so on. But, not wishing to usurp Phillip’s assigned role as tour guide, Henry answered her only briefly, not expounding as he might have done otherwise.

  He did answer more fully the questions Phillip was unlikely to address—the routes he usually rode and the history of the village. She seemed mildly interested, though not necessarily impressed. Still, he was relieved she didn’t ramble on or flirt with him as he’d feared.

  When they returned to the stable yard an hour or so later, he was forced to admit that it had been a reasonably pleasant experience, as much as it galled him to give any merit to his stepmother’s machinations.

  Duty dispatched, Henry went up to his room to change from his riding clothes and assumed Miss Penberthy did the same. Afterward, he retreated to his study to focus on the more pressing matters of the breakwater and plans to construct a warning tower at the point. In fact, he had a meeting scheduled with the surveyor later that afternoon.

  He spent the next few hours writing letters and drafting plans. Then he turned to his weekly review of the estate ledgers and was relieved but perplexed to see a better balance of income to expenses than he’d expected. He checked the amounts in the income columns, the rents and interest paid, and other incomes from the estate. Something didn’t add up. He’d have to check with Davies. He supposed Lady Weston had provided another transfusion of capital from her marriage settlement. That was how Davies had accounted for it before when Henry had noticed other such discrepancies.

  At the scheduled time, Henry went outside to meet the surveyor at the point. He saw Phillip and Miss Penberthy returning from their walking tour of the estate. The young woman now wore a promenade dress of apple green, a broad hat, and carried a parasol. At the front steps, she smiled and thanked Phillip for the tour and excused herself to rest and dress for dinner.