Chapter 17 #2
After all were supplied with refreshments, the group scattered. The ladies occupied the benches and watched the children, while George and Mr. Weston stood by the fire discussing the state of the last harvest with Larkins. It was a cheerful scene—and all slightly boring.
Emma knew the fault for that lay with her. There were simply too many matters weighing on her mind, including the stillunanswered questions regarding Prudence’s death.
And now this vexing issue of smugglers. George had tried to reassure her, but she knew what she saw the other night.
Those mysterious lights had been moving away from the house and onto the path to Langham.
Henry had also insisted that he’d seen them much closer to the house, possibly even in the garden.
Emma eyed the distance from the gardens to the old path, mentally adding it up.
It was really quite near to the house, as it ran right by Donwell on the other side of the kitchen gardens— especially if one took a shortcut across the lawn to reach it.
The path proper was just past the stand of oak trees that marked the perimeter of their gardens and lawns.
Perhaps if she took just a quick peek …
She glanced around and put her cup on the table.
“Can I get you another one, Mrs. Knightley?” asked Harry.
“I’m fine. If anyone asks, tell them I’ve gone for a stroll over by the trees to stretch my legs.”
Harry registered a vague alarm. “It’s a bit icy by that path, ma’am.”
“Duly warned.”
She slipped around the other side of the bonfire, thankful that the men were too deeply involved in their discussion of corn prices to notice her.
Following the edge of the lawn, she made her way toward the trees.
When the snow crunched under her boots, she winced and glanced over her shoulder. Fortunately, no one was watching.
Emma slowly circled the trees, looking for footprints or other signs of disturbance. The snow was pristine, glimmering with a coating that was indeed a trifle slippery, as Harry had warned. Treading carefully, she walked toward shrubbery that partially hid the Langham path from view.
Halfway there, she found what she was looking for.
There were footprints in the snow, running from the kitchen garden toward the path.
She bent down to inspect them, trying to ignore her accelerated heartbeat.
The footprints were intermingled, making it challenging to deduce how many sets there actually were.
“Hmm,” she muttered. “That one’s definitely a different boot from that other set … and I think …”
Three.
There appeared to be three sets of—
“Mrs. Knightley, what are you doing?”
Emma bit back a yelp as she jerked upright. Her feet slipped, and she began to flail.
Miss Bates grasped her arm, steadying her. “Oh dear! Please forgive me. When I saw you crouching down like that, I thought something was wrong.”
“No … no, I’m fine.” Emma straightened her hat, which had tipped forward over her eyes. “Miss Bates, what are you doing here?”
The spinster peered at her with concern. “When I noticed you were gone, Harry told me that you were taking a little stroll—” She suddenly glanced down at the ground. “Is that what you were looking at?”
George would not be happy about this. The last thing he would want was rumors starting to spread about smugglers.
“Yes,” she reluctantly replied. “I was a bit surprised to see so many footprints coming from the abbey to the path, but I’m sure it’s nothing.”
Miss Bates frowned. “Actually that is rather odd, especially at this time of year.”
“It’s likely just the grooms taking a shortcut into the village—probably to go to the Crown.”
“I hate to disagree with you, Mrs. Knightley, because you are generally right about everything, but isn’t the shortest way into the village along Randalls Road?”
Miss Bates was more perceptive than Emma could wish at the moment.
She pinned a smile on her face and took her future stepmother by the arm. “I’m sure there’s reasonable explanation—”
Miss Bates interrupted her. “Is that a package under those bushes? Yes, it is. Someone must have dropped it.”
Emma turned to look. There was indeed a package peeking out from under the shrubbery, just off the trail of footprints.
“Apparently,” she said.
She picked her way to the shrubs, with Miss Bates following in her wake, and gingerly retrieved the package. About the size of a brick, it was wrapped in oilcloth and bound with string. It also gave off a distinct, familiar odor.
Cautiously, she lifted it to her nose.
Tobacco.
Emma gritted her teeth. If George had needed proof of smugglers, this would be it.
“What is it? Can you tell?” asked Miss Bates.
Emma thought for a moment. Then she placed the package back where she found it. “Miss Bates, I need you to do something for me.”
“Of course, Mrs. Knightley. But why did you put that back?”
“Because I need Mr. Knightley to see exactly where I found it. Could you please go back and fetch him? Simply tell him that I have something to show him by the Langham Path, and please do it as quietly as you can.”
Miss Bates’s thin features registered consternation. “Mrs. Knightley, you begin to worry me.”
Emma gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing, I’m quite sure, but Mr. Knightley will wish to see this. Do you think you can fetch him without attracting much attention?”
“I’ll try.”
“Thank you.”
Miss Bates picked up her skirts and hurried back toward the pond.
While Emma waited for George, she circled to the other side of the shrubbery.
There was nothing else to be found there, so the only reasonable surmise was that one of the smugglers had accidentally dropped the package.
It was, however, some feet away from the tracks in the snow, almost as if someone had tossed it there.
That made no sense.
And why had the smugglers travelled so close to Donwell in the first place?
Were they coming from the direction of Abbey Mill Farm?
That also seemed strange, since they would have had to travel across fields and wooded land.
Why not just stick to the Langham Path, which would surely be easier for them than trudging across stubbled fields in the snow.
She glanced up when she heard George and Larkins coming to meet her.
Unfortunately, they weren’t alone, as Mr. and Mrs. Weston followed behind.
Emma had complete confidence in Mrs. Weston’s ability to keep a secret, but her husband was a different matter.
While Mr. Weston did try his best to be discrete, it was often simply too high a hill for him to climb.
George’s long strides ate up the distance between them. “I wondered where you’d gone off to. Miss Bates said you found something I needed to see.”
“There’s Mrs. Knightley,” exclaimed Mr. Weston to his wife. “I told you there was nothing to worry about. No crisis in the offing, so no need to rush off.”
Unfortunately, there was another crisis in the offing.
Mrs. Weston leveled an exasperated look at her husband. “I was not inclined to rush off—you were. I only followed to keep you out of Mr. Knightley’s way.”
He grimaced. “Dash it, my dear, I’m only trying to help. Miss Bates was in such a tizzy when she arrived back at the pond, it was hard not imagine at least a minor calamity.”
Emma sighed. “Was she truly in a tizzy?”
“Not really,” George replied. “Just a trifle rattled. She said you found something.”
“I suppose by now everyone knows something is wrong.”
Mr. Weston waved a hand. “Never fear, Emma. The children don’t realize a thing.”
“It’s not the children she’s worried about,” Mrs. Weston dryly replied.
“Dash it,” he muttered.
“Emma, perhaps you can show us what you found,” said George in a long-suffering voice.
“Of course.”
First, she showed him the tracks in the snow. Both George and Mr. Weston crouched down to study them, but Larkins stalked back toward the house, obviously following the trail backward.
Mrs. Weston came over to stand by Emma. “What do you think it means?”
Emma hesitated for a moment. “It would appear we had smugglers crossing Donwell lands a few nights ago.”
Her friend let out a small gasp. “Can you be sure of that?”
Emma pointed at the tracks. “I wasn’t until I found these, but Henry and I both saw lights near the path that night. They appeared to be quite near to Donwell.”
Mr. Weston straightened up from his perusal of the footprints. “Wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve heard rumors for years about land smugglers running through these parts.”
Mrs. Weston gazed at him with dismay. “Why did you never mention it, then?”
“It’s not really a worry, my dear. Flaskers and owlers have been operating around here on and off forever.”
“That’s dreadful.”
He shrugged. “Leave them alone and they’ll leave you alone.”
When a marked expression of disapproval gathered on Mrs. Weston’s features, Emma hastily intervened to forestall a scold.
“What are flaskers and owlers?” she asked
“A flasker traffics in liquor,” replied Mr. Weston. “An owler transports wool.” He pointed to his wife’s burgundy wool pelisse. “Shouldn’t be surprised if that wool didn’t come from an owler’s hands. I thought at the time you snagged it for a very reasonable price.”
“Are you truly suggesting that Mrs. Ford is engaging with smugglers?” Mrs. Weston demanded.
Mr. Weston put up his hands. “I’m not saying that’s the case, m’dear, but it happens more often than you think.”
Poor Mrs. Weston looked aghast.
“There appear to be three distinct sets of tracks,” George said as he joined them.
Emma nodded. “I agree. And, clearly, they were not sticking to the path.”
“No,” George grimly replied. “That obviously rules out the possibility that they were local people taking the path home at night.”
“Perhaps they lived in one of the cottages beyond Abbey Mill Farm and were taking a shortcut,” Mrs. Weston hopefully suggested.
“Across fields when there’s perfectly good road nearby?” Mr. Weston shook his head. “Unlikely.”
“Miss Bates said you found something,” George said to Emma.
She led them to the shrubbery. “I put it back so you could see exactly where I found it.”
George retrieved the bundle.
“What is it?” Mr. Weston asked.
“Tobacco.”
Emma sighed. While she’d been quite certain that’s what it was, it was discouraging to get confirmation.
“Why is it wrapped in oilcloth?” Mrs. Weston asked.
“To keep it dry, should the freetraders be forced to toss their cargo overboard,” explained Mr. Weston. “They return when the coast is clear and retrieve their cargo from the water. Devilish clever of them, really.”
Mrs. Weston rounded on her husband. “I do not comprehend your attitude. You seem completely undisturbed by such criminal behavior.”
Her husband looked surprised. “I wouldn’t say I approve, but the taxes on imports are shocking, which is why smugglers exist in the first place. A body can hardly afford a decent tin of tea these days without paying a king’s ransom.”
“It’s just a shame the smugglers feel the need to conduct their business on my lands,” George sardonically commented.
Mr. Weston winced. “Sorry, old man. I wasn’t thinking of it that way.”
“Perhaps you should,” Mrs. Weston tartly said. “The very notion of smugglers at Donwell makes me feel quite uneasy.”
“I suspect this was a one-time occurrence,” said George. “Freetraders are greatly inclined to avoid contact with anyone who might cause them trouble, especially the local magistrate.”
“We can only hope,” Mrs. Weston replied. “Does Isabella know about this?”
Emma glanced toward the pond. Her sister was now marching toward them, agitation evident in every step. “I think she does now.”
Larkins was also on his way back, and he and Isabella converged on their group at the same time.
“Why didn’t you tell me that Henry saw smugglers in the back garden?” Isabella exclaimed in markedly shrill tones. “What if they had seen him? You could have all been murdered in your beds!”
Emma tried to capture her sister’s flailing hands. “Dearest, I assure you, there was never any danger. We couldn’t even confirm they were smugglers at the time, which is why we didn’t tell you.”
Isabella flapped her hands even harder. “Henry says they were in the back garden! Why would anyone be that close to the house?”
George intervened. “We don’t know that they were. As I explained to Henry, it can be difficult to ascertain distance at night. One might think a light is closer than it appears.”
Emma suddenly frowned. “Isabella, how did you find out?”
“Miss Bates said you found something, and Henry wanted to go see what it was. When I asked him why, he told me that he’d seen smugglers.”
That didn’t sound like Emma’s nephew. “Henry actually told you that he saw smugglers?”
Isabella hesitated. “Well … no. He said he saw lights that night. It was Harry who told Miss Bates it might have been smugglers.”
George let out a sigh. Larkins muttered under his breath.
“And why does your footman know about smugglers and I don’t?” asked Isabella, winding herself up again.
Emma’s patience started to wear a trifle thin. “As I said, we didn’t actually know it was smugglers.”
“My dear, why don’t you take Isabella and Mrs. Weston back to the pond,” George said. “I’m sure the others must be wondering what we’re doing.”
She flashed him a grateful smile. “How rude of us to abandon our guests. I’ll take everyone back to the house to warm up.”
“That would be wise.”
Emma cast Mrs. Weston a significant glance. Her friend gave an understanding nod and then took Isabella by the arm and led her back to the pond, speaking in reassuring tones.
“What are you going to do?” Emma asked her husband.
“I’d like to follow these tracks to see which direction they continue in.”
“I’ll come with you,” Mr. Weston quickly volunteered.
The poor man, having finally realized he’d plunged himself into hot water with his wife, had clearly deemed it wise to avoid her for a spell.
“Emma, please do your best to quell any gossip,” said George. “It would be most unhelpful at this juncture.”
“I’ll try,” she replied. “But I fear that cat is well and truly out of the bag.”
George briefly cupped her cheek with his gloved hand. “We’ll sort it out, my darling. Never fear.”
She dredged up a smile for him before trudging back through the snow. Another party with another disastrous outcome. Still, at least no one had died, and for that she was profoundly grateful.
As she made her way back to the others, Emma decided there would be no more parties at Donwell Abbey for quite some time.