“How cozy,” Emma cheerily said. “We can be perfectly comfortable while we have tea.”
Just now rising from table after a light supper, they were awaiting George’s return from Donwell Abbey. He’d warned Emma that he might be very late. It would be necessary to interrogate Mr. Elton—once he recovered from his well-deserved blow—and then appropriate legal processes must be followed in dealing with their criminal vicar.
Her father sighed as she tucked his lap blanket around him.
“I don’t know if I shall ever feel cozy again,” he dolefully said. “Mr. Elton trying to shoot George . . . He must be mad, Emma! No sane person would ever wish to hurt George.”
“It is indeed shocking,” Mrs. Weston noted as she adjusted one of the screens. “But from what Emma tells us, Mr. Knightley is perfectly well.”
“But why must he stay away so long?” Father replied. “Donwell is a very fine house, but it is drafty and quite damp in the evenings. It would be a terrible thing if George were to catch a chill. He might fall into a fever, and then what should we do?”
Emma patted his shoulder. “I promise you that George is perfectly well. It was a very slight graze, and Mr. Perry himself said there was no danger of infection or fever.”
“Then I suppose we must thank the good Lord that Mr. Elton was as bad a shot as he was a vicar,” he said. “That was indeed a blessing.”
Mrs. Weston made a slight choking noise. Emma studiously avoided looking at her friend, since doing so might trigger a bout of semi-hysterical laughter.
“Yes, we were very fortunate in that regard,” she replied instead.
Her father mustered up an indignant look. “Still, to think of all our kindnesses to Mr. Elton and how often we had him to dinner. I will never be able to forgive him, Emma. Please do not expect it of me. Trying to shoot George is even worse than what he did to poor Miss Bates.”
“No one will expect us to forgive him, dearest. After all, heisa murderer.”
Mrs. Weston sat in the opposite chair. “Forgive? No, but I suppose we must make allowances for the fact that he is obviously mad. Mr. Elton certainly had his flaws, but one never expected him to be a lunatic.”
Emma shrugged. “I imagine that development came later.”
His thwarted ambitions, fueled by rage, had propelled the vicar down a dark path that led to madness and death—first, for his wife, and then no doubt eventually for him at the end of a hangman’s noose.
“You may be sure I will be writing to the bishop,” Father sternly added. “I cannot imagine what he was thinking to send us a lunatic for a vicar.”
“I’m sure the bishop had no idea at the time,” Emma said.
“He should have known. It was most irresponsible of him, which I will certainly make clear.”
Emma and Mrs. Weston exchanged a glance. Clearly, a diversion was necessary.
“Mr. Woodhouse,” said Mrs. Weston, “you hardly touched your food at dinner. Perhaps you would allow Emma to bring you a lovely scone and jam, and a nice cup of tea. I’m sure it will do you good.”
He blinked, appearing vaguely alarmed by the suggestion. “I think not, although I thank you for your concern. I could barely swallow a morsel at dinner, not even the coddled eggs. No one makes coddled eggs like Serle, as you know. I’m sure your cook does her best, Mrs. Weston, but no one coddles an egg like Serle.”
“Very true,” she replied with a smile. “Then might I suggest a small glass of ratafia? I’m sure it would be just the thing for your nerves.”
“Just so, Father,” Emma chimed in. “I’m sure you would find it restorative.”
He breathed out another lugubrious sigh. “If you say so, my dear. And please bring one for Mrs. Weston, too. She no doubt needs a restorative, as well, after this shocking day.”
“Nothing for me, thank you,” Mrs. Weston hastily replied. “I’m perfectly fine.”
Emma flashed her a wry smile. Her former governess had always viewed ratafia with horror, a sentiment Emma certainly shared. But a large glass of sherry might be in order. Today’s events had left her feeling like a shuttlecock batted about one too many times. Even now, she hardly knew what to think—not that she’d had any opportunity to stop and think, much less sort through the emotions that had spun her from one moment to the next.
Once Larkins had vanquished Mr. Elton, things had moved very quickly. George had ordered Larkins and Harry, who had finally reappeared after an unfortunately ill-timed nap, to lock the vicar in the pantry. George had then dispatched a groom to fetch Dr. Hughes and Constable Sharpe, while Emma had sent the stable boy running for Mr. Perry. Her stubborn husband had insisted that his wound was only a scratch, but she’d refused to be deterred. Ignoring his protests, she had helped him take off his coat and had ruthlessly sliced open his sleeve with his desk scissors. Thankfully, the wound was indeed superficial, and she and Mrs. Hodges had made short work of cleaning and dressing it.
After George went upstairs to change his shirt, the magnitude of what had happened—whatcouldhave happened if she’d not arrived at Donwell when she did—finally hit her. She was forced to sit down and put her head on her knees while a concerned Mrs. Hodges patted her back. Thankfully, a cup of tea soon set her to rights. By the time George returned, Donwell’s lone housemaid was sweeping up the broken glass, and Emma and Mrs. Hodges were returning the rest of the room to order.
At that point, George insisted she return home.
“Talk of this unfortunate scene will begin spreading very soon,” he warned, “much of it no doubt exaggerated.”
