Page 121 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

Miss Bates barely seemed to hear her. “It’s all such a muddle, Mrs. Knightley. What are we to do now?”

“I must speak to my husband. He’ll devise an appropriate response.”

Once, that is, George got through scolding her for haring off on her own yet again.

CHAPTER23

Emma found herself awake as dawn slipped past the draperies. As she lay in bed, she reflected on how quickly one could become accustomed to a bedmate after a lifetime of sleeping alone, especially when that person was the beloved of one’s heart.

Waking without George was a particularly dreary way to start the day.

Yesterday, after hearing her report about William Cox, her husband had decided to leave for London that very afternoon. Matters in Highbury were coming to a head, and he wished to discuss these latest developments with John, along with the possibility of hiring a Bow Street Runner to help investigate the case and clear Larkins’s good name.

He would also transmit the new information to Mr. Clarke. Thankfully, George had agreed to keep William’s name out of it, but he acknowledged that the revenue agent’s primary focus was on catching smugglers, not murderers. Although identifying the smugglers could only help Larkins’s cause, there was still the matter of Prudence’s bloody mobcap and other incriminating evidence. If Mr. Clarke failed to run the smugglers to ground before the murder trial, Larkins would almost certainly go to the gallows.

Time was racing away from them.

During their discussion, George had delivered an expected and rather pithy lecture on the perils of amateurs investigating murder. Though she’d pointed out that, strictly speaking, she’d been investigating smuggling not murder, George had been unimpressed by her logic and had said so in equally pithy terms. Still, he’d taken the information to heart—as she’d known he would—and had acted upon it by planning his departure for London.

Of course, his excellent decision-making abilities meant that Emma found herself standing morosely under Hartfield’s portico a short time later as she watched her husband’s carriage roll down the drive. Thankfully, they’d parted on mostly excellent terms. George had pulled her into his arms for a lingering kiss and embrace, but had rather ruined the moment by admonishing her to stay out of trouble until his return. Emma had considered pointing out that trouble seemed to findherrather than the other way around, but had refrained in the interests of domestic harmony.

After staring up at the canopy of her bed for twenty minutes, Emma was still debating whether to climb out from under her warm blankets when the maid entered the room to light the fire. She rose and then washed, shivering slightly in the morning chill, and donned her warmest kerseymere gown. Father wouldn’t be down for at least another hour, so she would have time to think about what to do while she waited for news from George. For one thing, she should probably visit Donwell this afternoon to check on the servants. With George now gone for at least three days, Mrs. Hodges and company were more in need of support and guidance than ever.

After coming downstairs, she encountered Simon on her way to the breakfast parlor.

“Good morning, ma’am,” he said. “Would you prefer coffee this morning? I just brought tea in for Mr. Woodhouse.”

Emma couldn’t hide her surprise. “My father is up already?”

“Yes, he rang for me almost an hour ago,” replied Simon in a resigned tone.

As one of Hartfield’s longest-serving staff and Father’s de facto valet, Simon knew the old dear almost as well as she did.

She sighed. “He’s fretting about the smuggling, isn’t he?”

“A bit, ma’am.”

“I’ll have coffee, then.” Emma had a feeling that tea wouldn’t be a strong enough brace for the day ahead.

“Right away, Mrs. Knightley.”

She pinned a bright smile on her face as she entered the breakfast parlor. “Good morning, dearest. You’re up very early.”

Her father, who’d been gloomily perusing a letter, glanced up. “I feel very discomposed, my dear. I cannot stop thinking both about those dreadful smugglers and poor Larkins sitting in that damp prison. He’s bound to come down with a dreadful chill, and you know how dangerous they can be if left untreated.”

“Larkins is very robust, and we’ve made sure he has everything he needs to stay healthy. Don’t forget that George has gone to London especially to procure help for Larkins. He and John will manage it, I promise.”

He looked even more ruffled. “But, Emma, London is very damp at this time of year, and George is not used to London weather. I do hope he remembered to pack his flannel scarf and waistcoat.”

George had never worn a flannel waistcoat in his life, and Emma suspected he never would.

“Is that a letter from Isabella?” she asked in an attempt to divert his fretting thoughts. “What does she have to say?”

“She never complains, as you know, but I surmise that she finds London quite dreary at the moment, especially with John working so much.” He sighed. “I cannot help thinking that she and the children would be better off staying with us right now. City air is so injurious to one’s health in the winter.”

Emma studied his doleful expression. “Father, would you like to write to Isabella and ask her to come back to Hartfield with the children? I should certainly be glad for their company.”

He perked up. “Do you think she would do that?” Then he hesitated. “But what of the smugglers? Is it safe? We cannot put them in danger, Emma, especially not the children.”