“Yes,” said Gilbert. “Funny how an animal can take the place of a confidant.” He picked up the decanter and offered it to Knightley, who shook his head.
“Well,” said Gilbert, pouring himself a little more, “if the silence becomes too oppressive, let me know. I’ll save a pup for you.”
That night the rumble of thunder awakened Knightley from his nightmare. Without lighting a candle he could not be sure of the time, but it seemed to him to be the very darkest part of the night. It had been an extraordinary dream, and had seemed so very real!
He had dreamed that it was morning, and that Baxter was waking him by telling him that the parish council had been persuaded by Elton to pull down the lime walk at Donwell. The workmen were already there, ready to begin felling the trees. All Knightley needed to do was to go quickly to the walk and tell them to stop. But everything conspired to prevent him. He could not get dressed because Baxter could find no shirt for him, and when Knightley impatiently looked for one himself, he could not find one, either. He pulled on an old coat instead of a shirt and left the bedroom. But Larkins was just outside the door, pleading with him to go over the accounts at just that moment, “for you know, Mr. Knightley, ‘business is the salt of life’, as the old saying goes. Mrs. Hodges says that she has very little salt left.” For some reason, Knightley felt he had to take the time to explain that the salt in the old proverb was not literal salt. It took a little while to convince Larkins of that, and even longer to convince him that he would have to go over the accounts some other time. Finally Larkins left and Knightley got as far as the top of the stairs.
There was Dr. Hughes, with his leg still broken, proposing to descend the stairs by hopping gently down on his good leg. Of course, Knightley could only offer to help him, but their progress was agonizingly slow. As they reached the bottom, he was accosted by Mrs. Whitney who needed help finding her fan. She looked so distressed that Knightley made a cursory search around the ground floor rooms to see if it was anywhere about. She followed him as he hunted for it, talking all the time about her sad life as a widow and how she really ought to be mistress of an estate like Donwell. He felt acutely his lack of a shirt and pulled the coat as tightly around him as he could, but knew that she could tell that he was not fully dressed. At last Knightley managed to excuse himself and escaped out of the house. He tried to run to the lime walk, but kept tripping over stones and bushes that seemed to spring up out of the ground. At last he could see the trees and the workmen already hacking at a tree with their axes. Elton was there, looking on, fanning himself with Mrs. Whitney’s painted fan. Knightley tried to shout at the men to stop, but his voice made no sound. Before he could reach them, the trunk was severed and the tree crashed to the ground.
He woke up then, sweating and panting, and lay there for a moment wondering if any of it had really happened. A second rumble of thunder made him realize that the sound of the tree falling had been made by thunder. The lime walk must be safe, then, and Mrs. Whitney was not really waiting for him downstairs. The relief he felt was overwhelming. Still, it was over an hour before he fell back into an uneasy slumber.
By morning the rain had mellowed into a light drizzle, but the ground was still so muddy that Knightley rode one of the Crown horses over to Hartfield to give them the greetings Isabella had included in the letter he had received from John the day before. Knightley was amply repaid for his kindness by the heartfelt gratitude of Mr. Woodhouse, and by the refreshing sight of two beautiful and wholesome young women, Emma and Harriet, sitting together with their embroidery. The spectre of Mrs. Whitney with all her affected nonsense had been haunting him all morning—the share she had in his nightmare had been perhaps the most horrifying part of it.
When all the little items of news in John’s letter had been talked over, Mr. Woodhouse said, “And now, Emma, we must ask Mr. Knightley if he knows where the book is.”
Knightley turned an enquiring face to Emma.
“Papa is speaking of the book John and Isabella gave him last year, The Antiquities of England and Wales. Harriet is interested in seeing the engravings of Reading Abbey. The book ought to be in the library, but we could not find it.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “I fear my memory is not what it was—and then my eyes are not as good as they once were. But as you kindly arranged some of my books for me a month or two ago, I thought perhaps you might remember where we might find that particular book.”
“I believe I do, sir. If you will excuse me one moment, I will go to the library and look.”
It did not take Knightley long to find the book, though he could scarcely blame Emma or her father for not knowing where it was. He ought to have remembered that it was one of the few books that Mr. Woodhouse did peruse on occasion and put it in a more prominent place.
“Ah, you have found it,” said Mr. Woodhouse when Knightley reappeared with the book. “I am very grateful, Mr. Knightley. I do not know what I should do without you. And now, Miss Smith, if you will sit in the chair beside mine, I will show you the engravings we were speaking of.”
“You look very tired,” said Emma to Knightley as her father opened the book eagerly and read to Harriet the titles under each picture. “I’ve seen you twice stifle a yawn. Are you quite well?”
“Oh, yes. I am rather tired, I suppose—the storm woke me last night.” He did not want to tell her about the nightmare. She would appreciate the humour in it, but then she would tease him about Mrs. Whitney. John was bad enough about matchmaking; to have Emma harassing him about finding a wife was somehow even more dreadful.
“You ought to have rested this morning, then, instead of coming here. To ride out in the rain in order to get chilled and wet when you are already tired must make you ill.”
He smiled and shook his head at her. “Emma, Emma, I have people enough fussing over my health.” He glanced at Mr. Woodhouse. “Have the goodness to let me take care of myself.”
“Ah, but do you take care of yourself? You are always busy about parish business or the home farm or visiting tenants or helping Papa. If you fall prey to nervous exhaustion from too many parish meetings, who will scold you for taking too much upon yourself? William Larkins, I am sure, never thinks of such a thing. As long as you can go over the accounts with him he will think you are fit enough.”
Knightley remembered Larkins’ behaviour in his dream and laughed. “Never mind, Emma. If I ever do suffer from nervous exhaustion, I promise to come to Hartfield to be coddled by you and your father. Will that satisfy you?”
“I suppose it must,” she smiled back, though the concern in her face was not entirely gone. “But prevention is better than cure, and as Papa said, we could not do without you.”
He inclined his head in thanks, and was about to tell her that she, at least, looked very well, when Harriet broke in.
“Miss Woodhouse, was it St. George’s Chapel that Mr. Weston was telling us he had seen? Or was it another chapel of the same name?”
She turned to answer Harriet, and Knightley watched her as she conversed with her friend. Emma did indeed look very well. She was all that was graceful and poised, and another woman with such elegance might have been haughty and cold. But Emma’s affectionate nature for those she loved prevented this. Indeed, she seemed to be even improving in her solicitude for others. She had always been attentive to her father, of course, but now she was even careful for his own health. And he could see in the way that she looked at and spoke to Harriet that she was sincerely fond of the girl. It may have been a sort of maternal interest—he had seen that same look on Isabella’s face often enough as she spoke to her children—but there was plenty of benevolence in her attentions. However misguided Emma’s notions were, there was no doubt, as she had once protested, that she meant to do Harriet good.
The words she is loveliness itself came into his mind. Someone had said that about Emma recently…who was it? Mr. Woodhouse? No, not him. He frowned in concentration. It was the sort of thing tha
t Elton would say, but Elton was not quite rash enough to say such a thing to Knightley—yet. Where had he been when he had heard those words? They were quite true. Her hazel eyes sparkled when she was being mischievous and shone when she looked at her father. And her voice was lovely: sweet without being affected and clear without being shrill. If it wasn’t Elton, then who…
“Mr. Knightley, if you will look so sternly you must at least tell us what it is about Mrs. Weston’s plan that you disapprove.”
Knightley came out of his reverie with a start. “I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma with a raised eyebrow, “What is it that offends you? Ought the pupils to have no celebration at all? Or is it only the particulars of the entertainment that you distain? I perceive the latter is the true reason for your censure.”
Knightley was completely at a loss. He had no idea what they had been talking about. Something about a celebration, evidently, but what on earth was he to say? He shrugged his shoulders and tried to smile as complacently as possible.
“Very well then,” Emma continued when he said nothing, “We shall apply to you to draw up a list of Christmas entertainments suitable for Mrs. Goddard’s pupils.”
“But pray, Mr. Knightley,” interjected Mr. Woodhouse, “do not recommend snap-dragon as one of the diversions. I tremble to think of the consequence if one of the young ladies were to burn herself! Whoever can have invented such an amusement? Plucking raisins from burning brandy! Such folly!”
“Have no fear, Mr. Woodhouse,” said Knightley. “I have no inclination to do any such thing—no inclination at all. Miss Smith would be a far better judge of what Mrs. Goddard’s pupils would enjoy, and I suggest that Emma should take the advice of her friend in such matters. She will not propose anything untoward.” He inclined his head with a smile to Harriet.
“Thank you, sir,” said Harriet, flushing with pleasure but without the usual giggle, as Knightley noted with approval. Emma’s lessons in manner were evidently having some effect.
“My dear Emma,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “perhaps Mr. Knightley would take tea and a little something to eat… perhaps a dish of gruel?”
“No, thank you, sir,” said Knightley, rising. “I would greatly enjoy a longer visit here, but I must get back to Donwell. I have a letter to write.”
6th December
Donwell Abbey
Dear John,
Where on earth did you scrape up an acquaintance with Mrs. Whitney? I cannot believe that you, who cherish sensible conversation, invited that woman to dine at Wellyn House. And if she is the first in a string of similar potential brides, I beg to inform you that I will quit Donwell Abbey immediately and retire to Northamptonshire where I will handle Graham’s estate business for him.
Speaking of Graham, tell him that Lord Carrick’s bailiff in Scotland wants a new situation in a warmer climate. As you know, many of the Scots have done wonders with their estates, and Lord Carrick in particular has a model system in place. Of course his bailiff will want a large salary, but I shouldn’t think Graham would mind that.
Mr. Woodhouse and Emma are very well, and both send all the usual wishes to you and yours. I was going to say more about this business of a “string of old maids” but must close this epistle now—someone needing my counsel as a magistrate has just been announced. If you dare to send another woman in this direction I will never write to you again.
Yours in brotherly friendship—for now,
George
8th December
Wellyn House
Brunswick-square
Dear George,
So Mrs. Whitney is not to your taste? I am very sorry to hear it. I thought that you would at least admire her fan. It will do you no good to run to Northamptonshire—Graham has a spinster sister who lives with him and is every bit as charming as Mrs. Whitney. I don’t suppose you know if Lord Carrick’s bailiff is a single man? If he is, Graham will probably hire him sight unseen, grasping at the opportunity to get his sister married. I suppose I ought not to have told you this—I ought to have let you go to Graham’s and discover his sister for yourself. I shall do better another time…
Yours in the eternal friendship of brotherhood,
John
9
“Mr. Woodhouse is taking the air in the garden, Mr. Knightley,” said the hall porter at Hartfield. “Will you join him there or wait for him indoors? Miss Woodhouse, Miss Smith and Mr. Elton are in the morning room.”
“I shall go and find him in the garden, thank you,” said Knightley. Perhaps Elton would leave before Mr. Woodhouse finished his exercise, although that seemed rather unlikely. Elton was now nearly part of the furniture at Hartfield. He wished that Elton would hurry up and offer for Emma so that he could be refused and spend his days elsewhere. There were rumours enough already about. Even Spencer had asked him if it was true that the vicar of Highbury was going to marry Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield—evidently William Larkins had paid Spencer a visit and unburdened himself of that speculation. It was a bad thing for a vicar to be the main subject of local gossip, and he hated Emma’s name being coupled with that…wussock.
No, no, he chided himself with a sigh. Show respect for the office, if not for the man. He opened the garden door and stepped out onto the terrace. Mr. Woodhouse was slowly pacing the rose walk that led from the terrace to the shrubbery.
“Ah, Mr. Knightley!” said Mr. Woodhouse, as the younger man joined him. “You find me taking my winter walk. You ought to have waited for me indoors, by the fire. You have no doubt walked all the way from Donwell, and must be chilled.”
“Not at all, sir. The sky is wonderfully clear and there is no wind to speak of. I would rather walk with you, if you can tolerate my company.”
“That would give me great pleasure, Mr. Knightley, if only my slow pace of walking will not inconvenience you.”
“Not at all.” The slower, the better, as far as Knightley was concerned.
“I suppose you have come about the portrait?” said Mr. Woodhouse.
“What portrait is that?”
“Oh, have you not heard, then? Emma is drawing a portrait of Miss Smith. That is, she has nearly completed the drawing in pencil, and then she is to finish it in watercolours. Everyone who has seen it has admired it extremely. I was sure Mrs. Weston had mentioned it to you.”
“I’m certain she would have if I had seen her in these last few days, but I have not.”
“Dear Emma is so clever with her drawings and paintings! She has a natural talent, does she not, Mr. Knightley?”
“Indeed, yes,” said Knightley, and it was quite true. Emma had a great deal of natural talent, and a little teaching and practice would have made her an excellent artist. Her drawings showed promise, and he never saw them without being struck by the simplicity of line and form that yet conveyed so much. If only she had taken the time to really work at her drawing! She had not drawn much recently, and he would have been eager to go inside to see the latest endeavour if only he could be sure Elton had gone.
It was not long before Mr. Woodhouse was finished with his walk and ready to return to the house to see what had been done to Harriet’s portrait. The morning room had large windows that made the most of the winter sun, and Emma was seated at her low easel near one of them. A bright shaft of sunlight came through the window and illuminated her. Her cream-coloured gown glowed almost golden, and her hair was touched with radiance. That is a picture, thought Knightley. Harriet was sitting a few feet away in an obviously posed attitude, and Elton was, regrettably, seated near Emma. He had been reading aloud, but put the book aside and rose to his feet when Mr. Woodhouse and Knightley entered.
“Emma, my dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “Mr. Knightley would like to see the portrait. There it is, Mr. Knightley. What do you think?”
It was a beautiful picture. Emma had caught the sweetness and guileless-ness of Harriet’s countenance, though she had taken liberties with the details of her appea
rance, altering Harriet’s height and something about the face. It was an idealized picture of Harriet: Harriet as Emma would have made her. The real Harriet was very pretty; the Harriet of the portrait was perfection. A little too perfect, in Knightley’s opinion. A human creature, even with faults, was better than an ethereal ideal. A familiar sense of impatience welled up in him. Emma evidently intended to “improve” her friend in every possible way—manner, mind, connections must all be enhanced. And what could not be changed in reality must be attempted at least in art.
“Well?” said Emma. “Is it a good likeness?”
“You have made her too tall, Emma,” said Knightley.
“No, indeed I have not! It represents her height completely.”
“Oh, no! certainly not too tall,” put in Elton warmly, “Not in the least too tall. Consider, she is sitting down—which naturally presents a different—” He paused, searching for words. “Which in short,” he went on, “gives exactly the idea—and the proportions must be preserved, you know. Proportions, fore-shortening.” He stopped again, somewhat confused, but returned to the material point with vigour. “Oh, no! it gives one exactly the idea of such a height as Miss Smith's. Exactly so indeed!"
Knightley mastered the laughter that threatened to burst out at the comical expression on Emma’s face. Though gratified to have her side of the debate championed, Emma obviously felt that Elton’s indignant defence of her drawing was less able than might be wished. The drawing should have an able defence; it should have the praise it deserved. Very well, then.
“You have caught Miss Smith’s air and expression admirably,” Knightley said. “And the composition is perfect. It really is very well done.”
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