Page 81 of Murder at Donwell Abbey
“Good afternoon, Mr. Barlowe,” Emma said as he came abreast of them.
He jerked to a halt, almost tripping over his feet. “Er, sorry. I didn’t see you there, Mrs. Knightley.” He looked at Henry. “And, ah …”
“Henry,” she supplied. “My oldest nephew.”
“Of course.” He touched the brim of his wide cleric’s hat. “If you’ll excuse me, I must be off.”
“I hope all is well, sir,” she replied, rather put out by his rudeness.
His glance darted past her toward the village. “Nothing is wrong, Mrs. Knightley. Good bye.”
He dashed off, giving her no chance to reply.
“Goodness,” she said, more to herself than to Henry.
“Papa said Mr. Barlowe is a scrub. I don’t exactly know what that means, but I think I agree with him.”
Emma choked on a laugh. “A scrub is a low, mean person. It’s an exaggeration in Mr. Barlowe’s case, although I’ll grant his manners leave something to be desired.”
A few minutes later found them stepping through Hartfield’s front door. Simon appeared from the back hall to take their coats and hats.
“Are my father and sister having tea?” Emma asked the footman.
“Mr. Woodhouse said he would join you after Miss Bates arrives and you go over the household accounts.”
Drat. She’d completely forgotten she was to meet with Miss Bates about the accounts—likely because she was dreading the entire process.
She repressed a sigh. “And my sister?”
“Mrs. Knightley is in the drawing room. Should I bring up tea?”
“Yes, please.”
John, one of Emma’s other nephews, came pelting down the stairs.
“There you are,” he exclaimed, bashing into Henry. “I’ve been waiting for you forever.”
Henry gave him a brotherly shove. “I have to see Mama first. Then we can play in the garden.”
“Mama’s busy writing boring letters. You can say hello later.”
The boys gave Emma a pleading look.
She waved them off. “Fine, go play. You can have tea with your mother later.”
They chorused their thanks before barreling down the hall. Emma followed at a more reasonable pace, then entered the drawing room to find Isabella seated at their father’s writing desk.
“Good afternoon,” she said.
When Isabella turned round to greet her, Emma frowned. Her sister looked rather out of sorts.
“Emma, there you are. Is Henry with you?”
“He and John are having a jaunt about the garden but will be in for tea.”
Isabella frowned. “I do hope they remembered to wear their gloves.”
“Isabella, is everything all right?” Emma asked.
