“That the person who committed the crime might be someone we know,” he quietly answered for her.
Emma again rubbed her forehead, fighting the sensation that they were trapped in a spiraling nightmare. Murder had come to Highbury—and quite possibly close to home.
CHAPTER4
Emma set out immediately after breakfast. If there was one person who could answer the question that bedeviled her, it was her former governess, Mrs. Weston.
George had risen with the dawn to begin a day that would be full of the business of murder, and Emma’s restless anxieties had compelled her to arise, as well. She’d dressed quickly and snatched a bite to eat before setting off to visit her dear friend, who, after George, was the person who knew her best.
In addition to sensible advice, Mrs. Weston would give her unstinting support. With the particular matter before her, Emma suspected she would need every bit of that support.
She turned into the graveled drive of Randalls, where the Westons resided with their little daughter, Anna, not yet one year of age. Emma loved the old Tudor mansion, a sprawling edifice of red brick with lovely casement windows and tall, fanciful chimneys. Enormous chestnut trees lined the drive, and ancient yew hedges intersected the lawns and flower beds. But for the modern fountain in the garden, one could well imagine a dashing knight in doublet and hose, a rapier by his side, trysting with his fair lady.
Come to think of it, a rapier might be particularly useful since there was still a killer on the loose. An image of the deceased Mrs. Elton sprang into her mind, and for the first time, Emma realized that taking a footman for escort might have been prudent.
Chastising her colorful imagination, she hurried to the front door. While it was early to be making calls, Emma had been given carte blanche to visit Randalls whenever she wished.
One of the maids opened the door and ushered her into the vaulted entrance hall.
“Good morning, Hannah. Is Mrs. Weston still at breakfast?”
“She’s in the parlor with Miss Anna.” Hannah cast a quick glance down the drive. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but should you be walking by yourself all the way from Hartfield? I’m sure my father would have been happy to drive you, what with all these nasty villains running about.”
Hannah’s father, James, was Hartfield’s coachman. Emma rarely felt the need for a coach, although loyal James was always ready to transport his charges the short distance it took to get anywhere in Highbury.
“Only one villain, most likely,” Emma replied. “And I do hope he isn’t lurking about the hedgerows in broad daylight, waiting for his next victim.”
Hannah locked the door. “Poor Mrs. Elton was murdered in broad daylight, now, wasn’t she? You just ring when you’re ready to go, Mrs. Knightley, and I’ll have the kitchen boy walk you home.”
Once again, it struck Emma how the impacts of such a heinous deed could ripple outward, disturbing the peace of all those who lived within its dark pool. A new sort of danger seemed to hover over Highbury, bringing with it an unfamiliar vulnerability.
Hannah showed her into the parlor. With its low ceiling, wooden beams, and large fireplace, it imparted a sense of practical comfort. Mrs. Weston had added a number of feminine touches—chintz fabrics for the sofa and chairs and Chelsea porcelain vases filled with freshly cut flowers. Mr. Weston’s contribution had been to modernize the chimney, an improvement greatly appreciated by resident and visitor alike.
Mrs. Weston was seated in a cozy nook by the window, attending to her needlework. She put aside her frame when she saw Emma, and hurried to meet her.
“Emma, dearest,” she exclaimed, hugging her. “When we heard the dreadful news yesterday, Mr. Weston was ready to run all the way to Hartfield to see how you were. Only our fears that his presence would disturb your father held him back.”
Emma was grateful for her friend’s comforting hug. So many times as a child, when some little tragedy or mishap had struck, she’d found shelter in the affectionate embrace of her governess.
Of course, Miss Taylor, as she was then, had always been more than a governess. She’d ably filled the vacant role of mother in Emma’s life. Endlessly patient, the young woman had nurtured both Emma and her sister, Isabella, with steadfast affection and gentle counsel.
The day Miss Taylor had married Mr. Weston had been one of mixed blessings. It had been a match Emma herself had promoted, and she’d been truly pleased to see her dear friend find contentment with an excellent man. Unfortunately, that also meant Miss Taylor was lost to Hartfield forever, replaced by Mrs. Weston, who took up new loves and concerns.
For a time, Emma had felt rather lost herself. But life—and a series of embarrassing mishaps—had taught her much since that fateful day. Now she found herself as contented as Mrs. Weston.
“I’m perfectly fine,” she replied with a reassuring smile. “Father and I received your note before we went into dinner last night. Your words were a great comfort to him.”
“What a dreadful experience for you, though.” Mrs. Weston pressed her hand. “Do you think you could tell me a little about it? It might relieve your mind.”
“Let me see sweet Anna first, as she always lifts my spirits. How is she this morning?”
They peeked into the cradle, set in front of the fireplace. Mrs. Weston touched a gentle hand to her daughter’s head.
“She’s sleeping, thank goodness. My little darling was awake very early, quite determined to have her father’s attention. Naturally, Papa was happy to comply. He carried her all about the room, making the most ridiculous horsey noises. I thought I’d never get her back to sleep.”
Emma gazed at the sweet girl, whose soft brunette locks curled out from under her cap and framed her rosy cheeks. Anna was the picture of peace and contentment. “She is the perfect antidote to yesterday’s unpleasant events. I think I could look at her forever.”
“Unpleasantseems an understatement.” Mrs. Weston drew her to the sofa. “And poor Harriet! How did she react?”
