Another young woman burst into the corridor and rushed toward them.
Mrs. Weston sighed. “Susan Cox appears upset, too.”
“Her dratted brother, no doubt.”
Susan came to a halt, looking rattled but possessing enough sense to dip a shallow curtsy.
“How are you, Susan?” Mrs. Weston asked.
“Fine, ma’am,” she nervously replied. “It’s ever so nice a party, Mrs. Knightley. Anne was just saying that the dancing is quite good—although not as good as the dancing at Mr. Weston’s ball last year.”
Emma refrained from rolling her eyes. “Is something wrong, Miss Cox? You seem discomposed.”
“I … I’m going to fetch my mother. William isn’t feeling well, and Mama will know what to do with him.”
“I surmise that your brother has become inebriated,” Emma dryly replied.
The girl hesitated, and then gloomily nodded. Of all the Cox children, she was the least annoying. One also had to remember that she was the youngest and of course under the influence of her unfortunate siblings.
“Where is your brother now?” Emma asked.
“One of the footmen was helping Anne take him to the long gallery.” She wrinkled her nose. “And help clean him up. William tripped and fell into one of the tables.”
Give me patience, Lord.
“Which table?”
“The one with the punch bowl. But the bowl was almost empty,” Susan hastily added. “So it didn’t make much of a mess, except on William.”
“There’s justice, I suppose,” said Emma. “All right, go find your mother. And I would suggest it might be time to take William home.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Knightley,” she said, flinging the words over her shoulder as she fled.
“Disgraceful,” Emma huffed. “It is beyond me how a respectable couple like the Coxes managed to produce such unpleasant children.”
“Should we go check on William and Anne?”
“Only if you wish to see me box their ears.”
Mrs. Weston choked on a laugh.
They turned toward the great hall. At the massive stone arch that framed the entrance, they paused to observe the merriment.
“You’ve made a splendid job of it, Emma,” Mrs. Weston commented. “How clever to place the musicians up in the balcony and out of the way.”
A reminder of Donwell’s antique origins, the great hall boasted a timbered ceiling and a carved wooden screen beneath the balcony. Normally a space imbued with a rarified sense of peace, the hall currently resembled a packed assembly room at a public ball.
The cacophony of voices threatened to overwhelm the music. Although most of the floor had been cleared for dancing, trestle tables, benches, and chairs ringed the perimeter of the room. It seemed that every seated person was engaged in a shouting match to be heard over the music.
The refreshment tables near the front entrance of the hall were staffed by two of Hartfield’s footmen. Off to the side stood a smaller table for the punch bowl. The abbey’s groom, seconded to work the party, was setting up a new punch bowl with Mr. Weston’s cheerful assistance.
Mrs. Weston smiled. “How fortunate that my husband happened to be in the hall when the accident occurred.”
“Indeed. There is nothing more satisfying than an excellent husband.”
Her friend cast her an amused glance. “I obviously agree.”
“Mr. Weston is a splendid man, and I will always take a great deal of pleasure in the triumph of promoting your match.”
