Page 117 of Murder in Highbury

“Is he well enough to discuss the situation?”

“I left him reading in his chair, and he seemed quite content. I do hate the idea of upsetting him, though. He’ll be mortified if he did this to himself.”

George held out his hand. “I know, but it must be done so the same mistake cannot happen again.”

She briefly squeezed his fingers, drawing comfort from the warmth and strength of his grip, and then opened the door.

“You have a visitor, Father,” she announced in a bright tone as they entered the room.

Her father, seated by the fireplace in his dressing gown and cozily wrapped in a cashmere shawl, looked up from his book with a gentle smile.

“Ah, George. I was hoping you would come to see me. I must apologize for putting everyone to such trouble. My poor Emma spent the entire night by my bedside.” He reached for her hand. “I only hope she does not fall ill from holding such a strenuous vigil.”

She stooped to press a quick kiss to his forehead. “You’re not to worry about me, dearest. I’m perfectly fine.”

“I insist that you rest this afternoon, my dear. George, tell Emma that she must rest.”

“Not to worry, sir. I will see that she does so.”

“Father, do you feel well enough to talk about what happened last night?”

He sighed. “George, will you please fetch Emma a chair and put it next to mine, right by the fire? I do not wish her to catch a chill.”

Emma would have preferred to open a window, since the handsome room was quite warm enough, even without a fire.

As befitting the private domain of Hartfield’s master, the bedroom was the largest in the house. After Isabella married John and moved to London, Emma had undertaken a flurry of renovations, including papering her father’s bedroom and installing a new carpet and draperies in lovely shades of cream, gold, and cerulean blue. Ever resistant to change, Father had naturally objected. But no major refurbishing had been undertaken since the death of her mother, and Emma had found her father’s room to be a trifle gloomy. Now, though, it was a cheerful, comfortable retreat, calculated to lift his sometimes depressed spirits.

Still, as she got a good look at the curtains in the bright morning light, she thought the gold fabric was looking a little faded. Perhaps it was time—

“My dear?” George said in a quizzical tone as he set a padded rosewood chair next to her father. “Would you like to sit?”

“Forgive me, George. I was woolgathering.”

Her father sighed again. “About me, I suppose. What a trial I am to you both.”

She winced, embarrassed that she’d started to mentally redecorate the room instead of attending to her father. But one couldn’t spendallone’s time fretting about one crisis or another. Doing so would be a very tiresome way to conduct one’s life.

“You are never a trial,” she said as she took her seat. “And we’re very relieved that you’re ever so much better this morning.”

“Perry counseled that I am not to leave my room until after luncheon, and to avoid any strenuous activity for the rest of the day. So, I’m afraid we will have to forgo our walk around the garden, my dear.”

Emma bit back a smile, because only he would regard their leisurely strolls around the rosebushes as strenuous activity.

“Never mind. You can always spend the rest of the day up here, where you won’t be disturbed.”

“I will certainly come down after luncheon,” he replied, “since Miss Bates will be calling this afternoon.”

Of course Miss Bates was coming. Emma could hardly remember the last time a day had passed when the spinster hadnotcalled at Hartfield.

“I’m sure Miss Bates would understand if you wished to stay up here and rest, Father.”

He shook his head. “She will fret if she hears I’ve been ill. I do not wish to worry her.”

In days past, it never would have occurred to him that his various ailments were a cause for concern for anyone beyond his immediate household.

“Only if you feel up to it,” she dubiously replied.

He graced her with a beatific smile. “I will be perfectly fine, my dear.”