“Very well,” Mr. Suckling grumbled. “Are you coming, Philip?”
“I must pay my respects to Mr. Woodhouse first. I will find you later.”
“Have it your way. Ah, I see Weston, so I’ll have a chat with him. He seems a sensible man, unlike so many in this benighted village.” He smirked rather unpleasantly. “Present company excepted, of course,” he added to George.
With a bland smile, George led Mr. Suckling away. Emma breathed a sigh of relief, but only after she had directed an admonishing frown at Miss Prince and Miss Richardson, who finally took the hint and moved off.
Mr. Elton sighed. “You must forgive my brother-in-law, Mrs. Knightley. He is very worried about Selina. She’s in a delicate condition, you know.”
“I did not know,” she replied. “And, of course, that perfectly explains Mr. Suckling’s . . . fretfulness.”
Emma didn’t think there was any excuse for the man’s bad behavior, but pregnancy certainly explained why Mrs. Suckling had not made the trip to Highbury.
She smiled at Harriet, who’d not said a word since entering the house. “Will you come to the east drawing room with us, dear? It will be much more pleasant than this crush.”
The girl gave a visible start. “Ah, I think not, Mrs. Knightley. I . . . I believe I must find Robert.” She then disappeared into the crowd.
“Poor Mrs. Martin,” said the vicar. “She is very affected by my dear Augusta’s death. The loss is a terrible blow—mostly for me, of course, but also for Highbury. How will we ever recover from the loss of such a magnificent woman, Mrs. Knightley?”
Since Emma felt quite beyond making an appropriate response to his observation, she took refuge in sympathetic murmurs as she led him away.
CHAPTER11
The yellow drawing room was Emma’s favorite. The walls were hung with striped silk wallpaper in the loveliest shade of pale lemon, and the settees were covered in matching shades as they flanked either side of the handsome Adam fireplace. Comfortable overstuffed chairs were arranged in cozy groupings, better to view the contents of the curio cabinets and bookcases, which held various family collections—medals, antique books, rare seashells, vibrant corals, and other curiosities carefully gathered over the generations.
Even better was the lovely view out the tall windows, which overlooked the lush green lawns and the fine orchards stretching down to a rippling stream in the distance. In her many visits to Donwell over the years, Emma had come to love its quiet excellences—just as she’d come to love its master. The abbey was as much a reflection of George and his character as it was a great house that had stood the test of time with quiet dignity.
Today, however, the room was anything but quiet, but rather a scene of stormy emotions and a flood of tears from Miss Bates.
“Ma’am, do not cry so,” Emma said, crouching in front of her. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
Emma’s father had joined Miss Bates on the settee. “You must take care, dear lady. I heard children coughing when we arrived. Emma, what was Mr. Knightley thinking to invite so many people?”
“He didn’t invite all of them, Father. They simply appeared here.”
A distressed Mr. Elton hovered nearby. “I am to blame. I allowed myself to impose on Mr. Knightley’s generosity in hosting the reception.”
This particular crisiswasactually the vicar’s fault, having been precipitated by an unfortunate question to Miss Bates.
Initially, the conversation had proved uneventful. There had been a brief discussion of the funeral service, but also much talk of the weather and various people’s health. Mrs. Bates had snoozed peacefully in her chair, and even Miss Bates had seemed calm as the men weighted the merits of appropriate comestibles at a funeral reception.
But then Mr. Elton had made the fatal error. “Ma’am,” he said to Miss Bates, “I have been meaning to ask you a question, if I may.”
“Indeed, of course. A question. Whatever can it be? I wonder.”
“Before my wife departed the house on that final, tragic day, she made a slight mention of something she wished to discuss with you—something beyond the arrangements for the altar linens. While it seemed a topic of some import, she rushed away so as not to keep you waiting. I don’t wish to pry, but can you tell me what you were to discuss? It would give me great comfort if I could fulfill any of Augusta’s last wishes.”
During his little speech Miss Bates had gone terribly pale and tense. “I . . . I cannot . . . I mean, that is to say, I do not know whatever you can be referring to, sir. I . . . I do not know what she may have wished to discuss.”
“I do not wish to cause you distress,” Mr. Elton had hastily replied. “But I was so struck by Augusta’s manner that day. And since you were the last person she was to meet, I thought—”
At that point, Miss Bates had burst into tears, and Emma had now spent five minutes trying to calm her. A flustered Mr. Elton had offered—helpfully or unhelpfully, depending on one’s view—to speak with her at another time. That had only made Miss Bates weep harder.
Growing exasperated, Emma retrieved her father’s smelling salts and employed them. Miss Bates gasped, hiccuping, as she tried to catch her breath. Clearly, this was no simple case of overwrought nerves. What was this unknown issue, and why did it upset Miss Bates so greatly? Once again, it struck her as decidedly odd that the two ladies had decided to meet in so furtive a manner in the church.
“Please, Miss Bates,” she said. “Your mother will be worried if she sees you in such a state.”
Mrs. Bates, thankfully, had snoozed through the commotion. Still, her daughter made a visible effort to control herself, although tears continued to flow through incoherent apologies.
