Chapter 17
The day had dawned bright and clear, with frost to nip the nose and not a trace of wind. In other words, it was the perfect winter’s day.
“Drat,” she muttered.
George glanced up from his breakfast. “Is something amiss, my dear?”
“No,” she crossly replied. “It’s a beautiful day.”
“So, no reason to cancel our skating party, I take it.”
She returned to the dining table and sank into the chair next to him. “No, and I’m a dreadful person for even wishing we could. But with everything that’s been going on, it seems such a bother. And now smugglers, on top of it all.”
“Be assured that Mr. Clarke and I have everything in hand.”
George had ridden to Leatherhead yesterday to meet Mr. Algernon Clarke, the revenue agent for the Crown.
“I thought you said he wasn’t terribly helpful.”
“He wasn’t unhelpful, either. Mr. Clarke simply reiterated that the old Langham Path hadn’t been used as a smuggling route for some time, which is not to say there hasn’t been any activity in the district.
He felt confident, however, that there was no cause for alarm for Donwell or the surrounding estates.
“That’s reassuring, I suppose,” Emma said.
“Mr. Clarke also asked me to keep him apprised of any new developments—not that I expect any.”
“I hope you’re right. We have enough to worry about these days without dangerous criminals larking about the village.”
“Generally speaking, criminals do not lark, Emma.”
When she stuck her tongue out, George grinned.
“You know very well what I mean,” she said.
“I do. But you’re not to fret, my Emma. The skating party will serve as a happy diversion for everyone, including you.”
“Dearest, you always have an answer for everything. It’s very annoying.”
“I live to serve. And annoy.”
She had to laugh. “You are the opposite of annoying, George. In fact, you spoil me terribly, and it’s no credit to my character that I could complain about a silly skating party. Speaking of which, I should get down to the kitchen to see how the preparations are proceeding.”
“I understand the Westons are coming, as well as Harriet and Robert.”
“Yes. Now, if you’ll excuse—”
The door flew open and Henry pelted into the room. “Mr. Larkins and I just went down to check the pond. He says it’s perfect for skating, and he sharpened my skates so they’re perfect, too.”
Emma ruffled his hair, his boyish enthusiasm lifting her spirits. “I have little doubt you’ll outskate everyone today. Now, sit with your uncle and have some breakfast. I’m going to the kitchen to check on our progress.”
She spent the rest of the morning overseeing the party preparations, assisted by Larkins and Mrs. Hodges.
Harry and the grooms had set up a large trestle table by the pond, and Simon arrived with two enormous baskets of baked goods and treats from Hartfield’s kitchens.
By the time Larkins built up a fire off to the side, the day was well advanced and the guests would soon be arriving.
Garbed in her warmest pelisse, a wool hat, and her sturdiest boots, Emma made her way to the pond at the base of the garden.
It really was a beautiful day, with the crust of snow a gleaming white, the sky as blue as periwinkle, and the sun reflecting off the mirrored pond.
The bonfire merrily blazed, and the trestle table presented a cornucopia of cakes, pastries, tarts, and pots of hot chocolate and mulled wine.
Emma inspected everything with a critical eye before giving Harry, who stood at attention behind the table, an approving nod.
“Everything looks excellent, Harry,” she said.
The footman grinned. “Thank you, ma’am. If you wouldn’t mind saying a word to Mrs. Hodges, I’d be grateful. She was a mite peeved with me for dropping a pitcher of chocolate on the floor this morning.”
Emma mentally winced. Given the cost of chocolate, she could well imagine the housekeeper’s response.
Larkins turned from the fire and scowled at the hapless fellow. “Don’t be bothering Mrs. Knightley with your foolishness. Go up to the stables and fetch that other bench. We’ll need it for the skaters.”
“Sorry, Mr. Larkins. I forgot.”
“You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached to your shoulders,” Larkins sternly replied.
“Happen you’re right, sir,” Harry said with a comical grimace.
He hurried off in the direction of the stables.
“I apologize, Mrs. Knightley,” said Larkins.
“Harry means well, though I know he’s something of a trial for you and Mrs. Hodges.”
“Aye, but we’ll manage.” He breathed out a sigh. “It’s Prudence we’re really missing.”
The flash of sorrow that passed over the man’s features instantly aged him.
Emma patted his arm. “I know. She was dear to all of you.”
Larkins cleared his throat, embarrassed at his display of emotion. “Thank you, ma’am. I think your guests are arriving,” he added before swiftly moving to tend to the fire.
Emma went to greet the first arrivals. Harriet and Robert Martin led the way, with Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates following.
Miss Bates fluttered around the trestle table, exclaiming her delight. “Mrs. Knightley, I vow this is the prettiest scene one could imagine. Why, it’s like something out of a rousing medieval tale. I can practically see the jousting knights in my head.”
Since many medieval tales involved an irritating degree of mayhem, Emma could only hope their day would pass more peacefully.
“You’re very kind,” Emma said. “Did you come with Isabella and the children? Are they up at the house?”
“I thought to come with them. But Mr. Woodhouse was fretting a bit over the children, so I came ahead to tell you they would be late.”
Mrs. Weston looked concerned. “Did you walk all the way from Hartfield? Miss Bates, you must be frozen.”
The spinster flapped her gloved hands. “Nothing of the sort. I walk very quickly, you know, and I have these splendid boots that Jane sent for Christmas. I am as warm as toast.”
“Still, you must come by the fire,” said Emma. “And let me fetch you a cup of mulled wine.”
“I’ll do it, Mrs. Knightley,” Harriet cheerfully offered.
“Thank you, dear. Harry should be returning soon. I cannot imagine what’s taking him so long.”
A sardonic snort coming from the direction of the bonfire signaled Larkins’s thoughts on the matter.
Mrs. Cole and her daughters then joined them, the girls chattering excitedly while their mother profusely thanked Emma for the splendid treat. Robert Martin soon took command, helping the girls and Henry put on their skates before he shepherded them onto the ice.
“Where is Mr. Weston?” Emma asked Mrs. Weston.
“Here he is, coming with Isabella and the children.”
Bella and John raced across the lawn as quickly as their little legs could carry them. Mr. Weston escorted Isabella, while George brought up the rear. Harry, several yards behind, lugged the extra bench.
After greeting the children, Emma shooed them off to Robert and Larkins. She went to hug her sister, who was charmingly attired in a hunter green pelisse and matching hat. Isabella appeared more cheerful today, with color in her cheeks and a smile for the other guests.
“Such a lovely pelisse!” Emma exclaimed. “I’m eaten up with envy.”
Her sister blushed, her cheeks turning rosy. Emma wished Isabella’s annoying husband were here, so he could be reminded how lucky he was to have such a sweet wife.
“I bought it in a shop in New Bond Street, just before Christmas. I do think it’s rather nice.”
“Ah, a London milliner,” said Mrs. Weston with a twinkle. “We provincials can’t possibly compete.”
Miss Bates clasped her hands together. “You outshine us all—and that is truly saying something, given that Mrs. Knightley and Mrs. Weston are always dressed with such style. I could look at their lovely gowns forever.”
“Nonsense,” Mr. Weston heartily cut in. “You all look firstrate. Then again, I was never one for frills and furbelows. Leave the fashion to the ladies, I say.” He elbowed George. “Isn’t that right?”
“I would agree that all our guests are charmingly attired,” George tactfully agreed.
“Mr. Knightley, you are always so kind,” said Miss Bates. “But I am like a little brown sparrow amongst a flock of kingfishers.”
That set off a round of good-natured denials. Emma took the opportunity to speak to her sister.
“Did Father try to talk you out of coming?” she wryly asked.
“I had to promise I would take the children inside at the first sign of a chill.”
“No fear of anyone taking a chill,” Mr. Weston said, overhearing them. “Not with the capital bonfire Larkins is tending.” He slapped George forcefully on the back, making him slide a bit in the snow. “Well done, Knightley. Leave it to you to do everything in style.”
Mrs. Weston frowned. “My dear, you will knock Mr. Knightley off his feet.”
Now that Harry was back, Emma encouraged the others to avail themselves of the refreshments. The ladies gratefully accepted steaming cups of hot chocolate, while the men partook of the mulled wine, as did Emma. While she rarely imbibed this early in the afternoon, she rather felt she’d earned it.
Her sister raised her eyebrows. “You know Father’s opinion on mulled wine. He thinks it much too sweet. Almost as bad as cake.”
“I’m aware,” she dryly replied. “I have this argument with him every Christmas. Nevertheless, I would suggest that it’s a great deal more medicinal than hot chocolate.”
“Far be it from me to gainsay Mr. Woodhouse,” Miss Bates earnestly said. “But Mother is quite fond of mulled wine. And, of course, Mrs. Knightley—Mrs. George Knightley, that is— would never do anything inappropriate.”
When George started to laugh before quickly changing it to a cough, Emma widened her eyes at him.
“Did you wish to say something, dearest?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied.