Page 90 of Murder at Donwell Abbey
“It’s just a shame the smugglers feel the need to conduct their business on my lands,” George sardonically commented.
Mr. Weston winced. “Sorry, old man. I wasn’t thinking of it that way.”
“Perhaps you should,” Mrs. Weston tartly said. “The very notion of smugglers at Donwell makes me feelquiteuneasy.”
“I suspect this was a one-time occurrence,” said George. “Freetraders are greatly inclined to avoid contact with anyone who might cause them trouble, especially the local magistrate.”
“We can only hope,” Mrs. Weston replied. “Does Isabella know about this?”
Emma glanced toward the pond. Her sister was now marching toward them, agitation evident in every step. “I think she does now.”
Larkins was also on his way back, and he and Isabella converged on their group at the same time.
“Why didn’t you tell me that Henry saw smugglers in the back garden?” Isabella exclaimed in markedly shrill tones. “What if they had seen him? You could have all been murdered in your beds!”
Emma tried to capture her sister’s flailing hands. “Dearest, I assure you, there was never any danger. We couldn’t even confirm they were smugglers at the time, which is why we didn’t tell you.”
Isabella flapped her hands even harder. “Henry says they were in the back garden! Why would anyone be that close to the house?”
George intervened. “We don’t know that they were. As I explained to Henry, it can be difficult to ascertain distance at night. One might think a light is closer than it appears.”
Emma suddenly frowned. “Isabella, how did you find out?”
“Miss Bates said you found something, and Henry wanted to go see what it was. When I asked him why, he told me that he’d seen smugglers.”
That didn’t sound like Emma’s nephew. “Henry actually told you that he saw smugglers?”
Isabella hesitated. “Well … no. He said he saw lights that night. It was Harry who told Miss Bates it might have been smugglers.”
George let out a sigh. Larkins muttered under his breath.
“And why does your footman know about smugglers and I don’t?” asked Isabella, winding herself up again.
Emma’s patience started to wear a trifle thin. “As I said, we didn’t actually know it was smugglers.”
“My dear, why don’t you take Isabella and Mrs. Weston back to the pond,” George said. “I’m sure the others must be wondering what we’re doing.”
She flashed him a grateful smile. “How rude of us to abandon our guests. I’ll take everyone back to the house to warm up.”
“That would be wise.”
Emma cast Mrs. Weston a significant glance. Her friend gave an understanding nod and then took Isabella by the arm and led her back to the pond, speaking in reassuring tones.
“What are you going to do?” Emma asked her husband.
“I’d like to follow these tracks to see which direction they continue in.”
“I’ll come with you,” Mr. Weston quickly volunteered.
The poor man, having finally realized he’d plunged himself into hot water with his wife, had clearly deemed it wise to avoid her for a spell.
“Emma, please do your best to quell any gossip,” said George. “It would be most unhelpful at this juncture.”
“I’ll try,” she replied. “But I fear that cat is well and truly out of the bag.”
George briefly cupped her cheek with his gloved hand. “We’ll sort it out, my darling. Never fear.”
She dredged up a smile for him before trudging back through the snow. Another party with another disastrous outcome. Still, at least no one had died, and for that she was profoundly grateful.
