Free The Tutor's Daughter by Julie Klassen Page A

The room held a simple washstand much like Emma’s, though Lizzie also had a lady’s dressing table, whereas Emma did not. And Lizzie had two large wardrobe cupboards bursting with gowns of every description.
    â€œMy goodness, Lizzie . . .” Emma breathed, taking in the colorful sight.
    â€œLady Weston likes me to dress well. Very concerned about appearances, Lady Weston is.”
    â€œSo I see.”
    After that, the girls parted company. Emma spent the remainder of the day with her father in the schoolroom and later ate dinner with him and Mr. Davies.
    That night before going to sleep, Emma added to the lists she kept in her journal.
    Lizzie Henshaw: charming, amusing, nosy, fickle, hiding something.
    Lady Violet Weston: Proud, disapproving, cold, elegant, hiding something.
    Sometime after Emma had set aside her journal, blown out her candle, and fallen asleep, she awoke with a start. What had she heard this time? Not a howl. A hinge squeak? The click of a door latch? For a moment she lay there, unmoving, ears alert to any sound, eyes searching the darkness. Her room was black, save for the low glow of embers in the fireplace. The furnishings loomed as uncertain shapes in the shadows. Was that a figure near the wall or merely her wardrobe? Her heart rate accelerated.
    She sat up and whispered, “Who’s there?” She felt foolish even as she uttered the question.
    Silence.
    There was no one there , she told herself. And if there had been, it had only been a servant, come to check the fire, perhaps. She would not have expected such service while it was still night. But who else would come into her room?
    Emma forced herself to lie back down, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and squeezed her eyes shut.
    That was when she smelled it. She sniffed again. Shaving soap? Men’s cologne? Good heavens, that was strange. She had not smelled it before.
    She lay there, forcing herself to breathe deeply, to keep her eyes closed, to think of the book she was currently reading, and eventually managed to fall back asleep.
    Emma woke again to find weak dawn light filtering through her windowpanes. The room was still, the fire had gone out. It must be early, for Morva had not yet made it to her room to lay another one. No doubt she and her father were low on the list, after all the family bedchambers had been seen to first. Emma was certainly glad it was spring and not winter.
    Remembering her fright of the night before, Emma surveyed her room and found it apparently undisturbed. Of course, everything was as it should be. What had she been thinking last night?
    Needing to use the chamber pot, Emma forced herself from the warm cocoon of her bedclothes, relieved herself, then stepped to the corner washstand to wash her hands and face.
    As she turned back toward her bed, her bare foot landed on something sharp and hard.
    â€œOww . . .” she grumbled, and bent to retrieve the offending object.
    In the dim light, the small article appeared a dull grey. She picked it up and carried it nearer the window to identify it. She blinked in surprise. A miniature toy soldier. Instantly, she was transported back to days of old at the Smallwood Academy when pupils were forever leaving small wooden balls, jackstones, and soldiers with pointy swords for her to step on.
    Henry Weston, however, had been very particular about his collection of military figures, which he used to reenact historic or recent battles with the French.
    A good thing he was away on family business at present, or she might have suspected Henry Weston himself had been in her room. She chuckled at the notion. It was far more likely that this soldier had lain hidden under the bed or carpets, long forgotten, only to be swept out in the hurried preparation for the unexpected Smallwoods. Yes, far more likely.
    After Morva came in and helped her dress, Emma made her way downstairs for breakfast. She glimpsed Lizzie standing in the hall at