The spinster’s startled gaze flew to hers. “I don’t possibly think I could do so, Mrs. Knightley. Why, I don’t know how I’m going to call your father anything but Mr. Woodhouse, even though he insists I refer to him as Henry.”
A gust of wind swirled up, hitting them both in the face. Emma took her companion’s arm and started her forward. “Come. If we stand about much longer, we’ll both be frozen.”
They hurried along the high street. There were few villagers out and about, and those that were all passed by with little more than a tip of the hat or a quick greeting.
When they arrived at their destination, they paused to catch their breath and shake the dust from their pelisses.
The vicarage was an old and not especially good house. The previous occupants had embarked on a number of improvements, but they would likely be the end of such endeavors. Mr. Barlowe would find it a challenge simply to manage the upkeep of the place on a curate’s salary.
Emma knocked on the door. The hollow sound echoed inside the house, and then a prolonged silence followed.
“Perhaps no one is home,” said Miss Bates.
“You’d think one of the servants would be.”
Emma tried again and was rewarded by the muffled sound of footsteps. The door swung open and Mr. Barlowe stood before them, a befuddled expression on his thin features.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Emma said with a warm smile.
When he peered back at her, wordless, she exchanged a puzzled glance with Miss Bates.
“Mr. Barlowe,” said the spinster, “Mrs. Knightley and I were out for a walk and thought to stop by for a visit.”
“Just to see how you get on,” Emma added.
“How … how kind,” he hesitantly responded. “Though it’s entirely unnecessary.”
“Is this a bad time, sir?” Miss Bates asked a trifle anxiously.
“Actually—”
“We won’t stay for long,” Emma jumped in, forestalling any attempt to put them off. “There are a few matters Miss Bates and I would like to discuss with you. In your role as Highbury’s curate, that is.”
He stared for a few moments longer before moving aside. “Of course. Do forgive me. I was writing my sermon, and I confess to being rather absent-minded while wrestling with the Good Lord’s word.”
Miss Bates fluttered a hand. “Dear sir, as the daughter of a vicar, I perfectly understand. And your sermons do yougreatcredit. Mother and I truly enjoyed your disquisition last Sunday on the Parable of the Wise Virgins. Indeed, it was as full of wisdom as those most excellent virgins and their lamps. It’s always so important to keep one’s lamps properly trimmed, something I say to Mother all the time. An untrimmed wick or an empty lamp is simply disastrous, as your sermon so finely illustrated.”
Emma bit the inside her cheek to keep from laughing, since Mr. Barlowe was now looking vaguely alarmed.
“Ah … would you ladies care to step into the drawing room?” he finally said.
He ushered them through to the formal drawing room. Thanks to its previous occupants, the room was excessively stylish. Mrs. Elton had outfitted it with bright yellow wallpaper, red velvet furniture and draperies, and a great deal of trim. It was an absurd room for a country vicarage, and Mr. Barlowe looked completely out of place in such surroundings. From the fine layer of dust on the tables and the stale atmosphere in the room, Emma deduced that he wasn’t much in the habit of entertaining.
As they took a seat on the sofa, Mr. Barlowe remained standing, eyeing them with a degree of trepidation. She couldn’t help but wonder why he seemed so nervous.
“Would you like some tea?” he asked.
“That won’t be—”
Miss Bates interrupted her. “We’d love tea, thank you. It’s terribly raw outside, and tea will be most welcome.”
He nodded. “I will just step back to the kitchen. Cook was about to bring tea to my study, so it should be ready in only a few minutes.”
“Thank you, sir,” Emma politely replied.
After he’d departed, Miss Bates shook her head. “He’s so very shy. I thought if we gave him something to do it might make him more comfortable.”
Emma had to admit her reasoning made sense. “I don’t think he entertains very much.”
