Chapter 9
A chill breeze whipped among the hedgerows and rattled the empty branches of the trees. Thankfully, the walk from Donwell to Randalls was a mere ten minutes, especially if one took the footpath that ran directly from the abbey to fetch up behind Randalls.
As Emma cut across the back lawn, the frost-covered grass crunched under her feet.
By the time she circled around to the front door, she was more than ready for a hot cup of tea and a chat with her oldest friend.
Although not a gossip herself, Mrs. Weston was married to a man who collected information from the locals as readily as a sponge drew up water.
Mr. Weston was the easiest man in the world to talk to, and talk to him the villagers certainly did.
Even better, he was dreadful at keeping confidences.
That made him the perfect source of information, which he invariably shared with his wife.
Hannah, one of the housemaids, admitted her into the entrance hall.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Knightley.” The girl eyed Emma’s boots. “It’s right nasty out there, ma’am. You should have asked my father to drive you over instead of tramping out in this cold. It’s not good for your lungs.”
Hannah’s father was James, Hartfield’s ever-loyal coachman.
Emma smiled at her. “I’m sure he would have, but Mr. Knightley and I are at Donwell for the present.”
Hannah folded Emma’s pelisse over her arm. “Mrs. Hodges will be grateful to have you there, what with all the sad goings-on.”
“Did you know Prudence?”
“Not well, but I’d see her in the village on occasion, and at church. I know Mrs. Hodges thought the world of her, as did Mr. Larkins. I expect they’re both terrible cut up about it.”
This wasn’t the first time someone had mentioned that Larkins would be upset by Prudence’s death. As estate steward, he would of course feel responsible for Donwell’s staff, but he would have little contact with servants like a chambermaid.
“Mrs. Weston is in the parlor with Miss Bates,” Hannah added. “I was just going to fetch the tea tray when you rang.”
Drat.
Emma had hoped that her conversation with Mrs. Weston would be private, since the subject required a degree of delicacy and discretion. Although Miss Bates was a kind and sensitive soul, discretion was by no means her forte.
Not that Emma had any intention of directly accusing William Cox of assault, or even murder.
What she was hoping to gain was a greater knowledge of his character and of any recent changes in his behavior.
Since they generally moved in different social circles, Emma had little opportunity to observe William or his sisters.
Then again, Miss Bates was both friendly with Mrs. Cox and one of Highbury’s most notable gossips.
Unlike Mr. Weston, whose reliability in that regard was sometimes a trifle wobbly, Emma’s future stepmother was a surprisingly accurate source of information about anything affecting their little village.
“Don’t let me keep you, Hannah,” Emma said. “I know the way.”
She headed down the corridor toward the back of the house, where the family parlor was situated.
“There you are,” exclaimed Mrs. Weston as Emma entered the room. “We saw you through the window. But Emma, you must be chilled to the bone.”
“You must be careful, Mrs. Knightley,” Miss Bates earnestly said. “Mr. Woodhouse would be quite distraught to hear you caught a chill.”
Emma smiled. “I wrapped up very warmly, I assure you. The walk did me good.”
Miss Bates looked much struck by her reply.
“You will hardly believe it, Mrs. Knightley, but I said just the same thing to your father. I was visiting Hartfield before I came to see Mrs. Weston, and your father insisted that I take his carriage. He said that James and the horses wouldn’t mind in the least. But I refused, of course, since I walk all the time.
There is nothing more healthful than a brisk walk. In fact, I said to your father—”
“And how is my father today?” Emma smoothly interjected into the usual torrent of words.
“Oh, your father,” said Miss Bates, properly distracted.
“He’s so happy to have Isabella and the children at Hartfield.
The little ones are such a delightful diversion.
Why, I don’t know when I’ve met better children.
Except for my niece Jane, of course. And you.
I believe you and Jane were the best children I ever knew. ”
Emma repressed a smile. “Jane was always much better behaved than I was. Mrs. Weston can certainly attest to that.”
“You were a delightful child,” her former governess said. “If a trifle headstrong at times.”
Emma shot her a sly grin. “Only a trifle?”
Mrs. Weston took her arm. “Come sit by the fire, dear. Hannah is fetching the tea tray. I’m sure we will all be happy for a cup on such a chilly day.”
Miss Bates bustled in their wake. “Dear me, yes. There is nothing better than a cup of hot tea on a cold winter’s day.
And Randalls serves quite the best tea in Highbury.
I always say that to mother—although Hartfield also serves excellent tea.
No one puts a tea tray together like Serle.
I made that point just the other day to your dear father, Mrs. Knightley. ”
Emma gratefully sank onto the sofa in front of the fireplace.
Nestling into the overstuffed cushions, she extended her feet toward the crackling fire in the grate.
She always enjoyed her visits to Randalls, especially when she could have a quiet chat with Mrs. Weston.
Sadly, that was not to be the case today.
Still, she was determined to make the best of it—for the greater good, of course.
Hannah entered, bearing the tea tray.
“And speaking of tea,” said Mrs. Weston.
Emma pulled herself upright. “Excellent. I’m famished.”
Her former governess frowned. “Emma, when was the last time you ate?”
“I had cup of tea earlier, but I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.”
“Mr. Woodhouse would be very distressed to think of you not having enough to eat,” said Miss Bates, looking worried.
Emma lifted an eyebrow. “Let’s not mention it to him then, shall we?”
“I’m sure Miss Bates will do no such thing,” said Mrs. Weston. “Especially since I’m going to make you a nice plate, and you’re going to eat everything on it.”
Her former governess filled a plate with macaroons, a scone with jam and clotted cream, and a large slice of date cake.
Emma eyed the plate. “That’s quite a lot of food.”
“And you’re to eat all of it.”
She took the plate with a shrug because she could, in fact, eat all of it.
They chatted about innocuous topics, including the children’s health and the shocking state of the chimney in Donwell’s east drawing room. After they’d exhausted those subjects, Emma thought it time to turn the discussion in the appropriate direction.
“Will we be seeing Mr. Weston this afternoon?”
Mrs. Weston shot her a perplexed look. “He went to Leatherhead for Miss Parr’s funeral. Do you not remember? He wished to lend Mr. Knightley whatever assistance he needed.”
Emma grimaced. “I had forgotten, but I’m grateful for Mr. Weston’s kindness, else George would have travelled alone.”
“Did Larkins not go with him, also?” Mrs. Weston asked. “I thought he surely would.”
“None of the Donwell staff went to the funeral,” Emma slowly replied.
Leatherhead was some miles distant, so it made sense that the servants wouldn’t attend. But of course Larkins should have been there. As estate steward, one would have expected him to both represent the staff and support his employer.
The fact that Larkins hadn’t gone with George made her feel oddly uneasy.
She shook it off and forced a smile. “Then I am doubly grateful that Mr. Weston was so kind as to accompany George. I hated the notion of him going alone.”
Naturally, Emma would have been happy to accompany him. But women did not generally attend funerals, particularly women of a certain social standing.
Miss Bates breathed a doleful sigh. “I will never forget the sight of that sweet girl coming to such a dreadful end. And her poor father … how will he ever survive it, Mrs. Knightley?”
Emma felt a twinge of guilt. It had been a terrible shock for all of them, but doubly so for Miss Bates.
“We can only be grateful that Mr. Parr has his sons to support him. But how are you, ma’am? This event has put a strain on you, as well.”
Miss Bates pressed a feeling hand to her chest. “You are so good to think of me, Mrs. Knightley. But I am determined to recover from the shock for Mr. Woodhouse’s sake. It won’t do for him to dwell on such an unhappy subject, and so I must try to turn my mind in happier directions as well.”
As she had on the night of Prudence’s fall, Miss Bates continued to surprise Emma with her unexpected fortitude.
“Very sensible,” Emma said with an encouraging smile.
“I am determined to be as strong as I can be,” Miss Bates stoutly replied. “Not simply for Mr. Woodhouse, but also for you and for Mrs. Isabella Knightley.”
Emma was almost afraid to ask. “And how is my sister these last few days?”
Rather than rattling off her usual somewhat garbled reply, Miss Bates thoughtfully frowned.
“Ma’am?” Emma prompted.
“She’s well enough, I think, although she seems quite distracted. Why, I spoke to her three times this morning, and she failed to hear me.”
Emma had to repress a smile. Isabella had a remarkable ability to ignore those with whom she did not wish to converse, and do it without giving offense.
“I expect Isabella is also feeling the strain of this week’s events,” Mrs. Weston tactfully said. “And missing John, no doubt.”
“We’re all feeling it,” Emma said. “The staff at Donwell are quite distraught—not only about the death itself but the manner of it as well.”
Mrs. Weston grimaced. “We can only hope the memory of this tragic accident will begin to fade, and life will soon return to normal at Donwell.”