Page 51 of Murder in Highbury
“Goodness, you are the clumsiest man I’ve ever known,” Mrs. Hodges exclaimed. “All those pastries ruined. What will the master say about that?”
Harry’s face blanched as white as the cream that had once filled the pastries, and he stared at Emma with a pleading gaze.
“It will be our secret, Harry,” she said, knowing George wouldn’t give a fig. “Now, please clean yourself up and then go help with the arriving carriages.”
The poor fellow bobbed his head and scurried away, clearly grateful to escape the housekeeper’s wrath.
“Why the master keeps that clumsy oaf about the place is a mystery,” groused Mrs. Hodges. “Wasting Serle’s best pastries, and with so many mouths to feed.”
“We have plenty of food, thanks to you and Serle planning everything so splendidly,” Emma soothingly replied. “I am quite in admiration of you both.”
The housekeeper looked slightly mollified. “We’ve done our best, ma’am, but it’s been years since the abbey served so many guests. I can’t say that we’re used to it.”
The old-fashioned kitchen now bustled with servants, most imported from Hartfield and even a few from Randalls. But for Mrs. Hodges, Harry, and a few maids, George currently kept no other house servants on Donwell’s staff. Since his move to Hartfield, many of the rooms had been closed up. Some parts of the abbey, like the kitchen, stood in dire need of updating.
The combined staff had thus far done a splendid job. Who could have foreseen that a funeral reception would turn into the principal event on Highbury’s social calendar? It seemed almost everyone from the village and surrounding parishes had crammed into Donwell’s noble halls, ostensibly to pay their respects.
“I think most everyone is here by now,” Emma said. “Some of the men will be arriving a bit later, because they stayed behind for the graveside committal.”
Mrs. Hodges looked vaguely alarmed. “How many more are expected, madam?”
“I shouldn’t think more than a dozen or so. I do hope there is plenty of cider on tap, though. It seems to be very popular.”
Donwell’s orchards produced excellent cider, which was obviously a major draw for many of their guests.
Mrs. Hodges nodded. “We should have enough. Mr. Knightley instructed Mr. Larkins to bring in several casks of ale from the Crown to supplement the cider.”
“And where is Larkins?”
“In the stables. Trying to sort out the horses and vehicles.”
Emma sighed. “What a bother for all of you. When he does come in, could you ask him to—”
The door from the stable yard swung open, admitting both Larkins and George.
She smiled at her husband. “Hiding out from the guests in the stables already, are we?”
“It seemed the sensible thing to do. Emma, did we really need to invite half the inhabitants of the county? I doubt many of them even knew Mrs. Elton or set foot in Highbury’s church.”
“I’m sorry, dearest. They just showed up.”
Mrs. Hodges muttered her dissatisfaction before bustling off to confer with Serle, who was preparing a large pot of chocolate on the abbey’s lamentably old-fashioned stove.
“And how goes the battle, Mr. Larkins?” asked Emma. “Have you managed to properly sort out the stables?”
“Aye, missus. The lads from Randalls have been a great help, and James is lending a hand,” he replied, his blunt speech faintly tinged with a brogue. “It’s naught we cannot handle.”
Larkins was the very definition of dependable, and his skillful management of Donwell’s lands had greatly eased the burden on George. There had apparently been some unfortunate mutterings around the village when he’d first been hired, because he was an Irish immigrant—although he’d lived in England since he was a boy—and a Catholic to boot. But the man’s plainspoken honesty and his dedication to all things Donwell, including its tenants, had finally won over the suspicious locals.
“Thankfully, the commotion is only for one afternoon,” George said. “So peace and quiet should return by sundown.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Emma teased. “I suspect many of our guests have every intention of staying for dinner.”
Mrs. Hodges and Serle, who were arranging trays of tea biscuits and meringues, jerked their heads up. They wore equal expressions of alarm.
Emma waved her hands. “I’m joking.”
She hoped.
