Chapter 28
“Father, would you like a cup of tea?” Emma asked. “I’m sure it won’t be long now. George and John should be home from Guildford any moment.”
Her father emitted a doleful sigh. “I don’t know that I have the stomach for tea, my dear. To know that they must visit that vile prison harrows me to the bone. Prisons are such unhealthy places, and on top of that they must ride home in this dreadful weather.”
“I’m sure they’ll be careful,” she soothingly replied. “Don’t forget they took the carriage, so they’ll be protected from the weather.”
Father looked even more alarmed. “But Emma, James and the horses! It’s such a long way to travel from Highbury to Guildford. James will not be happy.”
“They travelled in John’s carriage, remember?” she patiently replied. “John’s coachman and horses are quite used to longer trips.”
“That’s true, Father,” Isabella said from the sofa where she sat with Henry. “Highbury is much closer to Guildford than it is to London.”
“If you say so, my dear. Nevertheless, I will not be easy until George and John are back here and we can put this murder business behind us. I have not been able to sleep these past two nights, knowing that a ruthless killer had been wandering the halls of Donwell Abbey. Thank goodness he didn’t find you, Emma, and that our dear little Henry was able to escape his clutches. ”
“Yes, very lucky,” Emma replied.
She exchanged a furtive glance with her sister.
In describing the dramatic events at Donwell, Emma had been deliberately vague, particularly regarding Guy Plumtree’s threat to shoot her.
After Isabella had recovered from her shock on first hearing of the events—a shock that had required Emma to deploy both smelling salts and sherry—she had readily agreed that the goriest details should be withheld from their father.
Of course, all would eventually come out at the murder trial, but that was a worry for another day.
Isabella had reacted quite differently when it came to her son, however.
Much to Henry’s mortification, his mother had torn a strip off Emma for placing the boy in danger, and then she had dramatically vowed to never again let Henry out of her sight.
It had required Mrs. Weston’s intervention to soothe Isabella’s rattled nerves and, when he’d arrived at Hartfield the next day, John’s robust defense of his son as a brave little chap who’d saved the day.
Miss Bates, sitting on the settee with Mrs. Weston, raised a hesitant hand.
“Perhaps Mr. Woodhouse would prefer a ratafia, Mrs. Knightley,” she said.
“Naturally, Hartfield’s tea is superior to anything one could imagine—although of course the tea at Randalls is excellent, too, Mrs. Weston.
One could never say anything less. But a nice glass of ratafia might be just the thing to calm Mr. Woodhouse’s nerves.
I’ve also been quite unsettled by these dreadful events and would not be averse to a small glass as well. ”
Mr. Weston, who’d retreated to a corner of Hartfield’s drawing room to read a letter from his son, put it aside and rose to his feet.
“Capital idea, Miss Bates,” he said. “A little glass of something sounds just the thing. I’ll be happy to fetch and carry for you and Mr. Woodhouse.”
“And perhaps pour a brandy for yourself while you’re at it?” his wife wryly asked.
“Can’t blame me, my dear,” he mildly countered. “All this waiting around is getting on my poor nerves, too.”
Emma cast him a wry smile. “I doubt that anything rattles your nerves, sir.”
The fact that he’d rolled up Guy Plumtree while hardly batting an eyelash was proof of that, as was his steady presence in the aftermath of both the fire and Guy’s arrest. As Emma could have predicted, Constable Sharpe had been less than helpful in dealing with a chaotic situation, so Mr. Weston’s calm demeanor had been invaluable.
He shook his head. “I beg to differ, my dear. When I came upon that blasted Plumtree fellow in the long gallery, holding a—”
Mr. Weston broke off when Isabella jumped to her feet, almost knocking over the small tea table in front of her.
“I think I’ll have a brandy, too,” she exclaimed. “Emma, would you like one?”
Emma had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. Isabella loathed brandy.
“I’d prefer a sherry,” she managed to reply.
“Good, I’ll help fetch everyone’s drink.”
Isabella promptly seized Mr. Weston’s arm and dragged him off to the sideboard, no doubt reminding him in urgent whispers that Father was not to hear the details of Emma’s near escape.
Mr. Woodhouse frowned. “I didn’t know that Isabella partook of brandy. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her drink it.”
“Perhaps it’s a newly acquired taste,” Emma said.
“Mama drinks brandy all the time at home,” Henry put in. “She says it helps her sleep.”
Emma blinked at that unexpected revelation. “Does she now? Well, good for her.”
Father peered at her. “Emma, why is everyone acting so strangely? I do not approve.”
Thankfully, she was spared a reply when she heard voices out in the hall. A moment later, the door opened and George and John entered the room.
Emma hurried to meet them. “Finally! We were wondering if you’d ever return.”
George greeted her with a smile and an encompassing embrace.
He’d been deeply shaken by her near-fatal encounter three nights ago, even though she’d done her best to assure him that she’d suffered no lasting ill effects.
As she’d expected, her dear husband had blamed himself for not being there to protect her, as well as for failing to see that Harry was the snake in their little garden all along.
It had taken a concerted effort on Emma’s part to assure him that she was perfectly well.
George had responded quite passionately, with the happy result of proving that all her various parts were still in excellent working order.
He dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head. “I apologize for the delay. The interview with Plumtree took longer than expected but was fruitful.” He glanced at his brother, who’d gone to greet his wife and son. “Thanks to John.”
“Of course, we want to hear all about it,” Emma said. “But first, come sit and have tea and something to eat.”
“John and I supped at an inn in Guildford before we returned.”
Father shook his head in disapproval “One should avoid inns whenever possible, George. Mr. Perry often reminds us that they’re very unhealthy places to eat. It would have been better if you’d waited until you returned to Hartfield.”
John, who’d settled next to his son on the sofa, glanced over with a sardonic expression. “Actually, the jailer offered to feed us, but George and I decided an inn would provide a more pleasant atmosphere and better food.”
Father stared at him, obviously struck dumb at the notion of eating prison food.
Isabella hastened over, handing the poor old dear a glass. “Here’s your ratafia, Father. By the by, I’m sure John was only teasing.”
“I wasn’t,” John replied in his usual blunt manner. “And the food at the inn was rather good, thanks to George. Poor fellow has spent quite a bit of time in Guildford this last year, what with the murders and such. So now he knows all the best places to eat.”
“George,” exclaimed Father, extremely perturbed, “I cannot believe you frequent unknown inns in so reckless a manner. Who knows what sorts of contagion you might be exposed to in such establishments?”
Emma directed a warning glance at her brother-in-law, daring him to contradict what she was about to say. “John is undoubtedly teasing, Father. Now, please tell us what happened, George. We’ve been on tenterhooks all day. Were you able to secure Larkins’s release from prison?”
George nodded. “We were, thanks to Mr. Clarke. Constable Sharpe was still inclined to hold Larkins on smuggling charges, but Clarke is satisfied that he was an innocent victim in all this. We were able to bring Larkins home with us. He’s now safely back at Donwell and most happy to be there.
” He smiled at Emma. “He’s especially grateful to you, my dear, and will be presenting his thanks to you in person. ”
“He would have been most welcome to join us tonight,” she replied. “If anyone deserves to be feted, it’s poor Larkins.”
“I did make that offer, but I suspect he’s feeling overwhelmed at the moment and in need of some peace and quiet. Mrs. Hodges has him well in hand, though. She will see to his comfort.”
“Dear Mr. Larkins,” exclaimed Miss Bates. “What a terrible trial for him. One quite wishes to throw him a party to make up for his dreadful experience.”
Emma was done with parties for a good while.
“And Mrs. Knightley also deserves to be feted,” added Miss Bates, beaming at her. “You have been so brave through all of this—a true Joan of Arc, or … or even a female St. George, slaying dragons. Your courage at the abbey that dreadful night! You’re an inspiration to all of us.”
Mr. Woodhouse held up his hands. “I beg you, my dear Hetty, do not encourage her. I do not approve of this new habit of investigating murders—or smuggling, for that matter.”
“Father, it’s not as if I go looking for murders to investigate,” Emma protested.
“I’m quite sure her investigating days are now over,” George firmly said. “Isn’t that right, my dear?”
She rounded her eyes at him. “Of course, dearest. And it’s not as if I was investigating in the conventional sense. Miss Bates and I simply happened to stumble upon the occasional clue, now and again.”
“Mrs. Knightley, you do not do yourself justice,” said Miss Bates. “You would make a splendid investigator. Except women aren’t supposed to be investigators, are they? I find it all rather confusing, because Mrs. Knightley is so much better at it than Constable Sharpe.”
Emma made a point of avoiding her husband’s ironic eye. “Thank you, ma’am. However, I believe the true hero in all of this is Henry. He was very brave in running to get Mr. Weston’s help.”