The Tutor's Daughter by Julie Klassen Page B

garden, its pathways lined with herbaceous borders, the stone walls hung with ivy and flowering vines. Clearly, spring came early in Cornwall, and the air smelled of apple blossoms, hyacinth, and lily of the valley. As she walked, Emma glimpsed many varieties they did not grow in Longstaple, like the fig and bay trees on the entrance drive—evidence of Cornwall’s mild, semitropical climate, provided the trees had shelter from the wind.
    Pushing through the garden gate, Emma left the manor grounds for the first time since they’d arrived. She crested a shallow rise, and the wind picked up, pulling at her bonnet. Yet the sunshine warmed her enough that the walk was pleasant. She breathed deeply the cool, fresh air and for a moment could understand why her father, why men like Henry Weston, were so often drawn out of doors.
    Walking through long grass dotted with pink thrift and swaths of bluebells, she crossed the headland toward the horizon, where the land fell away and the sea faded into forever. Reaching the footpath paralleling the coast, she took a few tentative steps closer to the cliff’s edge. Her heart gave a little thrill as she surveyed the sharp drop to jagged cliffs and rocky beaches below. Crashing waves struck jutting rocks in bursts of white mountains and flying spray. And beyond, sunlight shimmered on blue-green water.
    Beautiful.
    She looked farther out, ever westward, as far as the eye could see. Did the Americas really lie in that direction, far beyond her vision, her imagination? So she had read. How big the ocean must be. How small it made her feel.
    Emma remembered reading that North Cornwall was one of the more remote parts of the western peninsula. Now she could see how true that was for herself.
    â€œAnd what do ’ee think of our Kernow?” a gravelly voice asked from near her shoulder.
    Emma started. Turning, she was surprised to see the red-haired man she had first seen in Mr. Davies’s office. She had heard no one approach over the sound of the wind.
    â€œI . . . I don’t believe I’ve . . . heard that term before,” she stammered, nervous to be alone with the man.
    He nodded. “That’s what we Cornish call this land. But the Westons don’t consider themselves true Cornish folk. And nor do we.”
    â€œBut the Westons have lived here for years.”
    â€œSir Giles may live at Ebb-ton now, but his ancestors let it out to tenants year after year. Or came down only for summers, or on business—this is where they made their fortune in mining, after all. But they sold off their interests in the mines long ago.”
    Emma digested this, then rebutted, “The Weston sons have all been born and raised here at Ebbington.”
    â€œPerhaps. But the elder two were sent away to larn a proper accent.”
    â€œI assure you that was not in my father’s syllabus.”
    He shrugged. “Hardly matters what they larned. They be gentlemen—others will do arl the work for ’em.”
    â€œAnd what is it you do?” Emma asked boldly, resenting the man’s derision toward her hosts.
    He replied as though she’d asked the question in earnest. “Most men hereabouts forge a living from the sea—working on sloops, or loading and unloading vessels in our harbor. Some are fishermen, or work in the pilchard salting sheds. A few work the lime kiln.”
    â€œAnd you, sir?”
    He gazed out into the Atlantic, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I suppose ’ee could say I forge my living from the sea as well.”
    Though still uncertain of the man’s connection to Ebbington Manor—let alone his name—Emma hesitated to pry further. Prolonging a private conversation with him did not seem wise.
    Galloping horse hooves caught her ear, and she glanced over her shoulder. She felt both relieved and chagrined to see Henry Weston riding toward them, a scowl on his haughty