Page 53 of Murder in Highbury
“Mrs. Elton would have hated it. You know how much she liked to make a show of things, and this was her final opportunity to do so.”
His mouth twitched. “Indeed.”
“You may laugh at me all you like, but I cannot help but wonder what Mrs. Suckling thought of it. Did she remain at the vicarage? Do you know if she’s coming to Donwell with Mr. Elton and Mr. Suckling?”
“Mrs. Suckling did not make the journey from London.”
Emma came to a halt. “Mrs. Elton’s own sister didn’t come?”
He took her elbow and walked. “If you wish for more details, I suggest you speak to Harriet or the Cox sisters. They were conversing at some length after the service. I’m sure they can provide you with a much more detailed account than I could.”
“That makes no sense. Harriet and the Cox sisters do not get on.”
Nothing seemed to be making any sense.
George steered her into the long gallery. “Mr. Elton and Mr. Suckling will be arriving very soon. We should be there to receive them.”
“Of course.”
Still, she intended to speak to Harriet as soon as possible. Her husband had a legion of estimable qualities, but the ability to describe interesting events was not one of them.
A few guests had wandered into the long gallery, escaping the crush in the great hall. With its splendid view of the gardens, the gallery was a peaceful retreat in the oldest part of the abbey.
When they passed through the old stone doorcase of the great hall, Emma gasped in dismay.
The most impressive room in the house, the great hall was a reminder of Donwell’s antique origins, boasting a timbered ceiling and an intricately carved ancient wooden screen. The magnificent space was normally imbued with a noble silence and the weight of history.
Today, though, its quiet nobility had been shattered by the mighty din of a crowd that had grown larger in the short time she’d been belowstairs.
“Oh, dear,” was all she managed.
Even George looked stunned.
Apparently, Mrs. Elton’s funeral was now akin to a national holiday. A gaggle of children were playing hide-and-seek among the trestle tables, and there were even a few infants in their mothers’ arms and toddlers in leading strings.
She grabbed her husband’s arm. “George, whatever will Mr. Elton think of such an unseemly commotion?”
“We can only hope he’ll be pleased that so many of his parishioners have come to pay their respects.”
She eyed the guests jostling about the refreshment tables. “That is indeed an optimistic view,” she said as she watched young Arthur Otway weave an unsteady path through the crowd. She could only assume he’d already enjoyed copious amounts of the Crown’s ale.
They made their way through the expansive space. Emma was rather amused, if unsurprised, by how many people she didn’t recognize. Her life, even after marriage, was still confined to a small circle of friends and acquaintances, and she rarely moved beyond the confines of the village. Her father objected to travel of any sort and had once claimed that he’d barely survived Emma’s wedding trip to the seaside, even though Isabella and John had come down from London to stay with him.
George took her arm. “Elton has arrived.”
Through the tall windows that overlooked the drive, she could see a handsome town carriage pulling up to the portico—Mr. Suckling’s, no doubt.
By the time she and George reached the front entrance, Mr. Elton had disembarked. To Emma’s surprise, he turned to hand down Harriet, who was followed by Robert and Mr. Suckling.
While George greeted the men, Emma took her friend by the hand. “Harriet, you are looking quite flushed. It’s so dreadfully warm today, is it not? Are you well?”
Harriet was indeed looking out of sorts, which was unusual. Unless encountering an upsetting circumstance—like a corpse in the church—she was a remarkably even-tempered girl. Yet today she seemed positively flustered.
“It’s just rather warm, as you say.” She turned to Mr. Elton and dredged up a smile. “It was so kind of you to take us up in Mr. Suckling’s carriage. And kind of Mr. Suckling, as well.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” Mr. Suckling replied, “so your thanks are not necessary.”
Harriet flushed an even brighter red, while poor Robert went stiff as a plank.
