Page 143 of Murder at Donwell Abbey
As he took the seat next to her, he cast her a puzzled look. “Your cheeks are all red, Auntie. Do you have a fever?”
George tried—and failed—to hide a grin behind his coffee cup.
“Heavens, no,” Emma responded, feeling even more warmth flood into her face. “I’m perfectly well.”
Henry cast suspicious glances between both of them. “You look just like Mama does when I catch Papa kissing her or talking about adult things.” His expression became vaguely alarmed. “You’re not going to start kissing each other now, are you?”
George laughed while Emma wrapped an arm around her nephew’s shoulder.
“No, but I’m going to kiss you,” she said, making a show of smooching him on the cheek.
“Ugh. Adults are silly.”
“I think you still like us, despite our silliness,” she replied. “And you’re enjoying your stay here, yes?”
“I’ll say. I hope I can stay with you and Uncle George whenever we come to Highbury.”
“Then I’ll see what can be arranged with your mama.”
They had now been settled at the abbey for the past three days, after Isabella had initially been reluctant to let Henry decamp from Hartfield. The attack on Mr. Clarke had greatly unsettled her, and she’d even thought to return to London. Emma had pointed out that it was Mr. Clarke’s work as a revenue agent that had made him a target. Since no one other than him in Highbury was involved with smugglers—at least to any certain knowledge—then no one else should be in danger. With excellent timing, Father had dolefully added that he couldn’t bear the thought of Isabella leaving so soon, giving every indication that he would fall into a melancholic state. With George’s reassurances that all would be well, Isabella had finally allowed herself to be persuaded to stay. She’d even agreed that Henry could return to the abbey with George and Emma.
Thankfully, the three days had been blessedly quiet. The smugglers had appeared to fade into the night as if they’d never existed, which while good for Highbury was not so good for Larkins. The need to clear his name was ever more urgent, so George was returning to London.
Emma smiled at her nephew. “What would you like for breakfast? I can ring for Harry to bring you coddled eggs.”
Henry shook his head. “I already talked to him in the corridor. He said there were still some of Serle’s butterscotch scones left in the kitchen, so he’s going to bring them up.”
“Hmm. I think you should have a slice of ham, too. Your mother wouldn’t like it if you only ate sweets for breakfast.”
Henry reached for a slice of honey cake. “That’s one of the reasons I like staying with you. I can eat nice things for breakfast, instead of gruel or stupid old toast.”
The boy did seem to be thriving under their care. Emma thought he might even have gained a pound or two.
“Very well,” she agreed. “But don’t tell your mother.”
Henry rolled his eyes, perfectly communicating that it was an unnecessary admonition.
“George, would you like another cup of coffee?” she asked.
“Thank you, but no. I should be on my way.”
Henry frowned. “Where are you going, Uncle George?”
“I must travel to London, but I should return by tomorrow night.”
“Are you going to meet with the Bow Street Runner? I wish I could go with you.”
Emma raised her eyebrows. “Why is that, Henry?”
“Because I’d like to become a runner someday. I think it would be very exciting.”
“I suggest you don’t tell your mother of any such ambition.” Isabella would faint on the spot.
“I’m not that dumb, Auntie Emma,” the boy said with an exasperated sigh.
She ruffled his hair. “You’re the opposite of dumb. I think you’re the smartest Knightley there is.”
He suffered her affections but kept his attention on his uncle. “Areyou going to meet with the runner?”
