The Tutor's Daughter Page 33

  Adam nodded.

  “Is she ill?”

  Adam made no reply but followed along as Henry hurried down the corridor and up the stairs. Passing the landing, he grabbed the candle lamp left burning there without missing a stride.

  His stomach twisted. Lord, let her be all right. He had so hoped all the strange suspicions reeling through his head were wrong. Overwrought. Surely no one would do her any harm. Not for ringing an alarm bell. Not in revenge for a single slap. . . . Surely not. But as revenge for the resulting loss of a rich wreck? A chill ran over him. Please, God, no.

  Reaching her room, Henry saw that Adam had left the door ajar. Unless someone had been in there since Adam came to wake him. Or was in there even now. . . .

  Henry pushed open the door. All was still. Light from a full moon illuminated the room—Miss Smallwood’s bed and the prone figure upon it, bedclothes bunched at her waist. Stepping nearer, the light from his candle lamp fell on her white nightdress. And the blood-red stain on her chest.

  His heart hammered against his breastbone. For a moment he stood, paralyzed, staring at her pale face, so still. The large stain like a red blossom on her breast. Grief and anger punched him in the lungs so hard, he could barely draw breath.

  In the next moment he dropped to his knees beside the bed and reached for her wrist. Closing his eyes to concentrate, he felt the soft ta-tomb of her heartbeat. Thank you, God.

  He opened his eyes, just as she opened hers and focused on his face in a dreamy vagueness. Was she barely conscious? Weak from blood loss?

  “Emma, who did this?” He reached for the neckline of her nightdress, determined to see how bad the wound was.

  When his fingers touched the linen, her hand flew up and caught his wrist, eyes snapping wide and alert.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  He pointed to her chest. “You’re bleeding.”

  She looked down at herself and, seeing the large stain by candlelight, gasped and sat up, her own hand going to her chest. She pulled her loose neckline forward and looked down to her skin beneath.

  She shook her head. “I’m fine. I’m not hurt.”

  “Thunder and turf!” Henry exploded. “What is going on here?”

  Behind him, Adam whimpered.

  She huffed. “Don’t yell at me. You’re not the one waking up to find a man looming over your bed.”

  “Actually, I was. Adam came to wake me.” He gestured toward his brother cowering in the threshold, then turned back to Emma. “Sorry. But you gave me a devil of a shock.”

  Using his candle lamp, Henry lit the candles on Emma’s side table and washstand. That’s when he saw the blood-red handprint on the wall.

  “What on earth . . . ?” He gingerly touched a finger to the red substance and found it thick, viscous. . . . He lifted it near his nose and sniffed. No acrid smell of blood.

  “Adam?” Emma said toward the door. “It’s all right. I am not hurt. I am perfectly well.”

  Henry glanced over his shoulder and saw Adam straighten and take a tentative step forward.

  Emma held out her hand toward him. “I’m fine. I’m not hurt. See? It’s not my blood. Probably just paint. A trick, that’s all.”

  “Trick?” Adam echoed in confusion.

  “A joke. But not a very funny one.”

  Adam shook his head. “I don’t like tricks.”

  Nor do I, Henry silently agreed.

  In the morning, Henry asked Miss Smallwood to wait downstairs and directed Morva not to clean Miss Smallwood’s room, nor move the stained nightdress from the bed. Then he bade Lady Weston, Sir Giles, Phillip, Julian, Rowan, and Lizzie to join him there.

  Miss Smallwood had wanted to keep it quiet, to handle the incident her own way—by not reacting. But Henry could not stand by and do nothing. A line had been crossed, and he had had enough.

  Apparently his stepmother agreed. She looked around the room at the red handprint and stained nightdress, listened to Henry’s description of events, and threw her hands in the air.

  “This is the outside of enough! Really, husband, I must put my foot down. I warned Henry what might happen if Adam was allowed to wander about the house at will. And look at this! Bloodstains in Miss Smallwood’s room. A clear threat if ever I saw one. Really, I must insist we put more effort into making other arrangements for him elsewhere. Perhaps Mr. Davies might be given the assignment. He might very well succeed where Henry has failed. And until then, I must insist that Adam’s bedchamber door be locked at night. For his own safety as well as ours. No harm was done this time, but who knows what his faulty mind and violent fits might occasion the next? Shall we all be murdered in our beds?”

  Sir Giles’s shoulders slumped. He appeared grieved indeed.

  Henry hurried to defend his brother. “Adam did not do this. It is not the sort of thing he would conceive of. His mind works very literally, not in pretense. Besides, he was terrified when he came to wake me.”

  “And how did he know of it, if he didn’t do it?”

  Henry should have foreseen that question and avoided provoking it.

  Lady Weston added, “What was he doing creeping about at that hour otherwise?”

  Sir Giles asked soberly, “Did he see anyone else coming from her room?”

  Henry fidgeted. “No. Not that he mentioned.”

  “Ah . . . so he was in her room. Again,” Lady Weston said. “No doubt the same person who took Miss Smallwood’s journal and returned it with that gruesome picture. Can you deny the connection? How else would he know about the apparent blood in Miss Smallwood’s room?”

  “Yes, Adam was in her room,” Henry admitted. “But remember this was his room as a boy. Of course he feels the right to come in here. Why you insisted on putting him in the north wing, I’ll never understand.”

  “Did he also feel it right to threaten her life, this usurper of his room as he sees it?”

  Henry shook his head. “I don’t believe that. And you wouldn’t either if you had seen him cowering in Miss Smallwood’s doorway. He thought it was all real.”

  “Perhaps he is a good actor.”

  “You allow he is that clever? That talented?”

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It isn’t talent to try to save one’s own neck. It’s instinct. An animal trying to flee a trap triggered by his own misstep.”

  Julian spoke up. “I don’t know, Mamma. Look at the size of that handprint on the wall. It was made by a hand far larger than Adam’s. Larger than even Rowan’s hefty paw. In fact, I’d say the only one of us with hands that big is Henry himself.”

  “What are you talking about?” Henry scowled at his half brother. “I didn’t do this.”

  “Are you certain? It sounds like something you would do. We have all heard about the pranks you pulled on the tutor’s daughter when you boarded at the Smallwoods’ school.”

  Henry looked at Phillip, but Phillip only shrugged. “You did pull a lot of nasty tricks on her.”

  Henry frowned, but before he could object, Julian continued, “How different is this than putting mice in her bed, or forged love letters under her door?”

  “That was a long time ago,” Henry said. He lamented ever telling his brothers tales of how he used to torment Miss Smallwood. He would pay for it now.

  But better him than Adam.

  “Upon my honor, I did not do this,” he said. “I have not pulled a single prank on Miss Smallwood since she arrived.” He looked around at the assembled faces. “But someone has.”

  Lady Weston narrowed her eyes at Henry. “Why do you look at us? Surely you don’t accuse one of us?”

  “Yes, madam. I most certainly do. Who among us has reason to want to frighten Miss Smallwood—perhaps as an act of revenge?”

  Lady Weston glanced at Lizzie.

  The girl blanched. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Someone did,” Henry insisted. “And I intend to find out who. And when I do, beware.”

  Henry stal
ked from the room. He had barely made it to his study and sat at his desk when his valet came in, hands behind his back, nose pinched in the air, and lips twisted in disgust.

  Henry sighed, dreading more problems to deal with. “What is it, Merryn?”

  “Really, sir. Far be it from me to complain, to bemoan my unfair lot in life. To serve a master who not only neglects his fine garments, but cruelly abuses them—and therefore me—in the bargain.”

  Merryn lifted something in two pincher fingertips, as though a foul rat by the tail.

  Henry looked, frowning.

  In his hand, his offended valet held one of Henry’s own gloves by the cuff, its palm and fingers stained dark red. The color of dried paint . . . or blood.

  The mystery of how the large “bloody” handprint had been made had been solved.

  The only questions remained . . . Who had done it?

  And why?

  Pleasant it is, when over a great sea the winds trouble the waters, to gaze from shore upon another’s great tribulation.

  —Lucretius, Roman poet and philosopher

  Chapter 23

  As Emma thought back to the events of the previous night, and Henry’s report of how the morning’s confrontation with his family had gone, she found herself concerned as much for Adam’s fate as for her own safety. She feared what the misinformation being spread about him, and the resulting and increasing ill will against him, might mean for his future. Emma wished she could think of some grand plan, some coup de grâce to put an end to the campaign against Adam, but she could not. She had only one idea. One small plan to attempt to turn the tide in his favor. She didn’t know if it would work, but she had to try.

  She had no opportunity on Sunday, but on Monday Emma sat on an antique settee in the hall outside the music room, hoping her plan would succeed. It was the time of day Lady Weston usually left the drawing room and retired to her bedchamber to write letters and nap. Emma hoped she would not stray from that routine today.

  Footsteps signaled someone’s approach. Emma leaned back, her head near the door, pretending not to notice anyone or anything except the music. She held her breath as Lady Weston walked toward her, head tipped to one side, regarding her curiously.

  “Pray, what are you doing, Miss Smallwood?”

  Emma put a finger to her lips. “Shhh. I’m listening.”

  Lady Weston frowned at being shushed but cocked her head to the other side. “Ah. Julian has learnt a new piece. What talent that boy has.”

  “I agree.”

  “Why do you not go inside to hear better?”

  Emma shook her head. “I don’t want to disturb him. I think he’s . . . struggling with a few notes. He’s not quite himself today.”

  “Nonsense,” Lady Weston insisted. “His playing is superb.” She listened for several moments longer. “In fact, he has never played better.”

  Lady Weston took a step closer to the door and closed her eyes to savor. “That is truly beautiful. I wonder what piece that is. Do you know?”

  “No.”

  “I shall have to ask him.”

  “I doubt he knows the name.”

  “Don’t be foolish. Of course he knows. Unless . . . are you suggesting it is a piece of his own invention? That would astonish even his proud mamma.”

  “No, I am certain he has heard it somewhere before.”

  Lady Weston huffed. “Well, enough of this standing in the yard like the lower classes who can’t afford a seat. Let’s go in.” She reached for the door latch.

  Emma laid a gentle hand on her sleeve. “First . . . let’s just peek in. Quietly. I’d hate to disturb such a talented musician midmovement.”

  “Oh, very well,” Lady Weston whispered. She gingerly inched open the door. Through the gap, she looked across the music room with an indulgent, expectant smile on her face.

  Her smile fell away. She stared, dumbfounded, her mouth drooping.

  Unable to resist, Emma rose on tiptoe and looked over Lady Weston’s shoulder. There at the pianoforte sat Adam Weston, eyes closed, playing with a slight nodding of his head.

  For several moments longer, Lady Weston stood stiff, listening, as if unable to believe what she was seeing, or hearing. Then she slowly, quietly closed the door. Emma slipped back into her seat.

  “It is not Julian after all,” Lady Weston murmured.

  “Oh?” Emma said noncommittally.

  Lady Weston looked at her sharply, but Emma offered no explanation. Nor did she mention she had seen Julian walking out to the stables with Mr. Teague half an hour ago, just before she had asked Adam to play.

  “You tricked me, didn’t you?” Lady Weston asked in soft wonder, her tone lacking the asperity Emma would have expected.

  “Yes,” Emma whispered, meeting the woman’s gaze and willing her eyes to communicate all she felt. And her deep wish that Adam’s family would come to appreciate him. To accept him.

  Lady Weston hesitated, then wandered away, lost in thought.

  After Adam finished playing, Emma walked with him back up to his room. A quick look at the chatelaine watch hooked to her bodice told her it was nearly time to go up to the schoolroom for the afternoon lessons. She thanked Adam again for playing for her and hurried upstairs. She had not seen her father since they had dismissed Julian and Rowan after the morning class.

  When she entered the schoolroom, she found Rowan already seated at the table, bent over his sketchbook. But there was no sign of her father.

  “Good afternoon, Rowan.”

  He looked up. “Hello, Miss Smallwood.” He handed her a folded letter. “I was asked to give this to you. I gather your father won’t be joining us.”

  “Oh?” This was news to Emma. He hadn’t said anything to her. She unfolded the note and read.

  Emma my dear,

  I have walked down to see the Chapel of the Rock, since you mentioned how impressed you were with the place when Mr. Weston showed it to you. I should be back in time for afternoon lessons.

  J. Smallwood

  Her father, gone down to the Chapel of the Rock . . . alone? What was he thinking? Had he even thought to check with Henry about the tides? Emma was certain she had mentioned the danger of the place, and the varying “safe” periods for venturing out to it.

  A pinch of worry knotted her brow and stomach. Steady, Emma, she told herself. After all, her father was a highly intelligent man. A teacher, for goodness’ sake. He would not simply walk out into the sea upon a finger of rock without taking precautions.

  Yet her father, although no longer melancholy since coming to Ebbington Manor, was still somewhat out of his element there on the coast, being unaccustomed to the sea.

  She glanced at the note once more. Noticed the somewhat shaky hand, the scrawled signature. Was he nervous about something? It wasn’t his usual neat hand, though she recognized the customary J and S of his signature at his typical slant. Was it a bit odd of him to sign his name instead of Papa? Being almost always together, they had rarely if ever had occasion to send each other letters, but she found the closing cold. Was he still disappointed in her for striking Lizzie?

  She decided to consult Henry’s red notebook to check the tide tables herself. She hoped he would not mind. She excused herself from Rowan and went down to Henry’s study. She believed Henry had ridden off somewhere for a meeting. Still, she knocked softly. When no one answered, she let herself in.

  Her gaze swept his cluttered desk, where she had last seen him retrieve the book, but saw no sign of it. She hoped he had not taken it with him for some reason. She swiveled around the room, looking at his shelves and cabinets. A red spine on the bookcase caught her eye and she went to it, slipping out the volume. She sighed with relief, glad to find the book. Apparently he or an industrious maid had tidied up after she had last been there. Perhaps he’d decided her system of a place for everything and everything in its place had merit after all.

  She opened the volume and found her way to the current week’
s table and that day’s estimated tides. She compared the numbers to the time on her watch. Good. Still three hours before the next high tide. Plenty of time for her father to reach the chapel and return safely.

  Emma replaced the book exactly where she’d found it and went back up to the schoolroom. Rowan was still bent over his sketchbook, though Emma could discern little progress. She walked to her father’s desk to review the day’s lesson plans and see if anything else needed doing. Now and again she glanced at her watch or looked out the window. She would see the point, the warning tower, and a patch of grey sky. But no sign of her father.

  Grey sky. Not blue. Were they in for some weather? The tide tables, of course, were no guarantee against unexpected storms.

  Julian came in and took his seat. “Mr. Smallwood not joining us today?” he asked.

  “He should be here anytime now,” Emma said, keeping a calm tone, reminding herself it was foolish to worry. “He went for one of his walks. Down to the Chapel of the Rock.”

  “Did he?” Rowan said. “I thought he was going—” He broke off suddenly and glared at Julian. “What? Why did you kick me?”

  Julian turned to Emma. “I don’t want to worry you, Miss Smallwood. We all know it’s dangerous down there, but I am sure he’ll be fine. He has been down there before, I trust? With you or Henry?”

  She frowned. “Not that I know of. Not with me, in any case.”

  “I hope he knew to check the tides.”

  A blast of wind shook the schoolroom windows and whistled in through the cracks.

  Rowan shook his head. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Davies said he smelled a storm brewing, and he is always right,” Julian added.

  “Did he?” Emma asked, anxiety prickling through her. “Did he happen to mention this to my father?”

  Julian shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

  Emma stood abruptly, her chair legs screeching against the schoolroom floor.

  “I had better go and check on him. You two, please read—” she consulted her father’s notes—“the Iliad. From where we left off yesterday until . . . well, until I return.”