Mrs. Cox, who’d been talking to Susan, turned to Anne. “Why are you pestering Mrs. Knightley? Sit back, now, like a good girl, and be quiet.”
Anne subsided into her seat but not before casting Emma a disgruntled scowl.
“Miss Cox seems to have taken a dislike of you, Emma,” Mrs. Weston murmured. “Do you know why?”
“I gave her a set-down the other day at Ford’s because she was gossiping about Miss Bates.”
“That is most unfortunate.” Mrs. Weston flipped open the small watch pinned to her dark green spencer. “At least the jury should be returning soon. I hate to think of them standing about in all this heat.”
“It cannot be worse than sitting in here.”
She leaned out to check on her father, who now seemed perfectly comfortable. He was in close conversation with Miss Bates, even sharing his cashmere shawl with her. The sight of him in such intimate conversation with the spinster—admittedly an old friend—was more than slightly disconcerting, and Emma had to shrug away the odd sensation that something had just shifted under her feet.
Impatient for matters to be underway, she glanced behind her, hoping to see some sign of the jury’s return. Instead, she spotted Robert Martin making his way toward them.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Knightley, Mrs. Weston,” he said, doffing his cap. “Can I fetch you anything? Something cool to drink, perhaps?”
Emma glanced at Mrs. Weston, who shook her head. “No, we’re fine, Robert. Did you see any sign of the jury on your way here?”
“I did. They were just coming out of the church. It looked like Mr. Knightley was trying to move them along, but Dr. Hughes was still jawing at them.”
Emma affected surprise. “Dr. Hughes still talking? How shocking.”
Robert raised a hand to smother a grin before moving over to sit with Harriet.
Over the past nine months, Emma had gotten to know Robert quite well. He was a trifle rough around the edges but possessed both a good heart and excellent common sense—just as George had told her all those months ago, when the young man first proposed to Harriet.
It was a rather lowering thought, but George had proved to be a better matchmaker than she was.
For a few minutes, Emma sat in silence, recalling the last time she’d been in this very room. It was for the Westons’ ball given in honor of Frank Churchill. The space had been transformed into a graceful assembly hall, its flaws hidden by the glow of candlelight and festoons of flowers and greenery. In Miss Bates’s inimitable words, the Crown Inn had been transformed into a fairyland conjured up by Aladdin’s lamp.
That magic had long since faded, along with the dingy gray wallpaper and the tired-looking wainscoting. Now it was the perfect setting for a murder inquiry, sure to lower one’s spirits to match the occasion.
With something of a commotion, the jury arrived and made their way to their designated seats. Emma recognized some of the faces, but several were unfamiliar, because they were drawn from the surrounding villages, as was required by law.
Dr. Hughes and a young man—his son, she believed—followed the jury in. Behind them came Mr. Elton and George. The vicar gave Emma and Mrs. Weston a wan smile as he passed along to the end of the row.
“Aren’t you going to sit with Dr. Hughes?” Emma whispered as George slipped into the empty seat next to her.
“My duties are finished for the moment. Like you, I will now be called as a witness.”
Mrs. Weston leaned forward. “Is Mr. Suckling not here to support his brother?”
George glanced over his shoulder. “He’s by the door. Like Mr. Elton, he opposed the viewing of the body. Dr. Hughes was forced to overrule them, so Suckling is in a temper. I suggested he remain at the back of the room in case he should feel the need to step out for some fresh air.”
“Very adroitly done,” Emma wryly replied.
“Sadly, our coroner is also in a rather unfortunate mood.”
Emma glanced at Dr. Hughes, who was indeed looking thunderous as he organized his papers on a small table. “Is he ever in a fortunate mood?”
George was staring down the front row. “Emma, why is your father here?”
“He insisted on coming to support Miss Bates. I couldn’t talk him out of it, George. Not even the threat of drafts could deter him.”
Her husband sighed. “Dr. Hughes will not be pleased.”
Just then, the coroner looked up, and his gaze landed on Emma’s father. His expression transformed into one of disbelief. Then he glared, first at poor Father, who remained blissfully unaware of the ire directed his way, and then at George, as if he were personally responsible for this unwelcome state of affairs.
