The Tutor's Daughter Read online

  But he was not ready to accept Emma Smallwood’s death. Not at the hands of someone of his own family. And not while she had doubts about God. Her fate rested like a heavy burden across his shoulders—heavier than a waterlogged sailor, than six of them—weighing down his heart.

  As he prayed, he worked. He believed God heard his prayers but did not think the Almighty wanted him to sit idly by, waiting for Him to do everything while Henry reclined at his ease. From the Old Testament Henry had gleaned that even when God promised to give His people the land, He still expected them to go to battle. To do the work. So he prayed and continued to chip away at the mortar.

  But it was taking too long.

  A quarter of an hour later, the water was up to their ankles, streaming through the westward and southern windows in a steady flow punctuated by bursts as waves crashed against the chapel, shaking the building to its ancient foundations.

  They’d tried to batten the west window. But the waves pushed aside each obstacle they’d lodged there. Might the violent sea wash away the chapel as it had the rest of the church—and them with it? If the rising water level didn’t drown them, that might.

  From the other windows came patches of stormy grey daylight. It was unlikely anyone would see their lantern until darkness fell. Would the tower still be standing by then?

  Across the chapel, Emma paced through the water, still searching for another way of escape or another tool with which to help him chip at the mortar. He noticed her shiver. Of course she was cold. What an idiot he was. Warm enough from his constant effort, he rose and splashed through the water toward her, removing his greatcoat as he went.

  Guessing his intention, she shook her head, protesting, “I’ll swim in it.”

  You very well might, he thought to himself but thought it wiser not to voice that dire prediction. “Then here,” he said. “Hold this for me.”

  She accepted the outer coat, folding it in her arms to keep it above the water while he struggled out of his frock coat with some difficulty, both from the snug, precise cut and from the numbness of his hands.

  “Forgive me,” he murmured, standing in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.

  She said, “I am not offended by your shirtsleeves, Mr. Weston. I hardly think propriety is our primary concern at present.”

  He held out his frock coat to her. “Wear this.”

  “But it’s yours. You’ll freeze.”

  “Nonsense.” He draped it around her, allowing his hands to linger on her shoulders, to bestow what comfort he could. “I am a hardy Cornish lad, while you are a thin-skinned inland lass.”

  She looked up sharply, as though offended, then managed a wobbly grin.

  Good. She realized he was teasing. How unfortunate that they were only now beginning to understand each other.

  She handed him back his greatcoat and laced her arms through the sleeves of his frock coat. “Thank you, kind sir.” She dipped an elegant curtsy.

  He chuckled at her plucky courage, her attempt at humor at such a time. He bowed in his best formal address. Rising, hand to his heart, he said, “My honor and pleasure, Miss Smallwood.”

  For a moment they looked at each other and a warm cable of attraction held them. Then another wave burst in and doused them both. Icy water penetrated his fine linen shirtsleeves, wetting them through and sending shivers along his skin.

  Emma gasped at the shock of cold, and the moment passed. He pulled on his greatcoat and while he worked the fastenings, he insisted she do the same.

  Then he returned to his work. He took one more strike at the mortar, and finally a crack appeared. A thrill of success rose up in him only to be doused the next second. For through the crack, water rushed forth in a thin, high-pressure stream. It was too late. Even if he managed to chip away a hole, their way of escape was now completely underwater. The tide had come in, and the stormy waves had raised the water level even higher. In fact, he had just worsened their situation by opening another aperture, albeit a small one, for water to enter their shaky sanctuary.

  No doubt noticing the cessation of his chipping efforts, Emma looked over, hope brightening her eyes. She looked from his face down to the shooting leak, and the hope faded. She bit her lip, probably fighting against tears, and his heart ached to see it.

  Lord, please help me save her! How he longed to be her rescuer, her brave knight. To prove he was more than the mischievous troublemaker she remembered and likely still thought him.

  Outside the storm worsened. Wind and waves buffeted the stone walls. Water cascaded through the west and south windows with each new wave, and the water level inside the chapel rose to their knees.

  Henry sloshed over to the stout, waist-high baptismal font. Its decorative cover was long gone, likely stolen years ago by some young vandal on a dare. Henry yanked a still-sturdy board from a sagging pew and laid it over the top, then gestured Emma over to him. “Come. Let’s get you up on the font. You’ll be drier there.”

  She looked at him earnestly. “Is there nothing else we can do?”

  “Not that I can think of. Besides pray that someone sees the light and realizes we’re out here.”

  “But even if they did, the causeway must be underwater by now.”

  “Perhaps not.” He held out his hand to her. “Come.”

  She stared at his hand; then her eyes darted back to his face. He guessed why she hesitated. To accept his hand was to accept defeat—that there was nothing to do but wait to drown or be saved. He knew how much Emma Smallwood liked—longed—to be in control. To solve her own problems. She detested feeling helpless, to be at anyone’s mercy. He didn’t like being at anyone’s mercy either, unless that “person” was God. And that’s where they were, he realized. Helpless. And at God’s mercy.

  “Come,” he repeated, remaining where he was, hesitant to walk toward her, to force his hand. He wanted her to come to him. To surrender.

  Emma realized there was nothing she could do. For the first time in her life, she acknowledged the problem she faced was outside her control. She had likely been just as helpless at her mother’s sickbed, but Emma had never accepted that inevitability. She had never ceased to consult medical books and herbal dictionaries, looking for a cure. She had kept the room spotless, overseen the preparation of the most healthful invalid meals and beef teas. Plied the apothecary with endless questions, and sought a second opinion from a Plymouth physician when her father had not bothered. Not that any of it had availed in the end, but she had tried. Strived.

  Now there was nothing she could do to affect the outcome—no second opinions to seek, no books to consult, no father to cajole, no Aunt Jane to call upon. There was nothing to do but pray. Was it hypocritical to turn to God now, when she had done her utmost to be independent, to make her way without Him until this point? She supposed it was. But was that not true of so many deathbed prayers? When one looked upon the prospect of one’s mortality and eternity beyond?

  She walked through the water, her steps made slow and arduous by heavy, sodden skirts. Her eyes remained fastened on his.

  Another wave sprayed through the window, pelting Emma’s face. Her eyes filled with tears, too many to be blinked away, and salt water both warm and cold ran down her cheeks. She saw answering tears fill his eyes. And somehow she knew the tears were not for himself but for her.

  Reaching him, she placed her hand in his. “All right,” she whispered. “I understand.”

  Together, they turned toward the font. Eyeing it, Henry gauged its height. “I shall have to lift you.”

  “I’m too heavy.”

  “Nonsense.” He put his hands on her waist, its slimness somewhat disguised by the coat of his she wore. He lifted her, a bit of an effort with her waterlogged skirts but accomplished handily nonetheless.

  For several moments, she sat atop the font, his hands still on her waist as he stood before her, her hands lingering on his forearms. Her face a few inches above his now that she sat perched on the font. He liked looking
up at her.

  Had he not always done so?

  The water reached the top of his tall boots and ran down inside them. He gave an involuntary shiver.

  “You must come up here too,” she said. “You’re freezing.”

  “There isn’t room for two and I’m fine.”

  “I insist, Mr. Weston. I shall not sit here as though on some throne while you stand in frigid water. You’ll catch your death.”

  Her lips parted in chagrin at her unfortunate choice of words. Then she began gathering her skirts around her. “Give me your hand,” she commanded.

  “Yes, madam. With pleasure.”

  Using his uplifted hand as a brace, she gingerly rose to her feet on the board, untangling her skirts as she did so.

  “Careful,” he warned.

  She stood, and he was relieved she managed to not fall headlong from her perch. She said, “All right. Your turn.”

  He began to protest, “I don’t think that is—”

  She extended her hand to him. “Please.”

  He saw something in her eyes that shut off further objections. He considered various options for ascending the font without knocking her off. This was no time for a game of king of the castle.

  His legs were long enough that he could raise one foot to the edge of the font. The water weighed down his other foot, but he thought if he got enough momentum, and levered himself up with his hands, he might make it.

  She said, “Take my hand and I’ll pull you up.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll only succeed in pulling you down with me.”

  “I have a good stance. Let me help you.” She grinned. “Just try to remain vertical so you don’t butt me with your very large head.”

  He smirked up at her. “One wonders how I’ve found hats to fit me all these years.”

  “I imagine your hatter is exceptionally well paid.”

  He placed his hand in hers but warned, “If I start to fall, let go. Do you hear? I don’t want to have to put my back out lifting you up again.”

  How ironic that they were teasing each other at such a time. Better than shouting or wailing, he supposed. Yes, much better.

  Pushing with his standing leg and bracing arm and allowing Miss Smallwood to help pull him up, Henry managed to heave himself up to his feet. He overshot the mark a bit and felt Miss Smallwood sway backward. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her safely against him.

  “Th-thank you,” she murmured.

  He did not let her go but kept his arms around her. What a sight they must make: two tall people standing pressed together atop a font. “Well, we made it,” he said lightly, trying to dispel the tension of the unsaid things between them and the encroaching danger.

  “Did we?” She looked down at the rising water, then up to the high ceiling. “One step closer to heaven . . .”

  “You do know we can’t ascend there on our own power . . . ?” he asked hopefully.

  “I do know. I did not sleep through all those Sunday sermons in Longstaple, as you did.”

  A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I am glad to hear it.”

  Emma’s answering grin fell away as quickly as it formed. She whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” Henry asked.

  “I was not talking to you.”

  “Oh . . .” he breathed in awe.

  She shook her head. “I should not have joked about heaven. For I am all too aware that I am not all I should be. Not worthy to face God on my own.”

  “None of us are,” he whispered. “That is why our merciful God sent His beloved son to suffer and die—to cover our wrongdoing.”

  She nodded, though her eyes remained distant, anxious.

  He inhaled a ragged breath. “I don’t presume to know what you believe, Emma. But I do know that God loves you and forgives you. And if you acknowledge Him as the only one who can truly save you, save anyone, He will. Maybe not here and now in this world. But in the next. Forever.”

  She looked up at him, a smile slowly forming. “I think you’ve missed your calling, Henry Weston. Perhaps you ought to have gone into the church.”

  He grinned. “At the moment I’m wishing I had not gone into this particular church, but . . .”

  She chuckled, even as tears filled her eyes once more. “I am mostly sad for my father. He was just beginning to recover from losing his wife. And now this.”

  He nodded. “I thought of that too.”

  “At least he’ll have his sister,” Emma said.

  “Yes.” Henry agreed. “Your aunt Jane is quite a remarkable woman. I’ve always liked her.”

  “And she you.”

  “The only Smallwood female to like me in those days, I’d wager. Then or since.”

  “That’s not true,” Emma said; then she ducked her head, self-conscious.

  Henry looked at her cheeks, suddenly pink in her pale face, and felt unexpected pleasure warm his heart. Perhaps Emma did like him after all. Then he noticed the slightly bluish cast to her lips. Careful not to jostle her, he left one arm snug around her and gingerly loosed the other, moving his hand up along her arm to her face.

  She watched, her expression uncertain, as he slowly lifted his hand toward her mouth.

  “Your lips are blue,” he whispered.

  She pressed them together, the act restoring a bit of color. Not enough.

  He touched his thumb to her lower lip. She jerked back in surprise, and again he tightened his hold to keep her from losing her balance. When she resisted no further, he slowly traced her lower lip, then moved to the upper, circling her mouth and wishing he might do so with his own. Leave it to a man to become amorous at a time like this, he thought wryly—but he made no move to stop himself. Returning to her lower lip, he dragged his finger across its fleshy firmness, feeling his chest tighten at the sight. Yes, he had to kiss her.

  He leaned down, looking into her eyes, and seeing no resistance there, lowered his mouth.

  “Emma. . . .” he breathed and touched his lips to hers. Her cool lips were warmed and softened under his touch. He kissed her again, more fully, and felt her lips move against his, kissing him back. Satisfaction and pleasure filled him. Pleasure lanced with regret. Why had he waited so long?

  He held her close, relishing how her tall, willowy body molded itself to his, supple and firm, yet soft in all the right places.

  She snaked her arms up from between them, and wrapped them around his neck in a most un-bluestocking-like fashion that made him forget he’d ever been cold.

  He deepened his kiss, her mouth melding to his. He wanted to make up for every lost second, every missed opportunity from the past or unlikely future. He wanted to savor her, breathe her in, and thank her creator for everything about her. From her elegant figure to her soft lips to her keen intelligence. Even her confounded love of order. If only they had more time.

  He broke away to catch his breath, but his mouth was soon drawn back to her skin, kissing her temple, her forehead, one cheek, then the other.

  “Mr. Weston,” she breathed shakily. “I . . . I think—”

  “I think you might call me Henry at this point, don’t you?” he teased.

  He glanced down at the water level. Was it his imagination, or had it remained the same as before they climbed atop the font? It certainly didn’t seem to be rising as rapidly as it had been. Henry would take all the time he could get with the woman in his arms.

  He caressed her cheek. “Do you think it funny that we are standing on a baptismal font to stay out of the water? Or is it just my odd sense of humor?”

  Emma looked into Henry Weston’s face with wonder. Her heart beat rapidly from their kiss and the rush of affection she felt—affection which he evidently returned. She had never felt about Phillip the way she did about the man holding her in his arms.

  Suddenly the tower shook. Emma gripped Henry’s shoulders in alarm, and he tightened his hold around her waist. He began reciting the lines from an old hymn in his deep,
masculine voice, stroking her cheek with his free hand as he did so.

  “Then let the wildest storms arise,

  Let tempests mingle earth and skies;

  No fatal shipwreck shall I fear,

  But all my treasures with me bear.

  If Thou, my Jesus, still be nigh,

  Cheerful I live, and joyful die;

  Secure, when mortal comforts flee,

  To find ten thousand worlds in Thee.”

  The words echoed within the stone walls, off the carved Greek gods of the four winds, and into Emma Smallwood’s soul. She breathed, “That is beautiful.”

  He nodded. “It is. And I take no credit for it. Philip Doddridge wrote those words some sixty years ago.”

  “And still very fitting today.” She swallowed. “Especially today.”

  Then Emma paused, belatedly realizing that she had indeed heard the words echo off the walls. Had the roar of wind and waves abated somewhat?

  She looked toward the west window. “I’m sorry you never got to live the life you wanted. Or see the world. Have an adventure.”

  He chuckled low in his throat. “Oh, no? I’d say we were having quite the adventure, you and I. They always said to be careful what you wish for, but I wouldn’t listen.” He sighed theatrically.

  She grinned, the act pushing a fat tear from each eye and down her cheeks. Traitorous tears! She was trying so hard to be brave. In control of her emotions.

  “And what did you never get to do, Emma Smallwood?” he asked lightly, brushing the tears from her face.

  “Nothing that really matters, in hindsight.” She shrugged. “Though I would have liked to travel. And perhaps encourage Aunt Jane to live her life. Live enough for the both of us.”

  “No ordinary dreams? Of marriage, perhaps? A family?”

  She ducked her head. “Perhaps.” Tears filled her eyes once more.

  He cupped her face in both of his hands and kissed her again.

  From outside, Emma heard the sound of a voice. Or was it her hopeful imagination, transforming a sea gull cry into a human call?

  “Did you hear that?” she whispered, breaking the kiss.

  He angled his head, alert, frowning in concentration.