One of the more ludicrous tales, told to her only this morning by her maid, proposed that Mrs. Elton had been slain by a vengeful ghost arisen from a church vault. When Emma had asked why a ghost would kill the vicar’s wife, Betty had defensively replied that she was simply repeating what she’d heard from Mrs. Cole’s footman, who’d heard it from a groom at the Crown, who’d heard it from persons unknown at the vicarage.
Flapping a hand, Mrs. Cole eagerly hailed her. Emma ducked her head and hurried along, praying that her neighbor—a good woman but greatly inclined to gossip—wouldn’t follow.
As she made her way through the village square, several locals seemed more determined than usual to pay their respects. A few even tried to stop her progress. Now feeling more than a trifle annoyed, Emma simply gave them a firm nod of the head and quickened her pace.
With relief, she finally reached the doorway that led up to the Bateses’ modest set of rooms. Pausing for a moment to catch her breath, she glanced back at the street. Mr. Cox, the local solicitor, was now steaming in her direction, a purposeful gleam in his eye. Emma fled inside and slammed the door shut. It would seem shedidneed protection—not from deranged murderers, but from the local gossips.
She was not yet halfway up the stairs when the door at the top flew open and Miss Bates anxiously peered out, as if fearing callers. Normally, Miss Bates loved nothing more than visits, with long-winded chats and lengthy rereadings of the latest missive from her niece, Jane Churchill.
But not today, it would seem.
“Oh . . . oh, Mrs. Knightley,” she exclaimed. “How . . . how kind of you to come calling when you must have so many other duties to attend to. Everyone in Highbury is telling suchdreadfulstories. I’ve not spoken to anyone myself, but I’m all atremble to hear suchterriblethings from Patty. Our maid, you know. So much gossip, she says. How terrible for poor Mrs. Elton. She would be appalled to hear such things said about her. And poor Mr. Elton! Mother is quite beside herself thinking about him.”
“Yes, it’s distressing,” replied Emma in a sympathetic tone. “But I think it’s best to ignore the tales as much as possible, as they are bound to be inaccurate.”
Miss Bates ushered her into the parlor, then slammed the door shut so forcefully that Mrs. Bates, dozing by the fire, startled awake.
“Mother, it’s Miss Woodhouse,” Miss Bates loudly announced. “I mean Mrs. Knightley. So kind of her to call after yesterday’s frightful experience at the church. Miss Woodhouse, I mean Mrs. Knightley . . . Dear me, I am such a scatterbrain today. What would Mr. Knightley think to hear me call you Miss Woodhouse? He would be quite shocked, I am sure.”
Emma smiled. “It’s not so surprising. After all, you knew Miss Woodhouse for a great deal longer than you have known Mrs. Knightley.”
“Yes, yes, as you say. Look, Mother, it is Mrs. Knightley. To think that she would find the time to call on us is kindness itself. And what must Mr. Woodhouse think? He would not wish you to exert yourself on our behalf, Mrs. Knightley, especially in such hot weather.”
Mrs. Bates, a tiny woman who was almost swallowed up by her ruffled mobcap and voluminous shawl, looked bemused. It was not an unusual response on her part, although she was obviously aware that her daughter was behaving more oddly than usual.
Emma stepped closer. “How are you this morning, Mrs. Bates? Well, I hope.”
The elderly woman eyed her daughter for a few seconds before replying.
“I cannot complain, Mrs. Knightley,” she said in voice reedy with advanced years. “How is Mr. Woodhouse this morning?”
“He is tolerably well, ma’am. Thank you for asking.”
“Dear Mr. Woodhouse,” exclaimed Miss Bates, fluttering like a demented moth between Emma and her mother. “So very kind yesterday. I was in such a state, Mrs. Knightley. I’m quite ashamed to think how I acted. But your father was such a comfort to me. And his insistence that James bring me home in the carriage!” She raised her voice. “Did you hear that, Mother? Mr. Woodhouse wished to call out the carriage for me. Of course, I refused. I know how Mr. Woodhouse hates to inconvenience poor James and the horses. But I was in such a state, you see. So very kind of him, don’t you think, Mother?”
Mrs. Bates darted a perplexed glance at Emma. Having reached an age where she spent much of her time dozing by the fire, rousing only for a visit to Hartfield for tea and a game of quadrille, she must certainly now sense the anxiety churning through her daughter’s waterfall of words.
Emma dreaded both the chore before her and the upset that was to come. Mrs. Bates was too old to manage the repercussions that would result from her daughter’s involvement—however inadvertent—in Mrs. Elton’s murder.
Miss Bates continued to stand in the center of the room, clenching her hands. Her gaze darted about, resting first here and then there, but never on Emma.
“Miss Bates, I hate to impose,” Emma said. “But might we have a word? There is a particular matter I wish to discuss with you.”
The spinster visibly startled. “How foolish of me to keep you standing. I cannot think how my manners have gone begging. And you have been so kind. No one could ask . . . ask for better friends.” Her voice wavered as she sank down in her chair. Her face was bleached white as bone, and her eyes were red-rimmed behind her spectacles.
Miss Bates usually reminded Emma of a sparrow darting about in the hedgerows, her drab plumage offset by her cheerful—if occasionally irritating—chirping. The daughter of the former vicar, Hetty Bates had been raised in genteel and comfortable circumstances. But after the death of Reverend Bates, Hetty and her mother had descended to a state of near poverty. They had been forced to move from their former home to this small set of apartments and had to struggle to make ends meet. But so decent and kind were both women that they invoked in their friends and neighbors a true spirit of charity, which greatly ameliorated their reduced circumstances.
In recent months, those circumstances had improved even more, thanks to the marriage of their beloved niece, Jane, to Frank Churchill. Frank was Mr. Weston’s only son and had been adopted at an early age by rich relations from Yorkshire after the tragic death of the first Mrs. Weston, thus becoming heir to a considerable fortune. Jane and Frank had wished to move their relatives to more genteel quarters, but Miss Bates had refused. She’d stated with her usual good cheer that she and her mother were perfectly content. They had everything necessary in their excellent family, cherished friends, and cozy life in their beloved Highbury.
Yet such was obviously no longer the case.
She sat across from Miss Bates, who had extracted a handkerchief from the pocket of her gown and was dabbing her cheek. Emma’s heart sank as she noticed that the stitching matched that on the handkerchief she’d found in the graveyard.
Miss Bates met her gaze, and she then hastily shoved her handkerchief back into her pocket before mustering a travesty of a smile.
“Tea, Mrs. Knightley? We have an excellent apple cake from the bakery. No one makes apple cake as well as Mr. Wallis . . . oh, except for Hartfield’s cook, naturally. No one makes an apple cake like Serle. I expect that’s because she uses Mr. Knightley’s apples. Everyone knows Donwell Abbey has the best apple orchard in the county. Just last week, I was speaking on that very subject with Mrs. Elton—” She broke off on a gasp. “Oh, Mrs. Elton! What is to be done, Mrs. Knightley? I cannot even think . . .”
“It’s about Mrs. Elton that I wished to speak with you,” Emma hastily interjected. “I do not wish to distress you, but I’m afraid I must ask you a question.”
