Chapter 2
Emma surveyed Donwell Abbey’s large supper room, where spare tables had been commandeered and dressed in crisp linens, then set with long-unused silver and glassware.
The crystal glittered in the candlelight, platters were piled high with delicacies, and guests milled about, happily chatting and eating.
No one would have guessed that the hosts’ frantic preparations had been completed a mere hour before the first arrivals.
Mrs. Hodges, Donwell’s inestimable housekeeper, studied the room with an anxious gaze. “I hope we don’t run out of punch.”
“I shouldn’t think so. We’re halfway through the evening and still seem to have plenty of it.”
“Wait till that lot dancing in the great hall come in,” Mrs. Hodges sourly noted. “A plague of locusts, they’ll be.”
Mrs. Hodges’s alarmist tendency helped make her an excellent housekeeper. She made sure to prepare for any eventuality, including organizing large parties in less than a week.
“As long as we don’t run out of cider,” said Emma. “It’s been very popular with the gentlemen.”
“Mr. Larkins says we’re in good trim. He held back three half ankers, just in case.”
“Where is Larkins, by the by? I haven’t seen him in over an hour.”
Donwell’s manager was as valuable to the smooth running of the estate as Mrs. Hodges was to the household. Larkins was unflappable, and once set to a task never left it undone. Emma couldn’t think how they’d ever get on without him.
“Mr. Larkins went to the stables to check on the arrangements with the carriages. Then he was going to go back to his cottage. He said he’ll return before the end of the party to help with the cleanup—or if he’s needed before, I’m to send the kitchen boy down to fetch him.”
Larkins dwelled in the steward’s cottage, just outside the gates of the abbey.
The separation from the big house suited him, since he had a tendency to prefer solitude.
Work was his life, and he only rarely socialized.
As far as Emma knew, he’d never once asked George for a holiday to visit friends or family.
Even convincing the man to take a day off was something of a chore.
“I envy his peace and quiet,” Emma wryly replied as a gaggle of teachers from Mrs. Goddard’s school squeezed by them, heading for the great hall.
“I do hope Mr. Woodhouse and Miss Bates are pleased, ma’am. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.”
“My father would faint dead away if he saw this mob. Thankfully, Donwell’s library is far enough away that the noise shouldn’t bother him.”
Emma had wanted her father safely ensconced and out of the way in the abbey’s comfortable library. There, he could spend most of the evening with Isabella, who also disliked noisy affairs. Mrs. Bates had joined them, and was very likely having a snooze by the cozy, crackling fire.
“I had Prudence bring Mr. Woodhouse and Mrs. Knightley a tray of stewed chicken and biscuits, along with some of Serle’s custards,” said Mrs. Hodges. “Prudence said Mrs. Weston was there as well, keeping them company.”
That was just like dear Mrs. Weston, Emma’s former governess. For her, the comfort of the Woodhouse family would always be a priority.
“It seems that Prudence is working out very well,” Emma commented, referring to the chambermaid. “She helped me dress for the party.”
“That girl has been a godsend, ma’am. Very hardworking and with the sweetest temper—I wish we could hire three more like her.”
Prudence Parr had been hired only three months ago, after the previous maid had moved on to another establishment. If the girl continued to work out so well, Emma thought to promote her to lady’s maid after she and George moved to Donwell.
Mrs. Hodges ran another gaze over the refreshment tables. “Looks like the punch bowl needs refilling. Where is that dratted Harry when you need him?”
Harry Trotman, Donwell’s sole footman, was the bane of Mrs. Hodges’s existence. Though he seemed a pleasant fellow to Emma and George liked him, their housekeeper was not so generous. She rated the young man as only a step or two above lazy.
“I will let you get back to your work, Mrs. Hodges,” Emma said.
The housekeeper sketched a curtsey. “Of course, ma’am.”
Emma smiled. “And if I see Harry, I’ll send him your way.”
Mrs. Hodges huffed and departed for the back of the house.
Emma strolled through the supper room, chatting with guests and receiving well wishes on her father’s behalf—some delivered with an understandable air of incredulity.
George awaited her at the refreshment tables, where he was conversing with Highbury’s curate, Mr. Barlowe, and a nattily dressed young man whom she didn’t recognize.
“There you are, my dear,” said George. “I hope all is well?”
“Apparently so, according to Mrs. Hodges.”
“Mrs. Hodges is a most estimable woman,” Mr. Barlowe earnestly commented.
“Only a few days ago, she sent your footman to the vicarage with a bag of potatoes. And they are excellent potatoes, Mr. Knightley, truly excellent. That you manage to keep them in such prime condition during the winter must be counted a miracle. I cannot think how you do it.”
“My dear fellow, I’m sure Mr. Knightley knows his potatoes very well,” said the other man in a humorous tone. “No need to rave on about them.”
Mr. Barlowe flushed at the good-natured jibe and turned an apologetic glance on George. “Forgive me, sir. I only meant to show my appreciation. You and Mrs. Knightley have been exceedingly kind since my arrival.”
Alan Barlowe had come to Highbury but four months previous, as their new clergyman.
A slight man of equally slight means, he struck Emma as suffering from a nervous disposition.
He fulfilled his duties well enough, but he was not a social person and occasionally blurted out awkward comments.
As for his sermons, he droned his way through them as if they were a highly unpleasant exercise.
But he seemed diligent, determined to do his duties no matter his personal afflictions.
Emma smiled at the curate. “You can never offend my husband by complimenting anything to do with Donwell. Given half the chance, he will be happy to tell you exactly how he manages to keep his potatoes so fresh.”
“I suspect Mr. Knightley could make even that subject interesting,” said the other young man, giving George a slight bow.
“My father speaks very highly of you, sir, and says that your knowledge of estate management is second to none. I wouldn’t know, of course, since I’m utterly hopeless when it comes to such matters. ”
That was certainly blunt speaking.
“George, I don’t believe I’ve met this gentleman,” Emma said. “Perhaps you might introduce me?”
Her husband winced. “Forgive me, Emma. I thought you were acquainted with Mr. Plumtree.”
Ah. Now she knew who the man was.
“You’re Squire Plumtree’s son,” she said with a smile. “I’ve met your father on a few occasions, and have heard him speak of you.”
The young man gave another slight bow and cast her a charmingly crooked grin. “It’s a great pleasure, Mrs. Knightley. But I confess I’d rather not hear what my father has to say about me. I’m afraid I’m something of a trial to the poor fellow.”
It seemed an odd thing to say to a stranger, but perhaps she was too harsh. Mr. Plumtree was a good-looking young man with an obviously light-hearted manner. Also in his favor was the fact that he was correctly if very fashionably attired for an evening party.
“We hoped to see Squire Plumtree at our party tonight,” she said.
“He sends his regrets, ma’am. His business, unfortunately, has kept him in London.”
Emma rummaged in her brain. “Your father is a wool merchant, is he not?”
“Indeed.” His smile turned self-deprecating.
“It might seem odd for him to be in trade, given that our family has resided at Plumtree Manor for many generations. But my father had an opportunity to invest in the wool industry some years ago and became quite taken with it. He spends much of his time in London, as a result.”
“Many a family now finds it prudent to invest in trade,” George kindly replied. “The wars on the Continent provided ample opportunity to do so.”
“So my father says. I must admit that I’m woefully ignorant in that regard, as well. I’m afraid I don’t share my father’s enthusiasm for trade.”
Mr. Barlowe gave him a sympathetic grimace. “One can hardly blame you. Many of those involved in trade can be quite vulgar in their mannerisms.” He flushed bright red a moment later. “Excepting your father, of course. I’m sure he’s not in the least bit vulgar.”
Mr. Plumtree responded with a polite smile. “Just as you say, dear fellow.”
In the painful silence that followed, Emma became acutely aware of the cheerful din of chatter around them.
“Mr. Plumtree, do you reside at Plumtree Manor?” she asked, trying to rescue the conversation.
“I do, ma’am. I’ve lived at Plumtree my entire life.”
“I imagine your father must be grateful to have a son there in his absence.”
Her comment produced an outright grin from him. “That observation would certainly make my father laugh, since I’m as hopeless at estate management as I am at trade. My dear papa, however, still holds out hope for my eventual reform.”
While it was cynical statement, he said it with such good humor that it was hard not to feel some charity for him.
“I’m sure you underestimate your talents,” she protested.
His eyes gleamed with amusement. “You must be sure to ask my father about that when next you meet him.”
“Plumtree, you must stop teasing Mrs. Knightley,” Mr. Barlowe admonished. “She won’t know what to think.”
“Mrs. Knightley thinks she will ask her husband for a glass of wine,” Emma humorously replied. She glanced at the curate’s half-empty glass. “Mr. Barlowe, would you like more punch?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I thought to visit the great hall now to listen to the music and see the dancing.” He gave an admonishing glance to his companion. “I think that would be just the thing.”