Page 7 of Murder at Donwell Abbey
Emma smiled at the curate. “You can never offend my husband by complimenting anything to do with Donwell. Given half the chance, he will be happy to tell you exactly how he manages to keep his potatoes so fresh.”
“I suspect Mr. Knightley could make even that subject interesting,” said the other young man, giving George a slight bow. “My father speaks very highly of you, sir, and says that your knowledge of estate management is second to none. I wouldn’t know, of course, since I’m utterly hopeless when it comes to such matters.”
That was certainly blunt speaking.
“George, I don’t believe I’ve met this gentleman,” Emma said. “Perhaps you might introduce me?”
Her husband winced. “Forgive me, Emma. I thought you were acquainted with Mr. Plumtree.”
Ah.Now she knew who the man was.
“You’re Squire Plumtree’s son,” she said with a smile. “I’ve met your father on a few occasions, and have heard him speak of you.”
The young man gave another slight bow and cast her a charmingly crooked grin. “It’s a great pleasure, Mrs. Knightley. But I confess I’d rather not hear what my father has to say about me. I’m afraid I’m something of a trial to the poor fellow.”
It seemed an odd thing to say to a stranger, but perhaps she was too harsh. Mr. Plumtree was a good-looking young man with an obviously light-hearted manner. Also in his favor was the fact that he was correctly if very fashionably attired for an evening party.
“We hoped to see Squire Plumtree at our party tonight,” she said.
“He sends his regrets, ma’am. His business, unfortunately, has kept him in London.”
Emma rummaged in her brain. “Your father is a wool merchant, is he not?”
“Indeed.” His smile turned self-deprecating. “It might seem odd for him to be in trade, given that our family has resided at Plumtree Manor for many generations. But my father had an opportunity to invest in the wool industry some years ago and became quite taken with it. He spends much of his time in London, as a result.”
“Many a family now finds it prudent to invest in trade,” George kindly replied. “The wars on the Continent provided ample opportunity to do so.”
“So my father says. I must admit that I’m woefully ignorant in that regard, as well. I’m afraid I don’t share my father’s enthusiasm for trade.”
Mr. Barlowe gave him a sympathetic grimace. “One can hardly blame you. Many of those involved in trade can be quite vulgar in their mannerisms.” He flushed bright red a moment later. “Excepting your father, of course. I’m sure he’s not in the least bit vulgar.”
Mr. Plumtree responded with a polite smile. “Just as you say, dear fellow.”
In the painful silence that followed, Emma became acutely aware of the cheerful din of chatter around them.
“Mr. Plumtree, do you reside at Plumtree Manor?” she asked, trying to rescue the conversation.
“I do, ma’am. I’ve lived at Plumtree my entire life.”
“I imagine your father must be grateful to have a son there in his absence.”
Her comment produced an outright grin from him. “That observation would certainly make my father laugh, since I’m as hopeless at estate management as I am at trade. My dear papa, however, still holds out hope for my eventual reform.”
While it was cynical statement, he said it with such good humor that it was hard not to feel some charity for him.
“I’m sure you underestimate your talents,” she protested.
His eyes gleamed with amusement. “You must be sure to ask my father about that when next you meet him.”
“Plumtree, you must stop teasing Mrs. Knightley,” Mr. Barlowe admonished. “She won’t know what to think.”
“Mrs. Knightley thinks she will ask her husband for a glass of wine,” Emma humorously replied. She glanced at the curate’s half-empty glass. “Mr. Barlowe, would you like more punch?”
“Thank you, ma’am, but I thought to visit the great hall now to listen to the music and see the dancing.” He gave an admonishing glance to his companion. “I think that would be just the thing.”
Plumtree affected great astonishment. “You astound me, Barlowe. Are you sure such pleasures don’t fall under the category of inappropriate behavior? Or are you gathering material for your Sunday sermon?”
“Now you’re talking nonsense,” the curate replied in a cross tone.
