Emma was offended and embarrassed all at once. Lizzie had all but begged her to play, only to abandon her when they had barely begun? And worse—handed her off to Henry Weston? That man would not relish the notion of playing any sort of sport with her. Making sport of her, yes, but not playing an actual match. Nor did she want to play with him. How intimidating to face off against the man with all his masculine athletic prowess.
Henry looked down at the battledore in his hands as though unsure how it suddenly appeared there. He glanced to the side, where Lizzie had taken Phillip’s arm and was all but tugging him away.
Phillip looked at them over his shoulder with a self-conscious shrug.
Lizzie said, loud enough for them all to hear, “I have vexed Lady Weston yet again. You must advise me. You always know just what to do to regain her favor.”
Emma wondered if that was really what Lizzie wanted to talk to Phillip about. She had said nothing about Lady Weston being vexed with her.
Henry looked from the battledore to Emma, then strode slowly toward her.
“You needn’t play, Mr. Weston,” Emma said. “I only agreed to play for Lizzie’s sake, so . . .”
“Oh, come, Miss Smallwood. Please tell me you don’t shun all things athletic as you did as a girl.” A teasing light shone in his eyes. “Afraid you’ll lose?”
Emma huffed. “I am not afraid to lose. I know I shall. This isn’t chess, after all.”
One eyebrow rose. “Oh, ho! A shot to the heart. The lady recalls soundly trouncing me, I see. Then you must give me a chance to redeem myself.” He set aside his hat and adopted a ready stance, bouncing lightly from foot to foot. He looked fifteen years old all over again.
Emma felt a grin lift a corner of her mouth. “Oh, very well. But promise not to laugh too hard.”
“I promise.”
She positioned the shuttlecock, concentrated, and swung her battledore. Thwack. A satisfying echoing snap, and the shuttlecock lofted in a graceful arc. Henry leapt to the side and smacked it back. Emma stepped backward, raised her racquet, and miracle of miracles, made contact with a hollow plunk. The shuttlecock flew, and Henry ran forward and tapped it lightly at her. The shuttlecock rode the soft breeze slowly enough to give Emma time to judge distance and react. Much easier than a fast-flying ball. She hit it again, hard, and since Henry had run forward to return her last hit, he had to quickly backpedal. She thought—hoped—he might miss it, but the man had the wingspan of a wandering albatross. He reached back, back and whacked it high overhead. Emma was determined not to waver for a second or blink in the sun as before. She would not mortify herself in front of this man if humanly possible.
Eye on the shuttlecock, she ran forward, raised her battledore high, and slammed right into Henry Weston’s chest.
The wind knocked from her, Emma lost her balance and might have fallen had not Mr. Weston’s arms shot out and caught her about the waist and shoulder.
“Oh,” she cried, embarrassed to have plowed into the man. Embarrassed to find his arms around her.
Embarrassed to find she liked it.
“I’m so sorry,” she blurted, pushing away from him.
“Don’t be. I admire your singular focus. My goodness, Miss Smallwood, where is the timid little creature who flinched at every flying bird as though it were a cricket ball headed for her nose?”
Emma straightened and righted her off-kilter bonnet. “I was determined not to embarrass myself,” she admittedly breathlessly. “Only to do just that.”
He chuckled, and their eyes met in a moment of shared levity.
Then he sobered. “Thank you for the laugh, Miss Smallwood. Just what I needed after yesterday.”
“Then I am happy to oblige. Lizzie told me a little of what happened after I left the music room. Is your brother . . . Is Adam all right?”
“Yes, I think so. Lady Weston less so.” He told her briefly what had happened, then held out his hand for her battledore. “Shall we walk instead, Miss Smallwood?”
She surrendered her racquet. “Yes, thank you. I am a far more accomplished walker.”
Henry laid both racquets along with the shuttlecock on a garden bench, retrieved his hat, and then gestured for Miss Smallwood to precede him out the garden gate. He walked beside her, near enough to talk easily but not too near.
When their footfalls left crunching gravel for spongy turf, Henry began, “I had hoped now that the ‘awful secret’ was getting out, she might ease up a bit. Instead she’s in high dudgeon, pushing for Phillip and me to find another place for Adam. But my heart’s not in the search, I own. I’ve only just been reunited with Adam; I’m not ready to send him away again.”
Beside him, Miss Smallwood nodded in empathy, then said gently, “I don’t recall either you or Phillip mentioning an older brother.”
Henry grimaced. “I only recently learned about him—that he was still alive.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Adam looks young, I know. But he is actually four years older than I am. When I was not yet four, and Phillip a newborn, Adam disappeared. There one day but not the next. When I asked, I was told he was gone and not coming back. I was too young to fully understand, or to question. And as time passed and no one spoke of him, my own memories began to fade. My mother died a few years later. After that loss, I retained vague recollections of a playmate named Adam but little else.”
Henry squinted out toward the distant horizon. “I asked once or twice when I grew older. But my father told me only that there had been another child, but he’d gone long ago. And in those days, when child mortality rates were even higher than they are now . . . well, no one questioned one more child apparently dying. My mother had lost an infant before Adam was born, I have since learned. But when I saw the little nameless marker in the churchyard, I thought it Adam’s.”
Miss Smallwood considered this. “Why would they want you to believe he’d died?”
Henry shrugged. “Perhaps they thought it easier than trying to explain why my brother lived elsewhere. Probably thought I’d never stop pestering them to bring him home.” He exhaled a dry puff of air. “They’d have been right.”
She asked, “When did Adam return to Ebbington?”
“The night before you arrived. And with very little warning.”
“Good heavens,” Miss Smallwood breathed. “No wonder Lady Weston and Sir Giles seemed, well, disconcerted by our coming when we did.”
Henry nodded.
“When did you find out he was still alive?” she asked.
The dreaded question. Guilt filled him instantly. “After I took my degree and returned home, my father asked me to take the place in hand. One day, when I reviewed the estate ledgers, I saw a monthly fee sent to a Mr. and Mrs. Hobbes in Camelford. When I asked Davies about it, I learned that Mrs. Hobbes was none other than Miss Jones—my old nurse before she married. It didn’t really explain why we were still paying her, but I didn’t question it for several months. We had far larger amounts to worry about.”
In his mind’s eye, Henry saw again the thick ledger, the many expenses documented in painful detail in their columns, and the occasional large deposit listed without explanation. Davies said it was a portion of the money Lady Weston had brought into the marriage, which she put into the estate when funds ran low. It had irked Henry—more reason to feel beholden to the woman. It had also irked him that he could not balance the books, for all his Oxford education.
Henry took a deep breath of salty air. “When I finally asked my father about the payment to our old nurse, he told me it was a pension he’d decided to grant her, in consideration of her ‘exceptional care’ for his offspring. We did not pay other servants after they left our employ, but I supposed a favorite nurse was a worthwhile exception and went away reasonably satisfied with his explanation.
“Then one day, village business took me to Camelford. I was curious to see my old nurse and, I admit, curious to see how she spent the money we sent. I asked around and easily loca
ted her home. Instead of the pleasant surprise I expected, Mrs. Hobbes came to the door dressed in black and seemed very nervous to see me. At first I thought she feared I had come to tell her there would be no more pension. Then I heard a commotion in the next room. Someone crying ‘No, no, no’ over and over again. Mrs. Hobbes explained that her husband had recently passed on, and their son was deeply unsettled by his death.
“I asked if there was anything I could do to help. But she was clearly eager for me to go. I was about to oblige her when something crashed in the next room. She ran in and I followed her. I saw a young man sitting amid broken glass, banging his head and muttering nonsense. It was clear he was not right in his mind. I was repulsed, I admit, and quickly took my leave.”
Henry shook his head in regret. “I should have suspected. Guessed. But I did not. Perhaps I simply did not want to acknowledge the evidence of my eyes.”
He paused to gather his thoughts. And to swallow his guilt once more. “I put it from my mind, and years passed. But then, three or four weeks ago, Mrs. Hobbes wrote to my father. I’ve been handling all of the estate correspondence for some time, so I read the letter myself. In it, Mrs. Hobbes acknowledged she had agreed to care for Adam discreetly, as her own. But she could not do so much longer. She was dying.”
Henry risked a glance at Miss Smallwood and saw her listening intently, fern green eyes large and sad. He continued, “The name Adam struck a chord with me. And I realized the young man Mrs. Hobbes referred to—the young man I had seen—was my older brother, whom I had assumed dead. I was shocked, as you can imagine. And yet . . . not completely. Lingering questions and memories surfaced, and began snapping into place like puzzle pieces.
“In her letter, Mrs. Hobbes also referred to my visit a few years before and explained that I had seen Adam at his worst. Any change unhinged Adam, and Mr. Hobbes’s death was a big one. She insisted Adam was usually quite sweet-natured, but she worried what her imminent death would do to him.
“I confronted my father with the letter, and he admitted the truth. He wanted to wait, to try to find another caretaker elsewhere. But Mrs. Hobbes had asked us to come quickly, for she feared what the local authorities might do with Adam after she died. Her last wish was to make certain Adam was never sent to a lunatic asylum or workhouse.
“So I went charging off to make certain that didn’t happen. A man with a mission at last. I even took a physician friend of mine with me. I was glad I did, for we found Mrs. Hobbes already dead and ended up having to sedate Adam to remove him from the house after she had been buried.
“I brought him home to Ebbington. I wanted to put him in his old room and arrange a caregiver for him. But Lady Weston insisted that he be kept in the little-used north wing away from the family. She wanted him to be locked in as well, but I battled against that. She relented on that point but still insists another situation be found for him, and that he not be kept at Ebbington Manor a day longer than necessary. And so, on that errand, I asked Mrs. Prowse to oversee Adam’s care and left for a few days, to close up the Hobbes’s house and interview possible replacements for the kindly couple. To no avail. When I returned, I was baffled to discover you and your father installed in the house. And my stepmother none too pleased about it either.”
“She made little secret of that fact,” Miss Smallwood said. “Now at least I understand why.”
Henry sighed. “I have judged my father as unfair and unfeeling, but I know he did what most upper-class people would do in this situation. There are no decent institutions for people like Adam. And a lunatic asylum, workhouse, and poorhouse are grim fates indeed. We can be glad Adam was spared any of those.”
“Yes.” Miss Smallwood nodded, then looked upward in thought. “I still wonder about the open windows in his room the night of the storm. Mrs. Prowse wouldn’t have left them open.”
Henry agreed. “I have been thinking about that too.”
She squinted in concentration. “Surely whoever it was could not have known what it would do to Adam—how it would throw him into a fit.”
Henry frowned. “Or perhaps they did know. And did it for precisely that reason.”
“But why?”
“To scare off the Penberthys, perhaps.”
“But who would want to do that?”
He shook his head regretfully. “I can think of several possibilities, unfortunately.”
Miss Smallwood nodded. “So can I.”
Care killed a cat.
—Shakespeare
Chapter 16
Emma, regretting her first meeting with Adam Weston had been an unhappy one, decided to brave the north wing again, this time by daylight. She wanted to take him something as an olive branch. A token of friendship. Acting on a hunch, she brought down a tin of ivory dominoes with ebony pips from the schoolroom. She wondered if he might play a game with her, or at least enjoy playing with them on his own. She had seen little source of diversion in his room, though, of course, she had not checked every drawer and cupboard.
She made her way to the end of the north wing and knocked softly on his door. A sound from inside suddenly ceased. A rocking chair? The door opened a few inches, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Prowse, appeared. Emma realized she had barely laid eyes on the woman since she and her father had first arrived. Now she knew why.
“Ah . . . Miss Smallwood. How did you know where to find me? You’re not to be in here.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Prowse. I know about Adam.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Do you now? Then I suppose you’d better come in.” Mrs. Prowse held the door for Emma, then shut it quietly behind her.
Adam was sitting in an armchair near the window. She was surprised and pleased to see him reading a book. He glanced up timidly when she entered but, after apparently assuring himself that she meant no harm, resumed reading.
Emma quietly explained to Mrs. Prowse about the storm, hearing Adam’s cries, and coming to investigate.
The housekeeper nodded, mouth downturned. “Yes, Master Henry told me about that night, though he didn’t mention your part in it. And sorry I was to hear it too. I’ve been looking after Adam as much as I could amidst my other duties, but then my father fell ill, and I had to go and see him.”
“I am sorry to hear it. How did you find him?”
“Very bad, I’m afraid. Had an apoplexy, poor soul. But at least I was able to see him and help a bit.”
Emma nodded her understanding.
“That’s why I wasn’t here that night, “ the woman continued. “Had I been, I would have come to check on Adam and sit with him during the worst of the storm.”
Emma lifted the tin in her hand. “I brought some dominoes for him. Unless . . . Has he a set already?”
Mrs. Prowse turned to look around the room. “Not that I’ve seen. Don’t know as he’ll have any interest, but kind of you just the same.” The housekeeper hesitated. “You . . . know not to say anything about him, right?”
“I do. Though I think it a pity.”
“As do I.” Mrs. Prowse inhaled deeply. “I knew Mrs. Hobbes very well, though she was Miss Jones when she worked here. We stayed in touch over the years. Very fond of Adam she was. Like a son to her and Mr. Hobbes. God rest their souls.” Tears brightened her eyes.
Emma felt she ought to squeeze the dear woman’s hand but hesitated, and the moment passed.
Mrs. Prowse wiped at her eyes and drew back her shoulders. “Well, I had better go down and check on things.”
Emma nodded. “I’ll see you later.”
When the door closed behind the housekeeper, Emma stood with the tin in her hands, observing Adam, waiting for him to look up at her.
He did not.
She looked around the room instead, noticing several drawings pinned to one wall. Battle scenes. Soldiers engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Gruesome yet impressively realistic. Had Rowan done these or had Adam?
Gently, she said, “Good afternoon, Mr. . . .” She paused. She wanted to trea
t him with all the respect she would give any other Weston. But did he even recognize that surname as his, or had he grown up as Adam Hobbes? She decided to use his Christian name, something she would not usually do, at least until invited. “May I come closer, Adam? I have brought you something.”
Finally, he looked up, his blue eyes skittering from her face to the tin in her hand.
“Biscuits?” he asked hopefully.
A little bubble of mirth tickled her stomach. “Do you like biscuits?”
He nodded.
“Perhaps next time I shall bring you some. But today I’ve brought dominoes. Have you ever played?”
Slowly, she crossed the room, watching his face to make certain he showed no signs of alarm. His expression remained rather static, so it was difficult to tell what he was thinking or feeling, but she saw no obvious distress. Emma walked to a small table and chairs placed beneath another window. A stack of drawings lay there, similar to those on the wall. She set the tin on the table beside them.
“Come and see,” she offered, keeping her gaze on the tin, removing the cover and setting it aside.
Adam appeared beside her, staring down at the tiles. “Bone sticks,” he murmured.
“Dominoes,” she corrected.
“My pa, Mr. Hobbes, likes to play bone sticks.”
He slid into a chair and began pulling from the tin domino after domino, lining them up in ascending order: 0–0, 0–1, 0–2, 0–3 . . . then moving on to the 1–1, 1–2, and so on, until all twenty-eight were arranged.
“Shall we play?” Emma asked, but he didn’t appear to hear her.
As soon as he had arranged all the dominoes once, he began rearranging them, this time in ever-widening rows, like the branches of half an evergreen tree: the blank domino followed by a row of two dominoes (0–1 and 1–1). Below that a row of three (0–2, 1–2, 2–2), and so on.
Watching Adam Weston, head bent, tongue tip protruding, fingers flying, Emma felt a smile quiver on her lips. Noticing his small hands, she wondered if Adam might have been the one to come into her room and leave behind the handprint. If so, she could understand why Henry Weston had told her she needn’t be afraid.