Page 67 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

The squire bowed over her hand. “The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Knightley. I’ve known Mr. Knightley for some years— we farming fellows generally talk, you know. I was most eager to make your acquaintance. My son told me all about your splendid kick-up at Donwell Abbey.”

Emma had to school her features, since that wasnothow she would have described that evening. But Squire Plumtree seemed a sincere man, if perhaps a slight rough about the edges. Neatly dressed, although not in the first style, he presented the very image of a respectable country squire.

Unlike his father, Guy looked extremely fashionable, sporting a finely tailored coat, a bright yellow vest, and an exceptionally complicated cravat. The outfit should have looked ridiculous in a place like Highbury, but the younger Plumtree carried it off with an easy confidence.

His smile was charmingly rueful as he regarded his father. “Sir, I don’t believe I described that evening as a kick-up. You might also remember that a tragic event concluded the evening.”

The squire grimaced. “My blasted memory again. Mrs. Knightly, you’ll have to allow me to extend both my apologies and my condolences. You must have been utterly aghast by the whole, sad thing.”

“Yes, it was quite awful,” said Emma. “But there’s no need to apologize. None of the guests were aware at the time.”

“As for your memory,” George smoothly interjected, “you must allow me to disagree. I’ve never met a man with a stronger head for detail than you. Over the years, I’ve greatly enjoyed our discussions about estate management.”

Squire Plumtree hooked his thumbs in his collar. “If it’s facts and figures you want, I’m your man. When it comes to social occasions and making decent conversation, though, Guy will tell you I’m quite hopeless.”

Guy waggled a hand. “Perhaps you’re a trifle consumed by business, sir, but since I am equally hopeless when it comes to estate management, I think you might call us square.” He smiled at Emma. “I find the farming business to be tedious, Mrs. Knightley, much to my dear father’s dismay. I’m rather a disappointment to him.”

“Nonsense, my boy,” his father replied in a jovial tone. “I’ll make a farmer out of you yet. Especially now that I’m in residence at Plumtree Manor for the foreseeable future.”

Guy’s answering smile was affectionate. “And I’m very happy you are, sir.”

Before they could continue their conversation, Mrs. Cole called them to the table and fluttered about as she directed them to their seats. Emma found herself between Mr. Barlowe and Guy Plumtree, and across from Mrs. Weston. She’d not yet had a chance to greet her friend, so she simply flashed her a smile. Conversation would have to wait, since a dinner this formal confined one to chatting only with those on one’s immediate left and right.

Emma was glad to be seated next to Guy. Their curate was another matter, however. Still, she would do her best to make him feel comfortable.

“How are you, Mr. Barlowe?” she asked as the footmen began the soup course. “Well, I hope?”

“Tolerable, Mrs. Knightley.” There was an awkward pause. “Thank you for asking,” he finally added.

Then, with a degree of concentration one would apply to a difficult puzzle, he focused on his soup, clearly determined to stymie further conversation. Emma could almost believe he’d taken a dislike to her but for the fact that he seemed awkward with most everyone.

After the footman had served her, Guy leaned in with a wry smile. “Don’t mind Barlowe, Mrs. Knightley. The poor fellow is terribly shy. Can’t help but wonder why he became a curate in the first place. He can barely bring himself to speak with his own parishioners.”

“Did you know him before he came to Highbury?” she asked. “Perhaps you met at university?”

Guy took a spoonful of soup before answering. “I met him quite by chance shortly after he came to Highbury. Oddly, he took a shine to me, and we’ve been friendly ever since.”

Emma cast a glance at Mr. Barlowe, grimly eating his soup and doing his best to ignore Miss Bates on his other side.

“I’m happy to hear he has made a friend,” she said to Guy.

The young man flashed another wry grin. “I suspect you’re probably thinking we’re strange bedfellows, but there’s no explaining the vagaries of friendship. And he’s truly a decent and kind fellow once one gets to know him.”

Emma could well understand the vagaries of friendship. No one would have ever thought she would become fast friends with Harriet, who was unaware of her own parentage until only last year and was now married to a tenant farmer.

“Not that old Barlowe and I get much chance to see each other,” Guy added. “I don’t get into Highbury often these days, now that my father has returned to Plumtree Manor from London. He’s greatly taken up with the estate and is determined to teach me what I must know to follow in his footsteps.”

She heard a slight tinge of bitterness in his voice. “He sounds like an excellent father.”

“That he is. I am indeed a fortunate son.”

“I imagine you’re only recently down from university,” Emma said. “So it must be quite a change for you, moving back to the country. We’re so quiet here.”

Given his social polish, Emma imagined he cut a dashing figure at Oxford or Cambridge.

“Ah, but I never attended university, ma’am. I’ve always lived at Plumtree Manor and received all my schooling at home. Tutors.” He gave a comical shudder. “They were almost the death of me. Or I of them, more like.”

A clever young man from a good family of means who hadn’t gone to university? While Emma couldn’t help but wonder why, it would be rude to inquire.