‘We cannot rejoice,’ said Mr Knightley, ‘the circumstances are too sad for that; but we can, at least, allow that our mourning must finish – and that there is a future to which the Churchill family can look forward.’
‘A second Frank Churchill.’ Emma spoke and paused; although she looked up at her husband, he, too, said nothing. His face was calm, serious, even stern. ‘We must pity Frank Churchill,’ said Emma, casting her eyes down to her fingers, twined about with her handkerchief.
‘We must. His devotion to his wife was the best thing about him.’ There was another silence during which Emma tried not to recall certain improprieties in the past with regard to her association with Frank Churchill – but failed. Blessed with the gift of seeing herself in a good light whenever possible, she was also in possession of an excellent memory which sometimes put obstacles in the way of the smooth operation of the first blessing. There had been a time when she had thought herself close to Frank, when he had made her think so.
‘We will not be able to avoid sharing in Mr Frank Churchill’s distress, I have no doubt,’ added Mr Knightley in a clipped tone quite unlike that he had used before. ‘I think I am right in saying that Mr Churchill’s letter was written out of a deep concern over his son’s behaviour. That poor old man has had much to put up with. But we need not concern ourselves with such things immediately. I must ride to Donwell where I have business; every day I miss old William Larkins more; on the way back I will call in on the Westons and the Bates to see if they have yet heard the news. You, meanwhile, dearest Emma,’ here he bent and stroked her hair, smoothing lovingly the escaping curls, ‘you must compose yourself – as best you can – for no purpose will be served by your father discovering this too early. Let him be in peace a little longer and I will return to you before dinner.’
Mr Knightley was gone; no further kiss or caress. This was the man Emma had chosen to love, the best man in the world, one she had known all her life and had always looked up to as the arbiter of everything good – everything good in her. To please him had always been her pleasure, for when she went against him as being a spoilt and headstrong girl and prone to taking her own way – as she had sometimes done – it had invariably turned out for the worst. Marriage to him was a safe harbour. Now, as he had ordained, she would compose herself, take up her sewing, and prepare to face her father when he woke so that he should not guess a thing.
But human nature is not so easily ruled. Emma had scarcely put more than three not very regular stitches into her cambric when she threw down the little square and jumped to her feet. ‘It is impossible to sit here when such things have happened which so concern those we love!’ she thought to herself incoherently. ‘It is all very well for Knightley to leap on his horse and gallop off to Donwell but how can he expect me to sit here quietly? I would have to be made of stone to behave in such a way!’
With such thoughts racing and her heart starting up again with as much vigour as Knightley’s horse’s hoofs beat the ground, Emma rang for her maid and then for Mr Woodhouse’s servant. From one she ordered her coat and hat and commanded her company on the walk into town; to the other she was more specific: ‘Inform your master – if he should awake – that I have gone to Ford’s to buy a new ribbon for my cap; and that I have taken Merry with me; and that I shall return directly!’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘That will not alarm dear papa a scrap,’ thought Emma with satisfaction as she speedily tied the surprisingly new ribbon on her bonnet and did up the buttons of her jacket. ‘The very triviality of my errand will set his mind at ease; for he can think of me as a silly girl who must haste to shop when the new stuff is in. He will await my return anxiously, certainly, but not with the sense that anything is especially wrong.’
‘Now, Merry!’ she said out loud, for the girl was dull and stood with her hands dangling. ‘Carry an umbrella with you because it looks as if the sun is not so securely outside of the clouds as it was this morning.’
So mistress and maid set out briskly from Hartfield, down the driveway which was bordered by high chestnuts, and on to the land which led to the inhabited part of Highbury. Indeed, a spectator who did not know the sad circumstances of her visit – for Emma was resolved to see her dear old friends, the Bates’s – mother and daughter – might have taken her bright face, in which the rosy colour was fully restored, and elastic step as indication of a light heart and a cheerful disposition.
Such a spectator, however, would have had to admit his mistake when he overheard the large sighs emitted by the young lady, accompanied by such doleful words as, ‘In truth, this is a sad mission I am on, Merry, and one in which only a strong sense of duty encourages me forward.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ agreed Merry, attempting to make her own looks suitably echo her mistress’s sentiments, although her imagination, such as it was, was much taken by thoughts of the ribbons in Ford’s shop.
Chapter 3
A strong autumnal wind, only partially revealed in the Hartfield shrubbery, made Emma’s arrival in the centre of town an occasion of relief.
Although she had never endured a day’s illness – apart from the usual childish ailments – Mr Woodhouse’s acute fears for his daughter’s safety had inevitably limited her taste for exercise. It would be a cruel heart that made a father suffer for too great boldness; so Emma had grown up to believe even the short walk to Ford’s – a small general draper but the centre of much activity – quite long enough. She always arrived with a sense of achievement, a little out of breath, her senses heightened enough to make it pleasurable.
On this occasion she arrived with a great deal more reason for glowing cheeks and beating heart; for not only was there the possibility of meeting those who were undergoing all the pain of recent bereavement, but she could also no longer disguise from herself that she was acting in direct opposition to Mr Knightley’s most carefully stated wishes. Oh, if she had only stayed to think a little longer! She had acted improperly – hastily – foolishly!
What if – horrible thought – Mr Woodhouse heard the news from some other source – quite likely in a place as small as Highbury – and she was away from home! She could hardly bear to contemplate how he might react. And then – more inevitable still – for had Knightley not said that he would, himself, visit the Westons and the Bates’s – was the chance that she would come face to face with her husband. This fear which, once they had entered town, made Emma turn every time she heard a horse’s hoof on the cobbles, threw her into such confusion that she stood with her hand on the knob to the door of Ford’s shop, without finding the power to turn it. Oh, that she could fly back to Hartfield and be safely in her chair with her needlework in her lap and her father in the room below her!
‘Miss Woodhouse. Good morning to you. I may dare to guess you have walked in on such a blustery day on an errand of mercy.’
Emma turned to the respectful nods of a middle-aged man who had come upon her unawares; he was a man better known at Hartfield than almost any other, Mr Perry – Mr Woodhouse’s doctor.
‘Oh, Mr Perry. I—’ Emma, confused, could hardly speak.
‘Perhaps you are resting a moment, preparing yourself before you go to Miss Bates. They have taken it very ill, very ill indeed. You will not see poor Mrs Bates, I make certain. I have just come from her. She will not leave her room, her bed. I am in some fear for her. But a visitor – such as you – at this time – will be felt an honour, a consolation. You may see neither of the ladies but the walk you have made – the blustery weather – not waiting for a carriage – they will be honoured. Their spirits, so low, still must be sensible of such attention from such a one as you.’
As Mr Perry made the speech – he who was not usually so loquacious, but perhaps felt that the gravity of the situation deserved many words – Emma tried to order her thoughts. It seemed that the doctor was commending her for her action. In her distress at risking her
father’s death (he would talk of it so) and crossing her husband – above all, she hated to displease Mr Knightley – Emma had almost forgotten the tragedy which had caused her to take her walk. But Mr Perry’s lingering words brought it before her again and a ready tear started in her eye. Perhaps it had not been so wrong to come, after all, whatever Knightley might think.
With Merry behind, still casting unrequited looks at Ford’s window, and Mr Perry at her side, Emma proceeded with more tranquillity to the Bates’s place of abode. At their door Mr Perry bowed and left and Emma was about to knock when she was addressed by another male voice.
‘Miss Woodhouse! You are here before me!’
Blushing with vexation, Emma turned once more to see the Reverend Mr Elton close behind. There was a time when she had thought of this man, still young, good-looking, as fit company for her evenings, but that had led to a misinterpretation that still caused her pain and, since his marriage to a Miss Augusta Hawkins and hers to Mr Knightley, there had been avoidance on both sides. Yet here he was, confidently hailing her.
‘Good morning, Mr Elton,’ she said quietly, with a distinct frown.
‘You are going in?’
Emma decided that needed no answer. Why else would she have her foot on the doorstep?
‘It is appropriate on these occasions that the representative of Christ in our midst should do whatever he may to alleviate suffering. Suffering in such a case is heavy. Our human condition makes it so. Our passions lead us into the temptation of temporal attachment which only true spirituality can counter. I shall go up and do what I may but I am not sanguine. Mrs Bates has not attended church for more than a year.’
‘Mrs Bates is old,’ defended Emma, driven to speech.
‘Miss Bates has not such an excuse.’
‘Miss Bates cannot leave Mrs Bates.’
‘Do not think that their absence from my church shall forfeit their right to any comfort I may afford them. I am not so harsh. However, there are those who think well enough of my Sunday testaments to copy them down. Such words can, I am assured, be a consolation in times of distress.’
Again Emma was silent. She was struck by the worsening of the arrogance in Mr Elton’s manner which she put down to the vulgar influence of Mrs Elton. They had both been prone to make a great fuss of Jane Fairfax before her marriage and departure from Highbury. Yet she could see no trace of unhappiness in his behaviour, only pomposity and self-satisfaction. It struck her further that her last wish in the world would be to visit poor old Miss Bates in the company of Mr Elton, representative of Christ on earth or not.
‘Please do me the favour of conveying my condolences to Mrs Bates and Miss Bates, Mr Elton. As you say, you are more fitted – more practised – for such a task. I shall visit them at a later date – when your spiritual comforting has soothed the grief following the loss of such an altogether virtuous, dutiful and beloved granddaughter and niece!’
With such ringing words, Emma flashed on her heel and started so fast down the road that Merry had to run to catch her up. Mr Elton was left standing, feeling vaguely put down, although not quite certain why. Assuming a face of deepest sympathy – which in his case meant contorting his smooth cheerful face as if he were sucking a cough drop – he slowly raised the knocker and brought it down with one solemn gong as if God himself had come to call on the two sorrowing ladies. They, unlike Mrs Knightley, had no way of avoiding him.
Emma, meanwhile, was still flying along although the wind, now against her, made progress difficult. ‘If I hurry,’ she was thinking to herself, ‘I may be back well before Knightley and, though of course I shall tell him I have been out – for if I did not, dear papa would – he will not be so cross when he sees me safely back and papa comfortable and no harm done. He may even commend me for my sensibility, if not my good sense.’
Unluckily for such sanguine hopes, Emma did not allow, in her haste, for the danger of over-strained ankles, a nervous lack of proper attention and a deep, partly hidden, rut in the lane. One moment she was up, the strings of her bonnet stretched out behind her in the wind, like the tail of a kite, and the next minute, she was down, sitting heavily in the dirt. She sprang to her feet at once but the twinge in her ankle was so sharp that even Merry’s strong arm was not enough to support her forward.
‘Oh, Merry, and we are so near home!’ cried Emma, her anger with the way things had turned out greater than any pain. ‘We have nothing else to do but to summon James to bring the carriage.’
‘Yes, ma’am. But should I leave you here on your own, ma’am?’ asked the girl doubtfully.
This was a dilemma indeed; but soon solved as the sound of horse’s hoofs was heard coming from the direction of Randalls in which house Mr and Mrs Weston lived. With a mixture of relief and anxiety, Emma knew it could be no one but Knightley on his way back from his visit. It was clear that he had not gone into town at all. Oh, what foolishness had led her to this moment! When all her energies should have led her to help others, now she herself would need the helping!
Chapter 4
‘You have had a fortunate escape,’ pronounced Mr Knightley later that evening as he and Emma prepared themselves for sleep. ‘You are young; Mr Perry makes certain your ankle is only slightly twisted. It will recover in a day or two. But, tell me, why did you feel such urgency in visiting the Bates? If you had wanted to pay a visit, then Mrs Weston would have been more natural an object as your far greater friend.’
How to explain? Emma could not – because she did not know the reason herself. She remembered feeling stifled in her little parlour. Why else? She scarcely wanted to think further – with all turning out so much less badly than she had feared.
Mr Woodhouse, quite to his daughter’s astonishment, had accepted the death of Mrs Churchill with an equanimity bordering on hard-heartedness. ‘She was of sickly disposition,’ was his immediate judgement. ‘I remember her, pale as a ghost, liable to every infection. Such women should not get married. I have said so often enough. Or – if I have not said so – I have thought so. You, Emma, my dear, are of quite a different constitution; besides, you have not been brought up as she was, cooped up in a little room, with the worst of everything, draughts, without fresh air—’
Here Emma had intervened to protest that from the age of nine, when she had been removed from the Bates’s, Jane had been very well looked after in Colonel Campbell’s household. But Mr Woodhouse had allowed no such fact to intervene between the consolation that perceiving Mrs Churchill in perfect sickness and his daughter in perfect health afforded him. ‘You, Emma, have not only had the benefit of Perry since you were a child but also the tender care of poor Miss Taylor – before her marriage to Mr Weston – and now the attentions of our dear Mr Knightley. On your account – even though you will walk when you should take out the carriage – I am sanguine. Curb your fondness for an open window and—’
‘Papa!’ Emma would have defended herself against such a heinous accusation but discretion taught her otherwise. ‘You may order James and the carriage for me whenever you please, papa,’ this said meekly; and then dinner had been announced and all else forgotten in Mr Woodhouse’s anxiety at Cook’s over-liberal use of butter.
***
‘So, Emma, why did you dash off to Highbury?’ Mr Knightley, his good, kind face turned towards her on the pillow of their bed, waited for an answer to his unanswerable question.
‘Oh, do you not remember our walking by the sea at Weymouth!’ It was not an answer but it acted as a diversion, whether Emma meant it to be such.
Knightley’s features softened. ‘Those two weeks were the happiest of my life.’
‘But now – here – don’t you some times feel confin’d?’
‘Confin’d? – Oh, no. I am too occupied’ – this said kindly, without reproach. ‘Dearest Emma,’ his strong fingers reached out to touch her cheeks, her brow, her soft mouth, now quiverin
g a little with emotion. ‘How could I feel confin’d in any way that I should not enjoy when I am with you? I am your captive – I never thought to be so blessed as I am – your love still fills me with wonder. Oh, my dear, dear Emma, I wonder if you realise—’
Here he stopped quite abruptly, as if he must not say too much; but he had already said enough to content Emma and for her to accept his kisses with a sweet mix of modesty and eagerness.
It was perhaps reprehensible that in their happiness neither let the tragic news of their friend’s death so recently received darken the end of the day. Yet, just before they slept, Mr Knightley murmured a few words which showed that the sad event was not forgotten – in one part of his mind, at least.
‘You called him the child of good fortune,’ were his words, only half heard by the sleepy Emma, only half understood.
Yet the next morning when the sun, coming through the light curtains, woke her, she remembered them at once; they rang in her ears. ‘The child of good fortune’ was how she had described Frank Churchill in those days when they were close. Frank had subsequently written it in a letter to Mrs Weston which Mr Knightley had read. He had not liked it then; how sadly it sounded now!
Emma put out her hand to feel the space beside her in the bed; cold, as always. Knightley left so early that she was still in too deep a sleep to hear him go. Lazily, Emma sat up and rang for Merry. How was her foot? she wondered, moving it gingerly under the bedclothes. Hardly a twinge. She was the child of good fortune.
Emma & Knightley Page 2
