Carrie Bebris - The Intrigue at Highbury

To Emma, meanwhile, fell the unenviable task of presiding over a dining table whose atmosphere had altered considerably. The unseemly intoxication of the groom’s uncle, a gentleman of Edgar Churchill’s stature, was a subject on everyone’s minds but no one’s tongues as they awkwardly tried to converse about any other subject in the world. Miss Bates had no trouble filling the uncomfortable silence, and Emma for once was grateful for her steady, cheerful chatter. The more she spoke, however, the more pained Mr. Wynnken appeared, and the major looked as if he very much wished that she, too, would retire from the room pleading indisposition. Mr. Nodd seemed in danger of nodding off altogether. Emma’s matchmaking plans were unraveling before her eyes.

Mr. Woodhouse blamed the bisque. Rich food, he had long maintained, was never good for anybody’s digestion, but especially for an elderly gentleman such as Edgar Churchill. (At nine-and-fifty, Mr. Woodhouse was yet on the light side of sixty, the year which, in his mind, marked the threshold of old age. In temperament and habits, however, Mr. Woodhouse had been old at thirty.) He passionately attempted to dissuade everyone near him from so much as tasting the syllabub. Only Mrs. Elton complied — not out of doubts regarding the dessert’s richness, but out of conviction of its inferiority to the syllabub served at Maple Grove.

When Mr. Knightley returned and reported that Mr. Churchill had fallen into slumber, a sense of ease rippled through the assembly. Edgar Churchill would sleep off his overindulgence. For the present, both he and his embarrassing behavior could be quite guiltlessly forgotten.

It was most inconsiderate of Edgar Churchill to die during his nephew’s marriage celebration.

The women had returned to the drawing room, leaving the men to their port and tobacco, when a footman entered and discreetly informed Emma that she was wanted posthaste by Mr. Perry. She reached Edgar’s chamber to discover her husband and Frank Churchill also about to enter.

“Has Mr. Churchill’s condition declined?” she asked.

“We were not told.” Mr. Knightley opened the door.

Edgar Churchill lay prostrate beneath a sheet. Mr. Perry, his round face and keen eyes bearing an unusually grave expression, stood over him. The apothecary had removed his own coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves, which he now restored to their proper position at his wrists. Two maids gathered soiled linen; despite the chill, a window had been opened.

“My uncle is worse?” Frank asked.

“I am terribly sorry, Mr. Churchill. Your uncle is dead.”

Emma gasped.

“How can that be?” Frank exclaimed. “You assured me earlier that he would be fine — that you would see to his care. Mr. Knightley informed us all that he was sleeping.”

“He was — so deeply that he did not waken, even when he evacuated his stomach. After the servants tidied him up and put him into a nightshirt, he continued to sleep soundly, though his pulse was quite rapid and his breathing turned shallow. I did not anticipate that he would stop breathing altogether.” Mr. Perry ran a hand through his thinning hair. The loss of a patient, even one so little known to him, clearly distressed him. “I could not revive him — it was as if his lungs had simply forgotten their duty.”

“He had but three glasses of wine,” Frank said. “I have seen him drink more with no ill effect.”

“You knew him better than I,” Mr. Perry said, “but he did not appear tonight to be a man who can hold his liquor.”

“His conduct this evening was most unusual. I cannot account for it, except that he has not been himself since my aunt’s death, most particularly this se’nnight past.”

“Had he any wine or other spirits before coming here?” Mr. Knightley asked. “He seemed quite agitated about your having entered into your engagement with Jane Fairfax without his knowledge. Perhaps he was not as favorably disposed to the marriage as you believed, and dwelled upon his displeasure over Madeira or brandy before coming to dinner.”

“Nay, only tea, which we took with the Westons at half past four.” He approached his uncle, touched his hand. “I regret the pain all the secrecy surrounding our betrothal caused. Yet it was necessary at the time. Who could have imagined, when I met Jane, that within a twelvemonth I would have my independence? That I would lose both aunt and uncle in so short a span? I would not have dreamed it, nor wished it, for the world.”

Indeed, Emma thought, who could have imagined the two deaths occurring so unexpectedly? And with such fortuitous results for one individual?

Frank stepped away from the lifeless body. “I must impart the news to Jane before the rest of the company learns of it. What a somber end to our celebration! And what an odd homecoming it will be when I bring my bride to Enscombe — installing her as mistress and myself as master all at once.” He left to find his wife.

Emma felt sorrow for both the misters Churchill. This was a shocking loss to Frank, particularly following so rapidly upon the death of his aunt. She could not help but also realize the unpleasant repercussions of this event to herself. Surely this was the most infamous dinner party in Highbury’s history! One of their most prominent guests had died — practically at the dining table. She could envision now how Mrs. Elton would describe the event in her next letter to Maple Grove.

No one would ever dine at Donwell again. Everybody would assume—

Her stomach churned. What if their assumptions proved true? What if, in fact, it was not drink that had killed Mr. Churchill, but spoiled partridge or tainted mussels, or some lethal root mistaken by the cook for horseradish?

“Mr. Perry, might he have died because of something he ate?”

“Unless others were ill when you left them just now, I doubt it was anything you served.” He offered a reassuring half-smile. “You need not fear having inadvertently poisoned your guests, Mrs. Knightley. Mr. Churchill’s distress seemed to have begun before anybody even entered the dining room. I believe the rest of us are quite safe.”

Emma’s uneasiness diminished, but Mr. Knightley now frowned.

“Perry, what do you believe caused Edgar Churchill’s death?”

“He could have ingested something earlier that did not agree with him, perhaps with his tea. One might expect, were this the case, that Frank Churchill and the Westons would be suffering similar effects if they took tea together. Edgar Churchill, however, was older, and would be more vulnerable to any virulence that he happened to encounter, particularly if he was already suffering melancholy due to the recent loss of his wife.”

The apothecary put on his coat, buttoning it across his generous paunch. “I know nothing about Edgar Churchill’s state of health before tonight,” he added. “It may be that he took medicine for some malady and accidentally used too much.”

“What sort of medicine? Laudanum?”

Mr. Perry shook his head. “Several of his symptoms do not correspond with opium overdose. Laudanum contracts the pupils, whereas his were quite dilated, and does not excite but slows the pulse. As I have also not observed among patients taking laudanum the sort of raving in which Mr. Churchill indulged, I would suspect another drug to be the agent of his demise, if it was caused by any drug at all. Perhaps Frank can tell you whether his uncle was taking remedies for any complaints.”