Chapter 14 #2
Unlike his father, Guy looked extremely fashionable, sporting a finely tailored coat, a bright yellow vest, and an exceptionally complicated cravat. The outfit should have looked ridiculous in a place like Highbury, but the younger Plumtree carried it off with an easy confidence.
His smile was charmingly rueful as he regarded his father. “Sir, I don’t believe I described that evening as a kick-up. You might also remember that a tragic event concluded the evening.”
The squire grimaced. “My blasted memory again. Mrs. Knightly, you’ll have to allow me to extend both my apologies and my condolences. You must have been utterly aghast by the whole, sad thing.”
“Yes, it was quite awful,” said Emma. “But there’s no need to apologize. None of the guests were aware at the time.”
“As for your memory,” George smoothly interjected, “you must allow me to disagree. I’ve never met a man with a stronger head for detail than you. Over the years, I’ve greatly enjoyed our discussions about estate management.”
Squire Plumtree hooked his thumbs in his collar. “If it’s facts and figures you want, I’m your man. When it comes to social occasions and making decent conversation, though, Guy will tell you I’m quite hopeless.”
Guy waggled a hand. “Perhaps you’re a trifle consumed by business, sir, but since I am equally hopeless when it comes to estate management, I think you might call us square.
” He smiled at Emma. “I find the farming business to be tedious, Mrs. Knightley, much to my dear father’s dismay. I’m rather a disappointment to him.”
“Nonsense, my boy,” his father replied in a jovial tone. “I’ll make a farmer out of you yet. Especially now that I’m in residence at Plumtree Manor for the foreseeable future.”
Guy’s answering smile was affectionate. “And I’m very happy you are, sir.”
Before they could continue their conversation, Mrs. Cole called them to the table and fluttered about as she directed them to their seats.
Emma found herself between Mr. Barlowe and Guy Plumtree, and across from Mrs. Weston.
She’d not yet had a chance to greet her friend, so she simply flashed her a smile.
Conversation would have to wait, since a dinner this formal confined one to chatting only with those on one’s immediate left and right.
Emma was glad to be seated next to Guy. Their curate was another matter, however. Still, she would do her best to make him feel comfortable.
“How are you, Mr. Barlowe?” she asked as the footmen began the soup course. “Well, I hope?”
“Tolerable, Mrs. Knightley.” There was an awkward pause. “Thank you for asking,” he finally added.
Then, with a degree of concentration one would apply to a difficult puzzle, he focused on his soup, clearly determined to stymie further conversation. Emma could almost believe he’d taken a dislike to her but for the fact that he seemed awkward with most everyone.
After the footman had served her, Guy leaned in with a wry smile. “Don’t mind Barlowe, Mrs. Knightley. The poor fellow is terribly shy. Can’t help but wonder why he became a curate in the first place. He can barely bring himself to speak with his own parishioners.”
“Did you know him before he came to Highbury?” she asked. “Perhaps you met at university?”
Guy took a spoonful of soup before answering. “I met him quite by chance shortly after he came to Highbury. Oddly, he took a shine to me, and we’ve been friendly ever since.”
Emma cast a glance at Mr. Barlowe, grimly eating his soup and doing his best to ignore Miss Bates on his other side.
“I’m happy to hear he has made a friend,” she said to Guy.
The young man flashed another wry grin. “I suspect you’re probably thinking we’re strange bedfellows, but there’s no explaining the vagaries of friendship. And he’s truly a decent and kind fellow once one gets to know him.”
Emma could well understand the vagaries of friendship. No one would have ever thought she would become fast friends with Harriet, who was unaware of her own parentage until only last year and was now married to a tenant farmer.
“Not that old Barlowe and I get much chance to see each other,” Guy added. “I don’t get into Highbury often these days, now that my father has returned to Plumtree Manor from London. He’s greatly taken up with the estate and is determined to teach me what I must know to follow in his footsteps.”
She heard a slight tinge of bitterness in his voice. “He sounds like an excellent father.”
“That he is. I am indeed a fortunate son.”
“I imagine you’re only recently down from university,” Emma said. “So it must be quite a change for you, moving back to the country. We’re so quiet here.”
Given his social polish, Emma imagined he cut a dashing figure at Oxford or Cambridge.
“Ah, but I never attended university, ma’am. I’ve always lived at Plumtree Manor and received all my schooling at home. Tutors.” He gave a comical shudder. “They were almost the death of me. Or I of them, more like.”
A clever young man from a good family of means who hadn’t gone to university? While Emma couldn’t help but wonder why, it would be rude to inquire.
“Your father mentioned he is now spending more time at Plumtree Manor,” she said instead. “I take it he was often away from home.”
“As you might recall, he has substantial business concerns in the city. He spent much of my youth in London, looking after his wool business. It is only in the past six months that he’s begun to spend most of his time at the manor.”
Before Emma could ask why his father was now spending more time at home, the covers were removed and the next course served. Guy turned away to reply to a comment from Mrs. Perry, seated on his other side. Emma reminded herself that she should make another effort to speak to their young curate.
“Mr. Barlowe,” she said, “Mr. Plumtree tells me that you struck up a friendship shortly after your arrival in Highbury. That is a happy occurrence.”
The man froze, his cutlery suspended above his plate. Several seconds passed before he resumed cutting a slice of ham into small, identically sized pieces.
“Yes, Plumtree was most kind to take notice of me,” he flatly replied.
What an odd way of expressing it.
“Have you had an opportunity to visit Plumtree Manor?” she asked. “I understand it’s quite a lovely old house. In the style of Queen Anne, I believe.”
“I cannot render an opinion, Mrs. Knightley, since I am not familiar with architectural styles.”
Well.
Emma ate some veal, fricasseed in an excellent sauce, she was happy to note, before trying again.
“I understand from Miss Bates that Mrs. Sutcliffe has been feeling poorly,” she said. “Please do let me know if I can be of any assistance. I should be happy to ask Mr. Perry to visit her, if you think that might be helpful.”
“I’ve not yet had a chance to see her,” came the blighting reply.
Emma frowned. Mrs. Sutcliffe was a widow who’d fallen on difficult times. She and George often sent baskets of foodstuff and any other necessities that might be helpful, as did Mrs. Weston. It was surprising that the village clergyman had yet to visit her.
The curate glanced at her and pulled a slight grimace, which suggested he’d read her expression.
“I intend to visit her tomorrow, though,” he said. “Church matters have kept me very busy. The vestry council, you understand.”
“Of course,” she politely replied.
When the curate again turned to his plate with single-minded focus, Emma gave up.
Glancing to her right, she briefly studied Guy Plumtree, still engaged in easy conversation with Mrs. Perry.
It seemed difficult to believe that such an amiable young man would have established a friendship with a charmless, taciturn stick like Mr. Barlowe.
She was about to turn her attention to her own excellent dinner when she glanced down the table and noticed William Cox staring intently at her.
When their gazes locked, Emma felt her heart skip a beat.
Immediately, William flushed a bright red and turned away, holding up his wineglass as the footmen came round with a fresh bottle of wine.
And the hand that held that wineglass was trembling.
“Dear girl, you’ve barely heard a word I’ve said!” Mrs. Weston exclaimed in a humorously exasperated tone.
Guilty as charged.
“You were telling me that the chimney in your dining room was, ah, misbehaving,” Emma replied.
“As I said, it was more than misbehaving. It filled the entire room with smoke,” her friend dryly noted. “I also recognize that expression on your face. You’re stewing about something.”
Inadvertently, Emma’s gaze darted to the other side of the drawing room, where William Cox sat with Miss Nash in deep conversation.
The ladies had repaired to the drawing room after dinner to allow the gentlemen to remain and enjoy their brandy, but Mr. Cole was not one to linger at the table.
The other guests had arrived as well, so the party had grown lively, especially among the young people.
While not honored with an invitation to dinner, the young people never seemed to mind, since there was always a great deal of music and dancing.
Emma certainly didn’t begrudge them a bit of fun, although it did mean having to mingle with the likes of the Cox sisters, who had arrived with their mother.
Before her marriage, Emma would have been horrified at the notion of socializing with the Coxes. In truth, she was still horrified by it. She hoped, however, that she’d learned not to be quite as judgmental as she’d been in the days before her marriage.
Mrs. Weston leaned in close. “Why are you staring at William Cox?”
Emma affected surprise. “Was I? I didn’t even notice. Tell me, what do you think of Mrs. Cole’s new chimneypiece? I must confess I’m not a fan of Mona Marble. Quite hideous, if you ask me.”
Not surprisingly, her former governess was not fooled. “Emma, I hope you’ve given over the notion that William had anything to do with Prudence’s death.”
“Hush,” Emma hissed by way of reply.