The Tutor's Daughter Read online

  He continued, “I had to call for the housekeeper and ask for it to be dusted and swept. I am still not organized.”

  “I shall put the room to rights,” Emma said. “You go on with your lesson.”

  Her father nodded. “Thank you, my dear. Apparently, the vicar has been teaching the boys in their father’s library.”

  “Mr. McShane said the schoolroom is for children,” the larger Rowan said, his pronounced upper lip curled. “And we are nearly sixteen.”

  Mr. Smallwood gave him a patronizing smile. “I suppose that is true—you are young men now. And perhaps this is a fortuitous arrangement. For I might have my own domain and Mr. McShane his.” He looked at Emma and explained, “I spoke with Sir Giles this morning, and we have decided the vicar shall continue teaching Latin and Greek for now—finish out the week at least. That will allow us a bit more time to settle in here at Ebbington.”

  Emma nodded her understanding, and her father returned his attention to the book he’d been paging through.

  “Emma, I am trying to find that passage about the importance of the classics in education. Do you recall where it is?”

  “Chapter two, I believe. About midway through.”

  After flipping a few more pages, his eyes lit. “Ah yes. Here it is. Boys, please turn to page fifteen in your texts.”

  The boys opened their books—Julian eagerly, Rowan lethargically.

  Her father looked at Julian. “If you will read the first paragraph, Rowan?”

  “Julian,” the smaller youth gritted out, his tone not matching his sweet, boyish face.

  “Right. I beg your pardon.”

  Oh dear, Emma thought. Not a good start. She would have to help her father learn to differentiate the boys and remember which was which.

  And perhaps insist he wear his spectacles.

  Leaving the males to their first lesson, Emma moved to the trunk in the corner and began to quietly and she hoped unobtrusively unpack her father’s books and supplies. She decided to organize a separate shelf of their own books, to make it easier to extract their volumes when it was time to leave.

  She barely noticed when her father released the boys for a respite. And when he announced he was going to take a turn about the grounds to stretch his limbs, she mumbled something and went on sorting. There were many good books on the schoolroom shelves. Books that had likely sat there for years, unread. There was no logic to their order, but Emma began to remedy that. She decided to create an index by subject and author to aid in future reference. She loved to catalog, organize, and make order of chaos.

  Those books she was unfamiliar with, she flipped through, reading enough to catalog its subject. Many she found fascinating. What a shame no one read them. If such treasures had been left here in the schoolroom, what must Sir Giles’s library hold? She wondered if he would invite her to peruse it while she was there.

  Although, if he was anything like his son Henry, perhaps not.

  When Phillip had come to Longstaple, he had happily shared the few books he had brought with him. His older brother, on the other hand, had not. That was what she remembered most about Henry Weston’s arrival all those years ago. . . .

  She had been a girl of eleven when he’d first arrived—fourteen, sullen, and resentful. She had only asked if he might like some help putting away his things, her eyes drawn to the stack of books in his trunk. But he had slammed the lid closed.

  “I’ll thank you to leave my things alone. There are no dolls here.”

  She pointed to two cases of tin soldiers lying on his bed. “Then what are those?”

  His green eyes narrowed, hardened. “Miniature military figures. And if I hear them referred to by any other name, or if I find you have so much as touched them, I shall make you very sorry.”

  She gasped, then snapped, “I can certainly see why your family sent you away.”

  Emma could hardly believe those words had come from her mouth. Never had she said anything so meanspirited in her life. And certainly not to a new pupil. What had come over her? His cold, superior attitude and rudeness were vexing, yes. But no excuse. She had always controlled her tongue, regardless of provocation.

  For a second, the flinty layer of glass fell from his eyes, and she glimpsed an unexpected vulnerability. But a moment later, his eyes hardened once more, and his mouth cinched tight. He shut the door in her face—leaving her out in the passage alone.

  A girl’s voice interrupted Emma’s reminiscing. “Are you never going to come away?”

  Emma turned to see Lizzie standing in the schoolroom doorway, dimples in her cheeks.

  “How dedicated you are,” Lizzie continued. “Still working away after all the males have gone. I gather your father decided to start with only half a day today.”

  Emma looked around and frowned. “What time is it?”

  “After four. You’ve missed tea and will be late for dinner if you don’t go and change now.”

  Emma rose from knees she’d just realized were stiff and aching. “Change?”

  “Yes, we dress for dinner here, even in uncivilized Cornwall,” Lizzie teased. “And so shall you. For you’ve dust on your hems and on your cheek.”

  Self-conscious, Emma’s hand went to her face.

  Lizzie withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and handed it to her, pointing to the mirror spot on her own cheek as guide.

  Emma wiped the spot. “Gone?”

  “Better.” Lizzie tugged her hand. “Come on, I shall help you change your frock. Who knows where Morva is this time of day.”

  “But don’t you need to change as well?”

  “Oh, I have plenty of time,” Lizzie explained. “The family eats a bit later.”

  “Ah.” Was Lizzie family, then?

  On their way down to Emma’s room, Emma heard Lady Weston greeting her sons on the landing below.

  Lizzie grasped her arm and put a finger to her lips. “Shh . . .”

  “So how went your first day with the new tutor?” Lady Weston asked.

  “A dead bore, Mamma,” Rowan replied in his low voice.

  “Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” boyish Julian amended. “And Miss Smallwood seems amiable.”

  Rowan added, “More so than her crusty old father, at any rate.”

  Sir Giles spoke up. “Rowan, mind your tongue. Mr. Smallwood is a well-reputed and learned gentleman. He deserves your respect.”

  “What has that to say to anything?” Lady Weston objected. “Really, my dear. You mustn’t chastise Rowan for merely stating his opinion.”

  Emma was glad her father wasn’t standing there with her, overhearing their words. Increasingly uncomfortable to be eavesdropping, Emma gestured for Lizzie to come away. Giving in, Lizzie followed her quietly down the corridor.

  When they’d turned the corner, Lizzie whispered, “Don’t take it to heart. I told you the twins weren’t accustomed to sitting in the schoolroom—except for the few hours Mr. McShane is here, making them recite Latin verbs or some such.”

  “But they have never been to school?”

  “Oh yes. They did go away to school once. ‘A good old-fashioned West Country school,’ Lady Weston called it.”

  Emma was astonished. No one had mentioned a school. “Oh? Which one?”

  Lizzie puckered up her face. “I don’t know. Anyway, they didn’t like it. I gather the schoolmaster was a hard man. And the other students a mean lot. So Lady W. fetched them home.”

  Emma recalled something Sir Giles had said in his letter about Lady Weston feeling their youngest sons were too delicate to live apart from their mamma. She wondered why they had sent the boys to some unknown school, when surely Phillip must have spoken highly of his years at the Smallwood Academy. She didn’t think even Henry Weston would disparage her father, regardless of his opinion of her.

  Inside Emma’s room, Lizzie flung open the wardrobe and flipped through the few gowns hanging there, as eagerly as Emma might flip through a book. “Surely these are not all you br
ought?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  Lizzie tsked. “Are tutors really so poor?” She asked it matter-of-factly, without apparent criticism.

  “I have a few more at home,” Emma said. “But I could only bring one trunk.”

  Lizzie looked at all the books—piled on the floor and stacked on the side table, where Morva had displaced them to unearth the clothing—and said with a wry grin, “And you must have your books.”

  “Exactly.”

  Lizzie idly picked up the top book on the stack. “I have never cared much for reading.”

  Emma jested, “And here I’d hoped we were going to be friends.”

  Lizzie looked up at her sharply.

  Emma hurried to say, “I was only joking. I realize most women are not as keen on books as I am.”

  “A real bluestocking,” Lizzie said. “That’s how Henry described you once when he and Phillip were speaking of your academy.”

  Emma lifted her mouth in a humorless smile. “Yes, that sounds like something he would say.”

  Lizzie picked up another volume from the bedside table, and Emma’s heart lurched.

  “Oh, that’s only my journal,” she said, hurrying over. “You don’t want that.” Emma held out her palm, barely resisting the urge to snatch the journal from the girl’s hand.

  Was it her imagination, or did Lizzie hesitate? But a moment later, Lizzie handed it over with her usual dimpled grin.

  “Ooh la la! A real gothic romance, I don’t doubt. What secrets and scandals it must contain.” She wagged her eyebrows comically. “Now that’s a book that might very well hold my attention.”

  Cradling her journal, Emma made a mental note to add nosy to her list of Lizzie Henshaw’s qualities.

  Lizzie helped her change into her favorite gown of ivory muslin with pink flowers embroidered at bodice and hem. Then Emma slipped her arms into an open robe of dusty rose, which buttoned under her bosom and was trimmed with lace at the neckline and cuffs. Lizzie commented that she thought the old-fashioned overdress quite charming and had not seen one in an age. Emma forced a smile and thanked her, and then the two walked downstairs together.

  Conversationally, Emma asked, “Phillip was home for Easter, I trust?”

  “Yes. For nearly a fortnight before he had to return for the next term.”

  “And how did he seem to you?”

  “Homesick.”

  Emma gave the girl a sidelong glance. “He is not enjoying university?”

  “Who could enjoy school? No offense, Miss Smallwood.”

  They arrived at the steward’s office, sparing Emma the need to reply. Her father stood just inside, waiting as Mr. Davies poured two glasses of something.

  “This is my father, Mr. Smallwood,” Emma began. “May I present Miss Lizzie Henshaw.”

  “How do you do, Miss Henshaw.”

  At her father’s inquisitive look, Emma added, “Miss Henshaw is Lady Weston’s ward.”

  “Ah. I see. Well, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  The steward turned and made a sharp bow. “Good evening, Miss Smallwood. Liz—Miss Henshaw.”

  “Mr. Davies,” Emma greeted the man, whom she had met briefly when they arrived. He wore the clothes of a gentleman, in bleak black. His slicked-down hair was still dark, though his side-whiskers bristled silver. His face sagged in a weary, hound-dog fashion, and his voice carried an accent strange to her ear. Faded Scots, perhaps?

  Her father accepted a glass of sherry. “I was about to ask Mr. Davies when we might be seeing Henry.” He addressed Lizzie, “But perhaps you know?”

  Lizzie reared her head back. “I don’t know. I’ve no idea where he’s even gone. Do you know, Davies?”

  The steward’s face wrinkled into a grimace. “I . . . That is . . .” He cleared his throat. “I don’t know when Master Henry shall be returning; don’t think anyone knows exactly.”

  Lizzie shot Emma an exasperated look. “Told you no one trusts me.” She narrowed her eyes at the steward. “Apparently, not even our Mr. Davies here. Well.” She drew herself up. “I shall leave you to your dinner. Don’t talk about me now.” She fluttered a wave, grinned at Emma, then whirled from the room.

  After she had gone, Emma sat at the small table while a servant—by appearance even younger than Julian—served their meal. As they ate, Mr. Davies told them a little about himself. He had been with Lady Weston’s family as their butler when she was a girl. Upon her marriage to Sir Giles, Davies had come with Violet Heale-Weston to Ebbington Manor as steward—overseeing the estate accounts, tenants, and servants. He had been married, but his wife had died several years ago.

  Emma’s father mentioned the loss of his own wife, and the two widowers spoke in quiet empathy for some time, allowing Emma—weary from all the upheaval of recent weeks—the luxury of lapsing into silence.

  She excused herself as soon as etiquette allowed, retreated to her room, and rang for Morva to help her undress. After the maid left her, Emma sank gratefully into bed with her journal but fell asleep before writing a single word.

  Clever girls were looked at with suspicion. They earned the title “bluestockings,” and it was not a term of admiration.

  —Sharon Laudermilk and Teresa L. Hamlin, The Regency Companion

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, Emma again found her father’s room empty and went downstairs alone. When she neared the steward’s office, she heard low male voices and assumed Mr. Davies and her father were breakfasting together. But when she entered, she found Mr. Davies seated at his desk, in conversation with a man she had not seen before—a man still wearing his outdoor coat and cap.

  Not very polite of him, Emma thought.

  From beneath the man’s tweed cap, red hair in need of a comb hung over his collar. Some tradesman or estate worker Emma guessed, though his well-made suit of clothes seemed incongruous with his flat cap and unkempt hair.

  The man looked at her, his gaze running from her head to bosom and back again. Emma was grateful to have a modest fichu tucked into her neckline—not that she had much to cover up.

  Mr. Davies rose from behind his desk. “Good morning, miss.”

  “Good morning.”

  She waited, but Davies did not introduce the man.

  She faltered, “Should I . . . come back another time? I am really not very hungry.”

  “No, miss.” Davies looked at the man pointedly. “This fellow was just leaving.”

  “Pray, don’t leave on my account.” The man smiled archly. “Miss, thee say?”

  Again Mr. Davies offered no introduction, so Emma made do with an awkward nod.

  The man’s smile stretched across his thin face. “I’d heard new folks come to Ebb-ton. But not that one be so well favored.”

  Cheeks burning, Emma turned away. Aware of his gaze following her, she stepped to the sideboard and self-consciously selected a small breakfast. How would she eat half of it if the man kept watching her?

  But she had no sooner set her plate on the table than the man rose.

  “Until the first, then, Davies. I shan’t wait a day longer.”

  Davies sighed heavily. “I shall do what I can.”

  With a grin in her direction, the red-haired man tugged his cap brim and took his leave.

  Davies remained only long enough to ask her if she had everything she needed before excusing himself as well.

  Emma ate her breakfast alone.

  When she exited the steward’s office a short time later, she was surprised to find her father buttoning his greatcoat and taking up his walking stick from the stand near the back door. She hoped he was not neglecting his duties already.

  “Good morning, Papa.”

  “Ah, Emma. Good morning.”

  “Where are you off to?” She steeled herself to be called upon to teach the morning lesson in his stead. She hated to think what Lady Weston would say when she heard.

  “I’m off for a morning stroll. Rowan and Julian are in
the library with the vicar.”

  “Do you mind?” she asked gently.

  “Not at all,” he said. “I imagine the vicar’s Latin and certainly his Greek are superior to mine.”

  Emma was surprised her father would acknowledge that.

  “At all events,” he continued, “I plan to use my free time to become more acquainted with the countryside. Would you like to accompany me?”

  “No thank you, Papa.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing, my dear. The property stretches out to sheer cliffs which drop straight down to the Atlantic—crashing waves, bracing ocean breezes. Nothing like it in Longstaple, I can tell you. There’s something refreshing about it, Emma. You simply must see it for yourself.”

  Already her father’s cheeks were bright—either from his walk the day before or in anticipation of that morning’s pleasure. Whatever the case, he looked more alert and alive than she’d seen him in months.

  “I shall,” she assured him. “But not today. I made good progress in organizing the schoolroom yesterday, and I shall take advantage of its not being in use this morning to continue.” Guilt niggled her. Had she not come here to help her father? She would have to make a point to spend more time with him in future.

  Bidding him be careful near the cliffs, Emma watched her father leave. Then she turned and walked up the passage and across the hall. Seeing no one about, she gingerly approached the library door, partially ajar.

  She peeked inside. There at the library table sat Rowan and Julian, hunched over paper and quills, translating something, she imagined. Pacing before them was a slightly portly man with auburn hair that almost, but not quite, covered his somewhat prominent ears. He was dressed in a black coat and trousers with a cleric’s white, tabbed collar.

  He stopped pacing, crossed his arms, and regarded his pupils. In that position, she got a better look at his face. His nose was well proportioned, his mouth wide, its upper lip a well-defined archer’s bow. A pleasing face, Emma thought, though perhaps not quite as handsome as Lizzie had led her to believe.

  Apparently bored or eager for the boys to finish, he wadded up a scrap of paper and tossed it at Rowan.