Page 8 of Murder at Donwell Abbey
Plumtree laughed. “I am, indeed, which is most unfair of me. I will do my best to atone for my behavior by finding you a partner. You’re one of the few eligible men in the village, so there must be at least one young lady who will be eager to dance with you.”
After sketching bows to Emma and George, he led the blushing curate away.
“What an interesting young man,” she said, watching them go.
“Which one,” George dryly replied.
She laughed. “They do seem a mismatched pair. Mr. Barlowe is so terribly shy, while Mr. Plumtree is …”
“An impertinent puppy.”
“But a charming one, nevertheless. I wonder what his story is?”
“You must be sure to ask his father when next you see him.”
Emma regarded her beloved with a degree of disfavor. “Now who’s impertinent? And heaven knows this village could use a few more eligible gentlemen like Mr. Plumtree. I’m afraid Mr. Barlowe hardly counts in that respect.”
Her husband adopted an expression of mock alarm. “Emma, your words strike fear into my heart. I was under the impression that your matchmaking days were over. ”
“Dearest, I’m simply stating facts. Besides, Mr. Plumtree is quite an attractive young man. I’m sure he needs no help from me in that regard.”
Well … perhaps just a little.
George’s knowing expression suggested that he’d surmised what she was thinking—not that she had any intention of admitting to the truth of it. And, really, her matchmaking efforts, such as they were, had ended with her marriage. Still, one couldn’t help but feel for the young ladies of Highbury, who stood in dire need of a new crop of eligible bachelors.
“I stand corrected, my Emma,” her husband wryly replied. “Now, shall I fetch you a glass of wine?”
She glanced over to the doorway. “Later, perhaps. I see Mrs. Weston is waving to me from across the room.”
“And I see Dr. Hughes. He wished to buttonhole me about some matter of business, although I cannot imagine what.”
The village’s physician, who also served as coroner, was pontificating to a resigned-looked Mr. Cox, Highbury’s resident solicitor, over by the fireplace.
“You have my sympathies, dearest.”
An amused snort was his only reply. Emma wended her way to the doorway of the room where Mrs. Weston chatted with Mrs. Cole, one of Highbury’s leading residents.
“There you are, my dear,” said Mrs. Weston. “Your father has been wondering what’s become of you.”
“I’ll visit him as soon as I check on the great hall.”
“Mrs. Knightley, what a splendid occasion,” enthused Mrs. Cole. “Only imagine—Mr. Woodhouse and Miss Bates to be married!”
“Yes, it was quite the surprise,” Emma replied. “A happy one, naturally.”
“I would be thrilled to host a dinner party for them in a few weeks’ time. Both Miss Bates and your father deserve some well-earned fussing.”
Father would no doubt think one party was quite enough fussing. “That’s very kind of you, but we cannot ask you to put yourself out, ma’am.”
The always-cheerful woman—sometimes a bittoocheerful— beamed at her. “Nonsense. Now if you’ll excuse me, I see Mrs. Cox.” She glanced around, looking conspiratorial. “Young William is in his cups and causing quite a bit of a commotion in the great hall. I thought to drop a word in his mother’s ear.”
Emma sighed as Mrs. Cole bustled off. “Is it possible to hold an event at Donwell without one of the Cox children behaving badly? I suppose I must go and assess the damage.”
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as Mrs. Cole suggested,” Mrs. Weston replied. “William is with his sisters, after all.”
“Oh, joy. My cup overflows.”
While both sisters could be annoying, the eldest, Miss Anne Cox, was surely the most impertinent girl in Highbury—if not the county.
