When Henry joined his family in the drawing room before dinner that evening, Lady Weston, in a low-cut evening gown better suited to a younger woman, turned on the settee to regard him.
“I must say I was surprised to see you walking arm in arm with Miss Smallwood this afternoon. I would expect such a thing of Phillip, perhaps, all harmless flirtation and boyish charm. But you . . . ? Good heavens.”
Henry frowned and glanced at Phillip, seated behind Lady Weston. Phillip lifted his hand in a helpless gesture but said nothing.
Nearby, Julian and Rowan shared knowing grins.
Forcing a neutral expression and casual tone, Henry said, “If you were watching from the window, my lady, then you no doubt saw that I had offered an arm to both Miss Smallwood and Lizzie. Considering the rain and slippery footing, I thought it the gentlemanly thing to do.”
Lizzie spoke up. “That’s right, my lady. Henry offered us each an arm on the way back from the chapel. Very gentlemanlike, I’m sure.”
Sir Giles lowered his glass. “The chapel? Good heavens. What were you doing down there?”
“Showing it to Miss Smallwood. She wanted to see it.”
“Yes . . .” Lizzie nodded, appearing distracted. Henry noticed she did not mention she hadn’t gone inside with them, nor her conversation with Derrick Teague.
Phillip said, “Are you certain that was wise, Henry? It isn’t safe.”
“Perfectly safe. I checked the tide tables first, of course.”
Sir Giles nodded, and swirled the brandy in his glass. “Just so, my boy. Very proper.”
Lady Weston smiled thinly. “Be that as it may, we would not want Miss Smallwood to misconstrue an innocent act of mere chivalry, would we?”
Henry was tempted to ask what she thought of Phillip’s far warmer behavior toward Emma but held back the petty comment.
Julian, however, showed no such restraint, saying, “I’m surprised you are not more concerned about Phillip, Mamma. He’s far more friendly with Miss Smallwood than Henry is.”
“Of course I am,” Phillip said. Then, with a glance at Lady Weston’s disapproving face, added, “We are old friends.”
Lady Weston inclined her head and replied as if Phillip had not spoken. “I cannot say I’d look kindly upon an alliance between any Weston and the tutor’s daughter, but worse for Henry, as the eldest son.”
Henry grimaced. “Eldest . . . Really?”
Sir Giles cleared his throat. The footman pulled opened the door, announced dinner was served, and the matter was dropped.
But, Henry knew, not forgotten.
Govern thy life and thoughts as if the whole world were to see the one, and read the other.
—Thomas Fuller, seventeenth-century author and preacher
Chapter 10
Before blowing out her bedside candle that night, Emma pulled out her journal, hoping to put her thoughts about the visit to the chapel, and the unexpected conversation with Mr. Weston, into perspective.
I confess myself astonished. Who would have guessed such serious, thought-provoking words could emerge from Henry Weston? Not I! I actually enjoyed my outing with him and Lizzie today—except for the uncomfortable moment when we came upon her speaking with that strange man.
And my mind is still engaged with the interesting if futile question of which Weston brother is most like each of the four winds. Henry is cold Boreas, to be sure, though I denied thinking it when he asked. And yes, kind Phillip very well suits the image of mild, friendly Zephyrus.
But what about Notus, the south wind who brings heat and fog, who means well but occasionally blows overzealously? And which is Eurus, the east wind with his violent and disorderly personality who likes to create storms?
Is Rowan, mature for his age and perhaps the author of a love letter in jest, more like Notus or Eurus? And what of boyish, talented Julian?
Of course there is no logical reason the four Weston brothers should represent the four winds, but I find I rather like the notion. I will continue to observe the brothers and draw my own conclusions.
The following morning, a Sunday, Emma found herself alone at breakfast. Her father, Sir Giles, and Henry Weston had already eaten and returned to their rooms, according to the footman she’d asked. Her father and Sir Giles were both early risers, so an early breakfast for them was commonplace. But she was rather surprised to hear Henry Weston had already eaten and taken his leave. She hoped he hadn’t eaten early to avoid her.
She was taking her last sip of tea when Phillip and Julian entered together, dressed in Sunday best, laughing and joking about something. Rowan followed after, quiet and brooding. Perhaps he shared his eldest brother’s temperament more than she’d originally thought.
Phillip greeted her with his customary warmth. Julian with polite interest. And Rowan with a mumbled “Morning” that sounded little more than a grunt. She thought again of the letter and Rowan’s crossed t’s. If Rowan’s apparent indifference to her was an act to cover a secret calf love, he was certainly convincing. More likely, she’d been wrong about the handwriting.
“We heard you went down to the chapel yesterday,” Julian said, eyes alight. “What did you think of the old place?”
“I found it quite fascinating, actually,” Emma said, studying each brother surreptitiously, still formulating her four-brothers/four-winds theory.
“Did it not frighten you, being surrounded by all that water?” Phillip gave a little shudder.
“A little, yes. But it was worth it.”
“I am surprised Henry could be prevailed upon to lead such an expedition,” Phillip mused. “He was his usual stern self, I trust?”
She looked at Phillip over the rim of her teacup with a small smile, not sure how to describe how Henry had been. Or even if she wanted to try.
“What’s put that secret smile on your face?” Phillip asked, a teasing light in his eyes. “Don’t tell me Henry was actually pleasant company.”
“He was,” Emma allowed. “Very knowledgeable.”
Julian said, “What did you do out there all that time—that’s what I’d like to know.” He leaned back in his chair and watched her face with a knowing smirk. “Lizzie said the two of you were alone out there for quite some time.”
“Oh?” Phillip asked, clearly surprised. “And what did you find to talk about with our laconic Henry?”
“Greek mythology, mostly,” Emma said casually, wanting to end any romance rumors before they might begin. “I found it very interesting.”
“You would,” Rowan muttered.
Emma noted Rowan’s foul mood with interest, and then glanced at inquisitive Julian.
Regarding her, Phillip slowly shook his head, a bemused smile playing on his lips. “How you look at us. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess you were plotting something.”
“Me?” Emma asked, all wide-eyed innocence. “Not a bit of it.”
The truth was she was doing one of her favorite things. Beginning a course of study on a new subject. Or in this case, four subjects.
After breakfast, Emma returned to her room, eager to add her latest observations about the brothers into her journal. She still had half an hour before it was time to leave for church. She glanced about, surprised not to see the green leather volume on her side table, where she thought she’d left it. Had she put it in the drawer instead, wanting to conceal it after writing personal things about the Westons? She dug through the drawer but found no journal among her handkerchiefs and other belongings. Then she sifted through the volumes stacked atop the side table. Not there.
Had it fallen? Emma looked under the bed, under the table, among the books atop the dressing chest. Nothing. She looked atop the washstand. At the bottom of the wardrobe. Nothing.
She stopped, pressing her eyes closed in concentration. Where had she put it? Had she taken it up to the schoolroom? No. Down to the breakfast room? Never.
Her stomach twisted in mounting panic. She, who had a place for everything and put
everything in its place, had not mislaid it. Not something so personal and private.
Heaven help me.
Someone had taken her journal.
She stood stock-still as a chill passed over her. Who would have done such a thing? A nosy maid? Unlikely. Lizzie? She had seemed curious about it, but Emma did not want to believe Lizzie capable of such a breach of privacy. One of the boys? She did not think it wise to accuse anyone, especially not Lady Weston’s sons.
She rang for Morva a second time, which she had never done before.
The maid entered ten minutes later, flushed and rushed. “You rang, miss?”
“Yes. I am sorry to disturb you, but I didn’t know where to find you this time of morning. I am wondering if you happened to see my journal—a green leather book about so big? It isn’t where I left it.”
“No, miss.” Morva’s eyes widened. “I didn’t take it, if that’s what ’ee think.”
“No, of course not. Why should you? I only hoped you’d seen it when you tidied up.”
“No, miss. But if I do see it, I shall let ’ee knaw directly.”
Emma thanked the offended maid and distractedly began gathering her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves. It was almost time to depart for church.
She went downstairs, heart hammering, afraid to ask, but more afraid of remaining silent while another person read her most private thoughts.
The family was gathering in the entry hall, awaiting the carriages and carts that would deliver them to Stratton. Sir Giles and her father stood speaking in low tones. Lizzie stood talking with Julian, Rowan, and Phillip. Lady Weston came down the stairs a minute or so after Emma, resplendent in an ivory gown with a high neck of lace, a red cape with stand-up collar, and matching hat with jaunty feather. Only Henry was not among them. She would not have a better opportunity.
Glancing around the assembly, Emma resolved to keep her tone casual, took a deep breath, and asked, “Has anyone seen my journal? It seems to have gone missing. Green leather. Quarto sized?”
Her father asked, “Have you searched your room, my dear?”
“Of course. It is not there. I think someone might have . . . inadvertently . . . taken it.”
Lady Weston frowned. “Taken it? How silly, Miss Smallwood. No one took your journal. You simply misplaced it. That is all. These things happen all the time.”
Lizzie added with a wink, “Probably lost among your many books Morva complains of having to dust.”
Julian wagged his eyebrows. “Or the Ebbington ghost took it. Quite the greedy thief, that ghost.”
“Now, Julian,” Lady Weston said tolerantly. “I know you are only teasing, but really. Ebbington Manor is not haunted.”
“Only the north wing,” Rowan whispered to his brother.
Emma overheard him. But no ghost had taken her journal.
“I wish it back,” she said in uncharacteristic sharpness. “I don’t care to cast blame. I just want it back. It is, after all, my personal property. Not meant for anyone else to read.”
“Full of juicy secrets, is it?” Julian asked, eyes glinting. “About you? Or about all of us?”
“Perhaps I shall have to track down this ghost and claim the journal myself,” Rowan said. “Sounds like interesting reading.”
Emma lifted her chin. “I assure you, you would find it frightfully dull.”
“Your blush tells a different tale.” Julian smirked.
Phillip sighed. “If one of you has taken Miss Smallwood’s journal, pray return it this very day.”
“Why do you accuse one of us?” Julian complained.
Phillip began, “I am not accusing—”
But Lady Weston cut him off. “Phillip, you know very well my boys would never do such a thing. Why should they care a fig about the scratchings of a woman they barely know? I must ask you to apologize.”
“Now, my dear,” Sir Giles gently interceded, “I don’t think Phillip meant any harm. He is only trying to come to Miss Smallwood’s aid.” Sir Giles looked at Emma kindly. “I shall have a word with Mrs. Prowse. Ask the staff to keep a sharp look out for it. Green leather, you say? Never fear—we shall find it.”
Emma felt uneasy. “I don’t wish to put anyone to extra trouble.”
“A bit late for that,” Rowan muttered, and he and his brother shared a private chuckle.
Emma felt indignant and embarrassed both. The conversation had certainly not gone as she’d hoped, and she dreaded having to go through the same awkward explanations with Henry when next she saw him.
After the service concluded, Lizzie walked beside Emma through St. Andrew’s churchyard, entwining her arm through hers. Emma took pleasure from the act of warm companionship. She’d had so few female friends in her life.
“I hope you don’t think I took your journal,” Lizzie said in a vulnerable little voice.
It had crossed her mind, but Emma suddenly felt guilty for the disloyal thought. “I don’t mean to accuse anyone, Lizzie. I simply wish it back.”
Lizzie squeezed her arm. “Of course you do. I cannot imagine how you must feel. You didn’t write anything too embarrassing, I hope.”
Emma sighed. “It isn’t that I wrote anything so terribly embarrassing. But I certainly never meant for any of it to be read by anyone else.”
“Then why write in the first place?” Lizzie asked. “Seems like a lot of time and bother. I recall when my old schoolmistress made me write a long letter all over again, so I might learn to write more neatly. And what did I gain for my trouble? A pain in my neck and ink-stained fingers.”
Emma chuckled. “I enjoy writing in my journal. It’s like having a very close friend with whom I can share my thoughts without fear of censure.”
“Why not tell a real friend?” Lizzie looked at her and asked gently, “Have you no friends, Miss Smallwood?”
“Not really. Not growing up in a boys’ school.”
Lizzie nodded. “You were probably more accomplished and clever than the other girls. Which made them jealous. And, I imagine, intimidated the boys at the same time.”
Emma felt tears prick her eyes at Lizzie’s insight. She inhaled deeply and turned away from the girl’s direct gaze. “If so, it was never my intention. There were times I would have traded years of book-learning for one honest-to-goodness friend.”
She sensed Lizzie’s look of surprise in her peripheral vision but kept her own face turned away. She had surprised herself with the admission. Embarrassed herself too.
Lizzie squeezed her arm once more. When Emma dared glance over, she glimpsed tears sparkling in Lizzie Henshaw’s eyes.
“I shall be your friend,” she whispered. “If you’ll have me.”
The rest of Sunday passed slowly. A roast beef dinner with Mr. Davies and her father. A letter to Aunt Jane. A thorough search of the house by Morva and Mrs. Prowse—to no avail. The housekeeper promised to conduct a search of the washhouse as well in case the journal had gotten into the laundry somehow.
Emma resigned herself to wait. Or so she told herself. Inwardly, she paced and worried, cringing every time she recalled something she had written about Lizzie or one of the Westons, imagining the reaction of the reader, whoever he or she might be.
She didn’t see Henry Weston all day. And she fought against the nagging image that kept forming in her mind: of him ensconced in a public house somewhere with candle lamp and pint, reading page after page of her journal. Perhaps even reading bits aloud to his companions, all of them guffawing over her foolish feminine trifles, the pitiful thoughts and dreams of a bluestocking on her way to becoming a spinster. Emma shuddered at the thought.
In the evening, while searching her room yet again, Emma came across the small wooden chess set she had brought with her to Ebbington Manor, figuring she and her father would need some amusement to help them pass solitary evenings. But they had yet to use it. Her father evidently preferred to spend evenings in the company of Sir Giles, Henry, or one of his many books.
The old se
t was incomplete. The white queen had been missing for many years—since Henry Weston’s days at Longstaple. She’d always suspected he’d taken it.
Whenever she and her father had played at home, they’d substituted a small figurine of a lady in court dress. A gift her mother had received as a girl, after her own presentation at court. But Emma had not wanted to risk breaking the delicate porcelain figurine and had left it at home, thinking she would find some suitable replacement once at Ebbington Manor. Now she selected a thimble from among her things. It would suffice, though some of the elegance of the game would be lost with it.
She found her father and asked him to play, thinking it would distract her. Since Henry had not appeared for their nightly backgammon match, her father agreed. They set up the pieces on the small table between two cushioned chairs in her father’s room, which was quite a bit larger than her own.
He smiled thoughtfully at her. “This reminds me of all those times you and Henry played chess back at home.”
Emma made her opening move, sliding a white pawn forward two squares. “That was a long time ago. And he was certainly not a very cheerful opponent, I can tell you.”
“It was difficult for him,” her father said. “The first of his family to be sent away to school. I believe he was homesick.” He moved his own pawn forward. “I remember he became especially cross when the other boys received letters from home. He so rarely did. Now and again Sir Giles would scratch a few lines, but not often.”
Emma glanced fondly at her father. “You always did make allowances for him, Papa.”
He nodded. “I understood him, I suppose. I was the first in my family to be sent away as well. You can be thankful you have little notion of what that’s like, Emma—being sent off alone, from all you’ve known, at a tender age.”
Emma doubted Henry Weston had ever been tender but refrained from saying so. They played for several minutes longer, but it was obvious her father was having difficulty concentrating.
He sat back, wincing. “I am sorry, my dear. It’s this dashed headache.”