Page 99 of Murder in Highbury
Emma reached for the orange marmalade, slathered it on her toast, and then bit it with a show of enthusiasm.
“I was simply thinking about what we should serve for dinner tonight,” she replied after managing to choke the toast down. “We must make it a bit of a celebration, now that Frank and Jane have arrived. Miss Bates will enjoy that.”
Her father continued to eye her before finally turning to address the footman. “Simon, please ask Serle to prepare a bowl of gruel for Miss Emma.”
Simon cast her a sympathetic glance before exiting the room. No one in Hartfield, except her father, willingly consumed Serle’s gruel. Apparently, quarreling with one’s husband left one looking so pulled that drastic measures were seen to be necessary.
When she heard a step in the hall a few minutes later, she grimaced. Serle must have had a pot of gruel on the hob, ready and waiting to torture her. Well, she supposed it was a fitting punishment for allowing the sun to set without attempting to make peace with her loved one.
The door opened, and her loved one himself entered the room. When George paused for a moment, his expression inscrutable, Emma had the horrible sense that he was about to beat a hasty retreat. Instead, he quietly greeted her father before coming to join her.
She forced a bright smile. “Good morning, dearest. I hope you enjoyed your ride.”
“I did, and it had the added benefit of giving me a chance to think.”
Drat.He was obviously still annoyed with her.
She affected a light tone. “May I ask what you were thinking about?”
His expression finally broke, and he gave her a charmingly rueful smile. Emma felt the oddest sensation in the middle of her chest, like a ray of sunlight had just pierced her heart.
“My idiotic behavior last night.” He leaned down, dropping his voice to a murmur. “Forgive me, Emma. I was a jealous fool.”
When he kissed her cheek, that little ray turned into a bright beam of light.
“I was silly, too,” she admitted. “And I’m sorry if I said anything at Randalls that I shouldn’t have.”
“Is everything all right, Emma?” her father asked.
“Everything is fine. George is telling me what a splendid ride he had.”
The door opened, and Simon reentered, carrying a steaming bowl on a platter. “Your gruel, Mrs. Knightley.”
George cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Father thinks I look a trifle peaked,” she explained. “He thought a bowl of gruel would be helpful.”
“My poor darling,” he said, trying not to laugh.
“Well, I’m feeling much better now,” she said. “You may put it on the sideboard, Simon.”
“Emma, it would do you good,” her father exclaimed. “Please try to eat some.”
“It’s odd,” said George as he took his seat. “As I was riding, I thought I would like nothing better than a bowl of Serle’s excellent gruel. You may put it at my place, Simon.”
“Are you sure, sir?” the footman asked, sounding slightly incredulous.
“Quite.”
Emma suddenly felt rather misty. Very little could prove a husband’s love more than throwing himself on the altar of Serle’s hideous gruel.
Fortunately, another interruption spared them both. Thomas, the junior footman, entered the room.
“Mr. Knightley, Constable Sharpe has come to call,” he said.
She and George exchanged surprised glances at such an early visit.
Her husband stood. “I’ll come immediately.”
