“Too late,” said Cole, rising also. “My wife and daughters were to call on Mrs. Weston this very day while we have been meeting, and I am certain your good wife will have given them each a piece as well as one to carry home for myself.”
“No doubt. Well, the sooner it is all gone the sooner poor Mr. Woodhouse will be relieved from his anxiety on the score of everyone’s health. Elton, you ought to call again and help us to eat it up.”
“I should be very happy to,” said Elton, and stood up, stretching surreptitiously as he did so. He took up his hat and gloves and moved toward the door, glancing out the window as he passed it. Something he saw arrested his attention, causing him to stop suddenly and forcing Knightley, who was coming behind him, to stop as well. Knightley looked out the window and saw instantly what had stayed the vicar’s steps: Emma was across the road, looking into the shop window of Ford’s, and with her was a young woman. Knightley could not remember the last time he had seen Emma out together with another young lady, and he gazed at the pair for several moments trying to determine who it might be.
By this time Weston had gathered that there was something of interest outside the window. “What is it, Elton? Something amiss?”
“Ah—no, no,” said Elton. “I see John Abdy walking along—looking very frail, I must say. I was wondering whether—ah—he was looking more feeble than he used to look.”
Weston joined them at the window. “Yes, he does look bad, poor thing. No doubt he’s failing a bit. And there’s Miss Woodhouse and her new little friend, Miss Smith. Do you know Miss Smith, Knightley? No? Such a pleasant young girl—only seventeen, I believe—and Emma will do her a great deal of good. Bring her out in society more, you know, and that sort of thing. She was a pupil of Mrs. Goddard’s. Still lives there as parlour-border. Mrs. Weston is so pleased that she can be a companion for Emma. And there they go into Ford’s. I tell Mrs. Weston that Ford’s is like a magnet that draws in all the young ladies. No lady can come into Highbury without stopping there, what?”
“Mrs. Cole cannot, at any rate,” said that lady’s husband, who declined to add himself to the party at the window, “And if she cannot shop there herself, she gives me commissions to attend to on her behalf. I have one today, as it happens, and I’m afraid I must part company with you, gentlemen. I’ll see you tomorrow, Weston, Elton. Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley.”
“Well, now, Knightley,” said Weston after they had all quitted the Crown, “Can you come to Randalls now and eat up more of the wedding cake? Mrs. Weston would be very pleased to see you.”
“No, I thank you. I promised William Larkins that I would go and inspect some cottages this afternoon.”
“Very well, very well. I mustn’t interfere with promises made to William Larkins, I know. I suppose I will see you Thursday evening at Hartfield?”
“Yes, indeed. Hartfield’s first dinner in honour of the Westons cannot be missed. Give my regards to Mrs. Weston.”
“Of course. And mine to William Larkins,” said Weston with a twinkle in his eye. “Until Thursday, then.”
William Larkins received the regards of Mr. Weston from Knightley with a very modified rapture. He was a short man of about fifty-five with greying hair and a rather severe expression. He nodded his acknowledgement of the courtesy, but quickly got to the business at hand.
“I sent a message to the cottagers this morning to say that we would be along this afternoon, sir, so as not to embarrass them with an unexpected visit.”
“And which cottages are these, exactly?” asked Knightley as the two men set forth.
“The ones along the mill road. The assistant game-keeper Green’s cottage is among them. They are the oldest on the estate, and they are in such a condition now that they ought to be replaced.”
Knightley nodded. Larkins was nearly always right about these things.
“There have been no new cottages built here in the last ten years, have there, Larkins?”
“No, sir. The last cottages to be built were the four near the stables, twelve years ago.”
“The year ’01. Yes, I remember now. That was the last thing my father built, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Larkins.
“You had better look out some new pattern books of designs for cottages. Green needs to have a good place to live. I should hate to lose him as assistant game-keeper on account of an unimproved cottage.”
As usual, Larkins received Knightley’s humour with all seriousness.
“I do not think such a consideration would ever tempt Green to leave your service, Mr. Knightley. He is as loyal to Donwell Abbey as anyone could well be. But I must tell you, sir, that Mrs. Green is not as happy as she might be with her present cottage. I have heard her holding forth on the subject to the lodge-keeper’s wife.”
Knightley hid a smile. Larkins always played the role of an unwilling bearer of disagreeable news to someone who ought to know it. It was in this way that he spread more gossip than anyone else in the parish of Donwell. His communications usually began with the words, “I fear I must tell you…”
The three old cottages came into view. They looked well enough on the outside, but they were rather small: one room on the ground floor and one on the floor above. Each room was fairly spacious, but they were definitely built to an old design.
Larkins knocked on the first door and Mrs. Green opened it. She was a plump woman, just past middle age, but she made a graceful curtsey to the men and ushered them into the house. To their surprise, the women who occupied the other cottages were also there.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Knightley,” said Mrs. Green as the other ladies rose and curtseyed. “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour or so.”
“Not at all, Mrs. Green. You can answer our questions just as easily all together as you could separately. Mrs. Shaw, Mrs. Bull, do be seated again. Tea? Yes, thank you, Mrs. Green. And now you must all tell me every single thing that is wrong with these cottages.”
The list was long, although the women made as light of it as they could. The ceilings were low; the floors were rather damp; windows were scarce and small which made the cottages dark; they would like to have more rooms—at least two upstairs; the stairs were awkward. Larkins drank his tea in silence and let his master do the talking. Knightley asked questions, listened to the women, and gratified Mrs. Green by taking another cup of tea. He made no promises except that something would be done for them very shortly.
At the end of half an hour, the men rose and took their leave. Larkins departed in quest of the head gardener to find out how many bushels of apples the orchard had yielded, and Knightley walked back to the house alone, thinking about designs for cottages. It seemed to him that Weston had built a cottage on his small estate a year or so ago; he might know if there were any new books to be got on the topic. He might even have one that Knightley could borrow. He would ask him at the dinner at Hartfield on Thursday. Emma would laugh at him, of course, for asking to borrow a book instead of buying it for himself. She thought he was altogether too frugal. Of course she must know that he would buy a book if it merited purchase, but he preferred to glance through a book first if he could before laying out money to make it part of his library.
Emma….yes, what about this new friendship of Emma’s? A girl of seventeen, was she? That did not bode well. What Emma needed was to be influenced by a woman she respected, one who was superior to Emma in just those points where Emma was lacking, and equal enough to her accomplishments to provide a basis for a friendship. A girl of seventeen would hardly fit that description. Perhaps there was something in the girl’s situation that merited Emma’s interest or compassion. But what sort of situation would that be? Emma, who was usually so scrupulous as to distinctions in rank, would seem to be the last young lady to choose a girl with low connections as a companion. There must be more to it than met the eye. There was no time today to call at Hartfield, but tomorrow he would pay a visit to the Woodhouses and see what he could discov
er.
“Ah! Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Woodhouse from his usual chair by the fire. “It is so good of you to come, particularly on a cold day such as this. Does it rain? I looked out of the window not long ago and there seemed to be some very threatening clouds.”
“Not at all,” said Knightley. “I saw nothing that looked like rain. And it is not so very cold, sir, as it looks. It is rather warmer than one expects a day in October to be.” He took a chair near Mr. Woodhouse, but a little further from the fire.
“Well, you relieve my mind, Mr. Knightley, very much. Emma and her little friend Miss Smith are out walking to Randalls and I was quite afraid that they might be caught in the rain. But if you say there is no chance of it, then I am content. I fear there is a great deal to trouble my mind just now—I have had a letter from my banker in London, and I cannot understand what it is he wants me to do. It is all about the funds and interest and things of that nature. Between my anxiety over the letter and my worry for dear Emma and her little friend I have been exceedingly distracted all the afternoon.”
“Would you wish me to see the letter, sir? I might be able to understand what is wanted.”
“Ah! That is very good of you. I do not wish to trouble you, but then you are so very clever at understanding these difficult things. The letter is in my library—perhaps you would be good enough to come with me and read it there?”
Knightley assented and followed Mr. Woodhouse into the library. It was a beautiful room, housing an impressive collection of books, though very few of them were new in the last fifty years. Mr. Woodhouse was no sort of scholar and had neither disturbed his collection nor added to it in several decades. Emma was not a great reader, either, and it always made Knightley a little wistful to see the wealth of knowledge on the library shelves and know that it was not being used.
Mr. Woodhouse found his letter and gave it to Knightley. Three minutes were sufficient for him to master its contents, and he was able to give such a clear explanation of the matter that even Mr. Woodhouse could hardly fail to comprehend it. The only thing remaining was to write a letter in response, and, as usual, Knightley obliged by doing the task himself.
“I am a very troublesome neighbour to you, Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Woodhouse as he signed his name at the bottom of the letter. “And I am very sorry to inconvenience you so often with my business affairs.”
“It is my pleasure to serve you, sir,” said Knightley sincerely. “I am indebted to you for your constant hospitality and friendship; you have no need to thank me.”
“It is very handsome of you to say so, Mr. Knightley. And now, perhaps we ought to return to the drawing room; I wonder if Emma and Miss Smith have come back?”
As the gentlemen entered the drawing room they saw that the ladies had indeed returned and were sitting cosily together, talking. Emma had a book in her hand, though it was closed, and whatever the conversation was about it did not seem to include the book. Emma rose and went to greet her father with affection and escort him to his chair. Miss Smith rose also and she and Knightley were introduced. She certainly was a pretty girl, a little awed by her introduction to Mr. Knightley, but not awkwardly shy.
“And how did you find poor Miss Taylor?” asked Mr. Woodhouse when all were seated again.
“Mrs. Weston is very well, Papa, and she sent her best regards to you. She says that she is quite impatient for Thursday to come, to be dining at Hartfield again with us.”
“Ah! It is very sad indeed that she should have to dine anywhere else. I am sure she is always very welcome here. I hope, Miss Smith, that you enjoyed your visit to Randalls?”
“Oh yes, indeed, sir. Mrs. Weston is so very kind.”
“I hope you did not eat any wedding cake, Miss Smith; it is most unwise to eat wedding cake.”
“Oh, Papa,” said Emma, breaking in, “Mrs. Weston showed Harriet her letter from Mr. Frank Churchill. Harriet agreed that it was a very handsome letter, didn’t you, Harriet?”
“Yes, very handsome, Miss Woodhouse.”
“Ah! I think anyone who has seen the letter must agree, do not you, Mr. Knightley?” said Mr. Woodhouse. “You have seen the young man’s letter, I believe?”
“Yes, I have. I thought it very proper of him to write to Mrs. Weston on the occasion of her marriage. What is that book you were reading, Emma, when I came in?”
“It is Dr. Watts’ On The Improvement of the Mind. Harriet and I have been reading it together.” She spoke with some smugness; she knew he believed that she did not do enough serious reading. “And when we have finished with it we will begin on Rollin’s Ancient History.”
Knightley looked at the bookmark, reposing in what appeared to be the first chapter of the book.
“Are you fond of reading, Miss Smith?” was his next question.
“Oh, yes, sir. I have read all of Miss Edgeworth’s novels as well as The Vicar of Wakefield and several more besides. I have not read many books of the sort that Miss Woodhouse has chosen for us to read—I had not heard of Dr. Watts’ book before we began to read it together last week—but I do think reading is a delightful occupation.”
“As do I, Miss Smith. I hope you will enjoy the book you have started—‘some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested’—and I believe Dr. Watts’ work is in the last category.”
Harriet looked rather puzzled than edified by Bacon’s dictum.
“Mr. Knightley is only quoting Pope, Harriet,” said Emma. “He is comparing reading to eating—not a particularly elegant metaphor, I must say.”
“Oh! Of course, it is a quote, and a metaphor,” said Harriet. “I ought to have known. But you are so clever, Miss Woodhouse, to know so quickly which author said anything! I do not think that I will ever be able to learn such things.”
“Well, Harriet, I think that you will improve a good deal as we study together.” Emma’s tone was authoritative and confident.
“Be careful, Emma,” said Knightley, smiling. “'A little learning is a dangerous thing’—Pope did say that, before you hazard another guess.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Woodhouse, whose attention had been caught by the mention of tasting and swallowing. “One must always be careful what one eats. Digestion is so apt to be impaired by the wrong foods. I think it is very wise to be cautious about what you eat. But you need not fear while you are at Hartfield, Miss Smith. We have no unwholesome food here. Emma, my dear, will you ring for tea?”
An involuntary smile passed between Knightley and Emma as she rose to ring the bell.
3
Knightley closed the account book and put down his pen. Another good harvest this year — better than last year, in fact. Next year there would be enough money to drain the land around the Fisher farm and create another smallholding. He finished the remains of the spruce beer in his glass and looked into the cheerful fire of the library. It had always given him a feeling of plenitude and satisfaction when the work of the autumn was completed and winter was free to do its worst. The home farm, at any rate, was ready for the coming season. The larders were full, the animals were well provided for, the winter crops of vegetables were sown, and the roofs of the outbuildings had been examined and found free of leaks. He had every reason to feel the contentment that ought to come with the completion of a fruitful harvest season.
This year, however, he was conscious of a lack. Instead of feeling that he was free now to enjoy the social engagements of the winter months, he felt as if he wanted to be doing something more in the way of work to fill his time. Donwell Abbey, which had always seemed to him to be a sheltered refuge, was beginning to seem just a bit too sheltered — too far away from friendly society. He shook his head at the notion. Donwell was what it always had been. It was no more isolated than it ever was, and he had never had cause to be lonely. Perhaps the colder weather today and the shortening of the daylight hours had given him a fit of melancholy. Well, he ought to shake off this unfounded discontent before the H
artfield dinner. A book — an amusing book — would clear his mind. He had only begun to consider which volume might answer the purpose when the butler, a short, slight, middle-aged man, came in.
“Yes, Baxter?”
“I thought you would like to know, sir, that Dr. Hughes has broken his leg.”
“Broken his leg!” Knightley stared at the butler in surprise.
“Yes, Mr. Knightley. William Larkins heard it from the Hughes’ maid only this morning.”
“When did it happen? And how?”
“I believe the accident occurred yesterday, sir. William Larkins said something about a tumble down stairs, but I am not certain of exactly what transpired.”
“I must see him at once, of course,” said Knightley, rising. “Do you know what has been done for him?”
“William Larkins says that Mr. Perry was sent for immediately, and then a surgeon was brought from Kingston late last evening. Thomas has your things by the door, sir.”
“Thank you, Baxter.”
Knightley collected his hat, gloves, coat, and walking stick from the footman and took the path to the rectory of Donwell. This was a blow not only to Dr. Hughes but to all of the parish of Donwell. For a man who had reached his five-and-sixtieth year, the vicar was very busy: not only did he prepare sermons that were thoughtful and scholarly, yet not out of the mental reach of the largely unlettered congregation, but he regularly visited his parishioners and he had a place on the Donwell parish council. How long did broken legs take to mend? It probably took longer in an older man than a younger one. Perhaps the news was all wrong and it was merely a bad sprain instead of a break.
The Hughes’ housemaid answered the door and curtseyed when she saw Mr. Knightley.
“May I see Dr. Hughes?” said Knightley. “Or failing that, Mrs. Hughes?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Come this way, if you please, sir. If you’ll wait in the drawing room, sir, I’ll fetch Mrs. Hughes.” The maid ushered him into the room, curtseyed again, and disappeared.
Charity Envieth Not Page 2
