Page 6 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

Mrs. Hodges’s alarmist tendency helped make her an excellent housekeeper. She made sure to prepare for any eventuality, including organizing large parties in less than a week.

“As long as we don’t run out of cider,” said Emma. “It’s been very popular with the gentlemen.”

“Mr. Larkins says we’re in good trim. He held back three half ankers, just in case.”

“Where is Larkins, by the by? I haven’t seen him in over an hour.”

Donwell’s manager was as valuable to the smooth running of the estate as Mrs. Hodges was to the household. Larkins was unflappable, and once set to a task never left it undone. Emma couldn’t think how they’d ever get on without him.

“Mr. Larkins went to the stables to check on the arrangements with the carriages. Then he was going to go back to his cottage. He said he’ll return before the end of the party to help with the cleanup—or if he’s needed before, I’m to send the kitchen boy down to fetch him.”

Larkins dwelled in the steward’s cottage, just outside the gates of the abbey. The separation from the big house suited him, since he had a tendency to prefer solitude. Work was his life, and he only rarely socialized. As far as Emma knew, he’d never once asked George for a holiday to visit friends or family. Even convincing the man to take a day off was something of a chore.

“I envy his peace and quiet,” Emma wryly replied as a gaggle of teachers from Mrs. Goddard’s school squeezed by them, heading for the great hall.

“I do hope Mr. Woodhouse and Miss Bates are pleased, ma’am. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.”

“My father would faint dead away if he saw this mob. Thankfully, Donwell’s library is far enough away that the noise shouldn’t bother him.”

Emma had wanted her father safely ensconced and out of the way in the abbey’s comfortable library. There, he could spend most of the evening with Isabella, who also disliked noisy affairs. Mrs. Bates had joined them, and was very likely having a snooze by the cozy, crackling fire.

“I had Prudence bring Mr. Woodhouse and Mrs. Knightley a tray of stewed chicken and biscuits, along with some of Serle’s custards,” said Mrs. Hodges. “Prudence said Mrs. Weston was there as well, keeping them company.”

That was just like dear Mrs. Weston, Emma’s former governess. For her, the comfort of the Woodhouse family would always be a priority.

“It seems that Prudence is working out very well,” Emma commented, referring to the chambermaid. “She helped me dress for the party.”

“That girl has been a godsend, ma’am. Very hardworking and with the sweetest temper—I wish we could hire three more like her.”

Prudence Parr had been hired only three months ago, after the previous maid had moved on to another establishment. If the girl continued to work out so well, Emma thought to promote her to lady’s maid after she and George moved to Donwell.

Mrs. Hodges ran another gaze over the refreshment tables. “Looks like the punch bowl needs refilling. Where is that dratted Harry when you need him?”

Harry Trotman, Donwell’s sole footman, was the bane of Mrs. Hodges’s existence. Though he seemed a pleasant fellow to Emma and George liked him, their housekeeper was not so generous. She rated the young man as only a step or two above lazy.

“I will let you get back to your work, Mrs. Hodges,” Emma said.

The housekeeper sketched a curtsey. “Of course, ma’am.”

Emma smiled. “And if I see Harry, I’ll send him your way.”

Mrs. Hodges huffed and departed for the back of the house.

Emma strolled through the supper room, chatting with guests and receiving well wishes on her father’s behalf—some delivered with an understandable air of incredulity.

George awaited her at the refreshment tables, where he was conversing with Highbury’s curate, Mr. Barlowe, and a nattily dressed young man whom she didn’t recognize.

“There you are, my dear,” said George. “I hope all is well?”

“Apparently so, according to Mrs. Hodges.”

“Mrs. Hodges is a most estimable woman,” Mr. Barlowe earnestly commented. “Only a few days ago, she sent your footman to the vicarage with a bag of potatoes. And they are excellent potatoes, Mr. Knightley, truly excellent. That you manage to keep them in such prime condition during the winter must be counted a miracle. I cannot think how you do it.”

“My dear fellow, I’m sure Mr. Knightley knows his potatoes very well,” said the other man in a humorous tone. “No need to rave on about them.”

Mr. Barlowe flushed at the good-natured jibe and turned an apologetic glance on George. “Forgive me, sir. I only meant to show my appreciation. You and Mrs. Knightley have been exceedingly kind since my arrival.”

Alan Barlowe had come to Highbury but four months previous, as their new clergyman. A slight man of equally slight means, he struck Emma as suffering from a nervous disposition. He fulfilled his duties well enough, but he was not a social person and occasionally blurted out awkward comments. As for his sermons, he droned his way through them as if they were a highly unpleasant exercise. But he seemed diligent, determined to do his duties no matter his personal afflictions.