Page 42 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

They chatted about innocuous topics, including the children’s health and the shocking state of the chimney in Donwell’s east drawing room. After they’d exhausted those subjects, Emma thought it time to turn the discussion in the appropriate direction.

“Will we be seeing Mr. Weston this afternoon?”

Mrs. Weston shot her a perplexed look. “He went to Leatherhead for Miss Parr’s funeral. Do you not remember? He wished to lend Mr. Knightley whatever assistance he needed.”

Emma grimaced. “I had forgotten, but I’m grateful for Mr. Weston’s kindness, else George would have travelled alone.”

“Did Larkins not go with him, also?” Mrs. Weston asked. “I thought he surely would.”

“None of the Donwell staff went to the funeral,” Emma slowly replied.

Leatherhead was some miles distant, so it made sense that the servants wouldn’t attend. But of course Larkins should have been there. As estate steward, one would have expected him to both represent the staff and support his employer.

The fact that Larkins hadn’t gone with George made her feel oddly uneasy.

She shook it off and forced a smile. “Then I am doubly grateful that Mr. Weston was so kind as to accompany George. I hated the notion of him going alone.”

Naturally, Emma would have been happy to accompany him. But women did not generally attend funerals, particularly women of a certain social standing.

Miss Bates breathed a doleful sigh. “I will never forget the sight of that sweet girl coming to such a dreadful end. And her poor father … how will he ever survive it, Mrs. Knightley?”

Emma felt a twinge of guilt. It had been a terrible shock for all of them, but doubly so for Miss Bates.

“We can only be grateful that Mr. Parr has his sons to support him. But how are you, ma’am? This event has put a strain on you, as well.”

Miss Bates pressed a feeling hand to her chest. “You are so good to think of me, Mrs. Knightley. But I am determined to recover from the shock for Mr. Woodhouse’s sake. It won’t do for him to dwell on such an unhappy subject, and so I must try to turn my mind in happier directions as well.”

As she had on the night of Prudence’s fall, Miss Bates continued to surprise Emma with her unexpected fortitude.

“Very sensible,” Emma said with an encouraging smile.

“I am determined to be as strong as I can be,” Miss Bates stoutly replied. “Not simply for Mr. Woodhouse, but also for you and for Mrs. Isabella Knightley.”

Emma was almost afraid to ask. “And how is my sister these last few days?”

Rather than rattling off her usual somewhat garbled reply, Miss Bates thoughtfully frowned.

“Ma’am?” Emma prompted.

“She’s well enough, I think, although she seems quite distracted. Why, I spoke to her three times this morning, and she failed to hear me.”

Emma had to repress a smile. Isabella had a remarkable ability to ignore those with whom she did not wish to converse, and do it without giving offense.

“I expect Isabella is also feeling the strain of this week’s events,” Mrs. Weston tactfully said. “And missing John, no doubt.”

“We’re all feeling it,” Emma said. “The staff at Donwell are quite distraught—not only about the death itself but the manner of it as well.”

Mrs. Weston grimaced. “We can only hope the memory of this tragic accident will begin to fade, and life will soon return to normal at Donwell.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Emma replied. “There are aspects of Prudence’s death that can only be described as perplexing.”

Miss Bates looked puzzled, but Mrs. Weston’s expression began to transform into one of foreboding.

Her former governess knew her too well.

“Whatever can you mean, Mrs. Knightley?” asked Miss Bates.

Emma ran her finger around the rim of her teacup. “It seems that Prudence might have been keeping secrets.”