CHAPTER 19
“Dear Mrs. Knightley, you’re looking splendid,” Frank Churchill enthused, rising to greet Emma as she entered the Westons’ drawing room.
Frank was as handsome and charming as ever. For a brief spell, she’d once fancied herself in love with him, only to find that his attentions were simply a ruse to distract from his secret engagement to Jane. Like all his friends and family, Emma had been initially outraged by such ungentlemanly behavior. And like everyone else—with the possible exception of George—she’d forgiven him.
“How are you feeling, Jane?” she asked as the young woman also rose to greet her. “Better, I hope.”
“I’m still fatigued,” Jane admitted. “But that is to be expected after such a long journey. Thankfully, Highbury is so delightful at this time of year. I am sure I will benefit from the fine weather.”
“It’s also quite hot,” Mrs. Weston said as they took their seats. “You must be careful not to overexert yourself.”
Emma felt a twinge of anxiety. Jane’s normally lovely complexion was more sallow than ivory, and her eyes bore shadows underneath. “That’s very true, Jane. In your condition you must be particularly careful.”
At the allusion to her pregnancy, the young woman blushed, which at least had the benefit of bringing some color to her cheeks.
Frank took his wife’s hand. “You must recover your strength before you rush off to slay dragons, dear girl.”
“It’s that blasted constable who’s causing all the trouble,” Mr. Weston complained. “I’d like to give him a piece of my mind, but Mrs. Weston absolutely forbids me.”
“Because you would only make things worse, my dear,” his wife replied.
Emma sighed. “Yes, unfortunately. Both Dr. Hughes and Constable Sharpe resent what they perceive as any interference in their duties. And although the constable has been dreadful in his treatment of poor Miss Bates, I will grudgingly acknowledge that he does take those duties very seriously. Sadly, he’s completely lacking in imagination and acumen, and that is a fatal combination when charged with investigating a murder.”
His gaze acute, Frank studied her for a few moments. “Then I suppose we’ll have to investigate it ourselves. I imagine you’ve already made a start of it.”
“Goodness,” Emma exclaimed, adopting what she hoped was an innocent expression. “Whatever can you be talking about?”
“Ha! I knew it. You have been investigating. Tell all, Mrs. Knightley. What have you discovered so far?”
For all his occasionally feckless ways, Frank was far from stupid. He had a keen eye and a quick wit—talents developed out of necessity, no doubt, when he and Jane had been secretly engaged. He’d fooled them all, which certainly took some skill.
“I’m sure Mr. Knightley has the investigation well in hand,” Mrs. Weston said in an admonishing tone. “Is that not right, Emma?”
“Naturally, he has it in hand. With my help, of course.”
Mrs. Weston sighed, but Frank simply grinned.
“And where have your investigations taken you?” he asked again.
“For one thing, they’ve led to some very interesting information about Mrs. Elton.”
Emma explained her discussion with Mrs. Goddard, leaving out any details that might embarrass the headmistress or Miss Nash.
“Good heavens, Emma,” Mrs. Weston exclaimed. “What an extraordinary story.”
“What does Mr. Knightley make of it?” asked Mr. Weston.
Emma hesitated, aware that George would not wish her to discuss the case too freely. In fact, he would probably prefer her not to discuss it at all.
“He is looking into the matter from every angle,” she finally said.
Mr. Weston tapped the side of his nose. “Keeping it close to his vest, eh? Don’t want to start any rumors, do we?”
Too late, Emma remembered that Mr. Weston was rather a champion at starting rumors—or, at least, someone fatally incapable of keeping secrets.
“Let me just say that it would be wise to discuss such delicate matters only among ourselves,” she said.
Mrs. Weston gazed pointedly at her husband. “She means you, my dear.”
He had the grace to look sheepish.
“I’m grateful, though, to know as much as possible,” Jane said. “I’ve found it most distressing to be so in the dark. It makes one feel quite powerless.”
Frank was looking thoughtful. “This information doesn’t exactly clear Aunt Hetty, though, does it?”
“Not decisively,” Emma admitted.
“Then please know that I stand ready to help you and Mr. Knightley in any way I can,” he said in a determined tone. “We must clear Aunt Hetty’s name as soon as possible, not just for her sake but for Jane and Mrs. Bates, as well. Their health and peace of mind depend on it.”
Mrs. Weston began to look alarmed. “I’m sure Mr. Knightley is perfectly capable of handling matters on his own. There is no need for you—or Emma—to get involved.”
Jane touched her husband’s hand. “I have to agree, Frank. I’m not sure it’s wise to interfere.”
Mr. Weston scoffed. “Nonsense. Between the two of them, Frank and Emma have more brains than the rest of us put together. And since Emma knows everything that goes on in Highbury, how could she not be a tremendous help?”
Because both women were now frowning at their husbands, Emma felt it best to change the subject. “Well, we shall see. And before I forget, my father has charged me to invite you all to come to Hartfield for dinner tomorrow. He would love to see you, and it will be just the thing for Mrs. and Miss Bates.”
There were the usual hesitations and reluctances to inconvenience dear Mr. Woodhouse, but Emma stood firm. With the invitation finally accepted, she rose to take her leave.
“I’ll see you out,” said Mr. Weston. “Oh, the devil. I almost forgot to tell you, but you’ll certainly wish to know before Mr. Woodhouse finds out.”
Emma sighed. More trouble, apparently.
“It’s the poultry thief,” he explained. “The blighter is back, I’m afraid.”
Last year Highbury had experienced a rash of poultry thefts that had gone on for some weeks. Even Hartfield had not been left unscathed, which had greatly upset her father.
“He stole my best rooster and two of my hens,” complained Mrs. Weston. “We certainly do not need that scoundrel running about on top of everything else.”
“Maybe we can accuse him of Mrs. Elton’s murder, instead of Aunt Hetty,” Frank wryly suggested.
Jane sighed. “That is not in the least bit amusing, Frank.”
“Perhaps not, but it would certainly make life easier,” he replied.
If only it were that simple, Emma thought as Mr. Weston escorted her from the room.
Emma took a seat opposite her father in the drawing room, resigned to the fact that all her efforts to distract him over dinner had come to naught.
“I am quite upset,” he exclaimed once again. “First, Mrs. Elton’s murder, and now that dreadful poultry thief has returned.”
She crinkled her nose to resist the urge to laugh. “I know, dearest, but you must admit that the two are quite distinct in both degree and kind.”
“It was a thief who killed Mrs. Elton, Emma. Who’s to say that it’s not this same villain? We could all be murdered in our beds!”
“The poultry thief breaks into only chicken coops. Besides, we have George to protect us, and James and the footmen, as well. We’re perfectly safe.”
“I’m not sure I will ever feel safe again. Who could have imagined Highbury becoming such a den of criminality? We grow as bad as the stews of London!”
Her father, despite Emma’s best efforts, had clearly fallen into one of his fretful episodes. When he had Miss Bates to worry about, he thought less about himself. But the return of the poultry thief was obviously a threat too close to home.
He sighed. “And poor George. He is so busy that he couldn’t even join us for dinner, and now he is late for tea. What was Mr. Elton thinking to allow his wife to be murdered? It has put everyone in an uproar.”
Clearly, Father was far from ready to forgive their vicar. Mr. Elton would simply have to do without the comforts of Hartfield for the present.
As she replenished her father’s teacup, the drawing room door opened, and her husband entered.
“Father and I were quite ready to give up on you, George,” she said with a smile. “I hope you’re finished with your work for the evening.”
“I apologize for keeping you waiting, but I am now at your disposal.”
She studied him, taking in the weariness in his gaze and the tense set of his shoulders. “Would you prefer a brandy to a cup of tea?”
That won her a wry look. “That bad, is it?”
“You simply look a bit pulled around the edges. The brandy will help you sleep.”
George glanced at her father, who was arranging his lap blanket, and then leaned in to murmur in her ear. “I can think of something else that would surely aid my sleep.”
Emma choked. “Behave yourself, sir.”
“George, what is to be done about this poultry thief?” her father asked as Emma fetched the brandy. “Surely the constable will now turn his attentions to the villain instead of pestering Miss Bates.”
“I’m afraid the poultry thief is unlikely to be top of mind for Constable Sharpe,” George replied.
“Highbury has become infested with criminals. I do not approve.”
“Neither does Mrs. Weston, since the varlet made off with her prize rooster and two hens,” Emma wryly said.
Her father grimaced. “Poor Mrs. Weston. She should never have left Hartfield, you know. She was much safer here than at Randalls.”
“Mrs. Weston is perfectly safe, Father,” Emma said as she brought George his drink. “And I’m sure the thief will eventually go away. That’s what he did last year.”
“I refuse to believe the poultry thief’s return is coincidental to Mrs. Elton’s murder.”
When George cast her a startled glance, Emma simply shrugged. Only her father could surmise that Mrs. Elton’s killer and the poultry thief would be one and the same.
“I’m looking forward to the Westons and the Churchills coming for dinner tomorrow night,” she said, trying for a happy distraction. “Mrs. and Miss Bates will be so happy to spend time with them.”
Father held up a hand. “There must not be cake, Emma, or any rich foods. Mrs. Churchill must be careful, in her present condition.”
“Yes, dear.”
“How did Jane seem to you?” George asked as she settled next to him on the settee.
“Tired, but determined to be of service to her aunt and grandmother.”
“I cannot help wondering if this visit will be too much for her. It was perhaps unwise of Frank to allow her to make the journey.”
George had always taken a great interest in Jane’s well-being, something that had caused Emma more than one pang of jealousy before their marriage. Of course, such an emotion would now be entirely ridiculous.
“I’m sure Frank will take excellent care of her.” She hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Frank also wished me to tell you that he is happy to assist you in any way he can, and that you should not hesitate to ask for his help.”
Frowning, George put down his glass. “Help with what?”
“With the investigation, of course. Frank is very worried about the impact of this dreadful situation on both Miss Bates and Jane and wishes to help in any way he can.”
“Emma, as I have previously noted, we do not need civilians interfering in this investigation—much less Frank Churchill.”
“Yes, I recall. But in this case, the civilians seem to be doing a better job of it than Constable Sharpe, certainly.”
“I take it you’re referring to yourself,” he dryly replied.
“You must admit that Harriet and I have supplied you with some very valuable information.”
“And I’m grateful. Still, there is quite a difference between overhearing something and actively investigating. This investigation is also not without a potential risk, my dear. I will not have you putting yourself in harm’s way.”
“I assure you, I have no desire to do so. But we’re not talking about me, dearest. We’re talking about Frank.”
He began to look irritated. “I hope you didn’t encourage him to think he had any role to play in this investigation, because that would be highly inappropriate.”
“Of course not,” she replied, trying not to bristle. “It was Mr. Weston who did that.”
He sighed. “Emma, what did you tell them?”
“Very little, really. Well, perhaps more than a little, but only what I thought they had a right to know.”
“It’s not up to you to make that decision.”
She cast a quick glance in her father’s direction. Thankfully, he had fallen into a peaceful doze and would not overhear their slight disagreement.
“I simply gave them a few basic facts. They surely have the right to know, given that Miss Bates is Jane’s aunt. And they only wish to help, George.”
“I sympathize, but you should not be encouraging them. Especially not Frank.”
“I didn’t encourage him!”
When her father snorted, Emma froze, as did George. Fortunately, Father subsided back into his doze.
“I didn’t encourage anyone,” she forcefully whispered. “And Frank is only trying to be helpful.”
“I don’t need his help,” George whispered back. “And you are not to go haring off with him, searching for clues and interrogating innocent people. In fact, I think it best if you spend as little time with Frank Churchill as possible.”
“But he’s coming to dinner tomorrow!”
“Regrettable, since the man does nothing but tow trouble in his wake. I have precious little time to waste these days, Emma, particularly on foolish dinner parties. Nor do I wish to spend an evening with Frank Churchill.”
She stared at him, astonished by his words and by the scowl marking his handsome features. “George, you’re being quite unreasonable. One might even conclude that you’re jealous of Frank.”
Her husband went as stiff as a fireplace poker. Then he picked up his glass and tossed back the last of his brandy before coming to his feet.
“If you’ll excuse me, I believe I have some work to finish in my study.”
Her husband turned on his heel and stalked from the room, leaving Emma with her mouth hanging open. Much too late, she realized that George’s disapproval of Frank Churchill had not abated one jot.