The Tutor's Daughter by Julie Klassen Page A

himself, and Emma and her father exchanged perplexed looks. She wondered why her comment had apparently offended the man. Did he think she was turning up her nose at the local people—by assuming a theft where there was likely no wrongdoing?
    She and her father talked companionably for ten or fifteen minutes longer, discussing the day and their lesson plans for the morrow. When she rose to take her leave, her father remained behind, hoping Henry Weston might seek him out after his own dinner for a game of backgammon.
    Newspapers under her arm, Emma left the office alone and crossed the hall. She saw Mr. Davies standing at the drawing room door, talking with Lady Weston. At the sound of her echoing footsteps, Davies looked over his shoulder and Lady Weston followed his gaze. They both sent her veiled looks, Davies’s expression self-conscious, and Lady Weston’s speculative. They ceased talking as Emma passed and began up the stairs, giving Emma the distinct impression they had been speaking about her. Their silence and watchful gazes pricked her spine with each step. She could not ascend from their sight quickly enough.

    In the morning, Emma washed, cleaned her teeth, brushed and pinned her hair, and then made her bed while waiting for Morva. After the maid appeared and helped her dress, Emma took the newspapers downstairs, planning to return them to the library after breakfast.
    When she arrived in the steward’s office, she found Mr. Daviessitting at his breakfast, his own copy of the day’s news spread before him. He looked up as she entered and began folding the paper aside.
    â€œDon’t stop reading on my account.” She smiled, lifting her own copies of the West Briton and Times . “I have brought something to read as well. Sir Giles was kind enough to lend them to me.”
    Davis nodded and returned to his coffee without a word. She hoped he wasn’t still upset about her comment last night.
    Emma filled her plate and sat across from the steward. She thought him a nice enough man yet never felt completely at her ease in his presence unless her father was there to help carry the conversation.
    She tried to read as she ate but felt self-conscious—every bite, every sip of coffee seemed loud and echoing in the high-ceilinged space. She had left the Times folded to the auction house advertisement, and she noticed the steward’s gaze stray to it more than once. His eggs remained untouched, congealing on his plate.
    Emma laid her index finger on the paper and slid it across the table. “I’m finished with this one. Would you like to see it?”
    â€œOh . . .” Mr. Davies puffed out his cheeks and fidgeted. “No, no. I have little interest in London news.”
    The silence between them lengthened awkwardly. Emma finished her breakfast and excused herself as quickly as she could.
    Wanting to escape the tension in the manor—some of which she had inadvertently caused—Emma left the newspapers in the library and decided she would see what drew her father out of doors every day. Was the view from the cliff path really so appealing?
    Her father had already left, being the early riser he was. But there was no reason she could not go for a stroll on her own. She returned to her room and pulled on a long-sleeved pelisse over her day dress, tied a bonnet under her chin, and tugged on gloves as well. For though it was early May, her father had warned her of the chilly winds blowing in over the ridgeline.
    As she came downstairs, her father was just coming in through the rear entrance, cheeks ruddy, collar turned up. When she told him where she was going, he nodded approvingly, and then tookhimself into the steward’s office for a second cup of tea and a biscuit. His appetite had certainly improved since coming to Cornwall. Emma categorized that as a good sign.
    Emma ventured outside. Her half boots crunched over the pebbled drive and through the