Page 9 of Murder at Donwell Abbey

Mrs. Weston laughed. “I’ll come with you. We’ll have a chat along the way.”

“I feel as if we’ve barely exchanged a word in a week,” Emma replied as she linked arms with her friend.

After the death of Emma’ s mother, Mrs. Weston—then Miss Taylor—had taken up residence at Hartfield as governess, handed the care of two grief-stricken girls. She’d managed Emma and Isabella with tender affection, becoming almost a second mother to them. Once Isabella married John, Emma and Miss Taylor had grown ever closer. And although it had been a day of great joy when her beloved governess became Mrs. Weston, there was sorrow, too. Emma had lost her anchor and for some months she’d floated adrift.

Thankfully, she’d found her course in time. Falling in love with George, and having that love so generously returned, had brought Emma to safe harbor.

“You must forgive me. I’ve been so busy with my daughter.”

“How is little Anna?” Emma asked. “It sounded like she had a dreadful cold.”

“Mr. Perry says she is well on the mend, even though Mr. Weston is inclined to doubt him.”

“Then Mr. Weston should have another chat with our good apothecary tonight to assuage his worries. Mr. Perry has been here all evening. Father insisted he come early to oversee the refreshments, so as to ascertain that nothing harmful would be served.”

“I hope you had the foresight to hide the cakes.”

“Mrs. Hodges was—”

She broke off when Prudence Parr hurried toward them from the great hall. The girl looked terribly flustered, with her mobcap askew and her normally rosy cheeks bleached white. She almost rushed past them until Emma put out a hand.

“Prudence! Is everything all right?”

The maid jerked to a halt. “Oh, Mrs. Knightley … excuse me, madam, I didn’t see you there. Or you, Mrs. Weston. Forgive me.”

She bobbed an off-kilter curtsy. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she clutched one hand into the starched fabric of her apron, wrinkling it. Her entire attitude suggested one of considerable distress.

“My dear child,” Mrs. Weston kindly said, “whatever is the matter?”

“I … oh, nothing,” she stammered.

A thought darted into Emma’s head. “Has someone been pestering you, Prudence?”

Like William Cox?

It was entirely possible that William, in his cups, might have importuned Prudence. Some males, especially in these social settings, were notorious for their shabby treatment of female servants. It was a state of affairs Emma had always despised.

Prudence’s gaze slid sideways. “No, nothing like that, Mrs. Knightley. I’m … it’s just the migraine. I’m very prone to them. Mrs. Hodges said I should go up to my room and lie down until it passes.”

Emma had never heard mention of Prudence suffering from migraines. Still, the girl looked quite ill. “Yes, you should. I’m sorry you’re not well.”

Prudence wrung her hands in her apron. “I apologize, Mrs. Knightley, and with so much work to be done tonight.”

Emma patted her shoulder. “We have more than enough staff for tonight. Take as much time as you need.”

The girl heaved a grateful sigh. “Thank you, madam. It’s very kind of you.”

Then she picked up her skirts and all but fled in the direction of the back stairs.

Mrs. Weston grimaced. “I hope Prudence is not coming down with something worse than a headache. She was waiting on your father and Mrs. Bates earlier in the evening.”

“Which we willnotmention to Father. But I’ll ask Mrs. Hodges to check on Prudence later.”

As they approached the hall, the chatter of voices and the gay notes of a country-dance loudly swelled.

“What a din,” exclaimed Mrs. Weston.

“Understandable, since most of the—”