by Joan Aiken
At this moment Miss Bates was offered a dish of tea by Mrs Cole, and turned away to receive it; Frank took the opportunity of leading Jane a little aside.
“You will be happy to hear that I have a great deal more to tell you in the saga of Miss Woodhouse and her suspicions. I sat by her at dinner and we talked about you a great deal.” Am I supposed to be pleased at that? thought Jane. Frank went on, his voice changing to a more serious note, “But first, by what means did you come hither?”
“Mr Knightley kindly sent his carriage for my aunt and myself.”
“Oh.” Rather disappointed. “My stepmother wished to offer the use of my father’s carriage to take you home — it is not right that you should have to walk half a mile in the dark — but, if Knightley already —”
“That was very kind in Mrs Weston,” said Jane composedly, “and we are grateful for her thought; but, you see, it is not necessary.”
“Knightley seems a good-hearted old fellow. I wonder why he never married? Perhaps some early disappointment … But listen, now, while I tell you more. Emma Woodhouse, by this time, is entirely convinced that Dixon is the sender of the piano. She has it all worked out to her own satisfaction. Is not that capital? She assured me of this, most positively, at dinner. She is, truly, an extraordinary lady. I think she must have the most wayward imagination in Surry. I cannot help being entertained by her.”
Expertly, he found Jane a seat and placed himself at her side, continuing in a low tone,
“Now that you have had more leisure to try the piano, tell me — does it suit? Was it chosen with sufficient nicety? I had taken as much care as I could, I promise you, to study your tastes, while we were in Weymouth.”
“You must be aware,” she answered with constraint, “how very precisely it is suited to my tastes.”
She felt embarrassed to be seen talking to him, even in this large assembly; felt that every eye must be fixed on them.
“Do you know,” he went on, “Miss Woodhouse had somehow heard the history of that episode — did you mention it in a letter to your aunt, perhaps? — the occasion, do you recall it, when you were nearly swept off the boat, thanks to the stupidity of that wretched Charlotte Selsea — and Matt Dixon saved you from falling into the sea? That tale, as you may imagine, added wondrous fuel to her bonfire!”
He chuckled, but Jane was instantly carried back to that ill-starred summer boat-trip: the heat, the glare, the discomfort, the sudden panic as the ship heeled over — Matt Dixon’s concerned face bending over hers, his arms around her. It had been later on that same day —
“Aha!” Frank exclaimed. “I see the pianoforte is being wheeled out, that music is now to be the order of the evening. Miss Woodhouse, of course, performs first. Wealth must always take precedence over talent. So be it.”
He threw Jane an expressive grimace, then rose and hurried to make himself useful in helping to reposition the piano and sort sheets of music. While Emma played and sang one or two simple ballads he added, uninvited, a tenor part to her singing, and was heartily applauded. His voice had not the quality of Matt’s, Jane thought; still it was tuneful enough. After the usual polite acclamations, denials, and excuses, they sang together again, a couple more times; then Emma gracefully gave way, asserting with the prettiest humility that neither in voice nor execution was she fit to sit at the feet of Miss Fairfax who, etc. etc.
And when I think what she has been saying about me! thought Jane.
Frank and Jane now sang together for some considerable time. They sang many of the songs that had been practised by the group in Weymouth; and, carried away by the music and all it meant to her, Jane almost felt herself transported back into that happy period. This, though she was not conscious of it, gave her voice an added texture, a deeper lustre. The applause was tumultuous. They were asked, begged to sing again and yet again, until Jane’s voice, from lack of practice, began to grow husky.
Mr Knightley now sharply intervened.
“This must not be!” he said. “Miss Bates, are you mad to let your niece sing herself hoarse in this manner, after she has been plagued by such a bad cold? Go and interfere. They have no mercy on her.”
“Oh! Dear! Yes, Mr Knightley, you are very right. Jane, Jane, you must not endanger your throat so — your voice grows thick, indeed, indeed it does! Come, sit by me and let me wrap this kerchief round your neck.”
Frank, at once, was all contrition. But Jane heard Mr Knightley say dourly, “That fellow thinks of nothing but showing off his own voice.”
Friends now surrounded Jane, applauding and praising; her voice had come on so wonderfully since she was last in Highbury! Frank was soon separated from her by the crowd. — In a few moments the word was for dancing: a joyful buzz swept through the room. Chairs were being moved back, the piano rolled against the wall. Jane, seated by her aunt, had felt, all of a sudden, exceedingly tired; the emotion generated and recalled by the songs had drained her of energy. She was glad to remain still.
But when Mrs Weston, presiding at the piano, began an irresistible waltz, Jane thought what a great pleasure it would be to dance again with Frank. He was such an excellent dancer. She looked about for him.
He was nowhere at hand; then she saw him bow, with a flourish of gallantry, to Emma Woodhouse, and lead her to the top of the set which was forming.
“Ah,” said Aunt Hetty comfortably, “there is young Mr Churchill leading out Miss Woodhouse; that is just as it should be; she is the lady of first consequence here. How graciously she smiles on him!”
Plump Mr Cole, her host, invited Jane to dance.
“My word, Miss Fairfax, you certainly showed us the way, with your famous playing and singing. My word, your fingers did rattle over the keys! Indeed it is too bad that you should not be able to stay always in Highbury, else I should not hesitate to invite you to teach our three little girls; Mrs Cole is always saying that she believes our present teacher to be sadly deficient; but what do we know of such matters?”
Yes, that is all I am fit for, thought Jane, listening to Mr Cole’s corset creak as he capered beside her. (Caper, from capra, a goat, she thought). The corsets had been one of the penalties of wealth; he had worn them only for the last year, Mrs Cole had told Miss Bates.
Frank and Emma were not far off in the set. Jane caught Frank’s eye.
“You look fatigued, Miss Fairfax,” he called. “I am afraid I tired you to death with our singing.”
There was no time to reply, had she wished to; they were parted again.
Two dances, unfortunately, were all that could be allowed; there was no chance of changing partners again. The party was over.
Jane overhead Frank say to Miss Woodhouse: “Perhaps it is as well! I must have asked Miss Fairfax, and her languid dancing would not have agreed with me after yours.”
Mr Knightley, all kindness and care, handed Jane and Miss Bates into his carriage. He himself proposed to walk home, so as not to inconvenience them, but Miss Bates cried out at such an idea.
“Here is plenty of room for three! All the way to Donwell — a whole mile! In the dark! With his own carriage at hand! What a notion. He must not think of it. He must accompany them.”
“Very well,” he said. “But I will not incommode you with conversation. I believe that Miss Fairfax is dangerously tired.”
Jane found a kind of forlorn comfort in his large silent presence between her and Aunt Hetty who, for once, perhaps under the influence of Mr Knightley, had nothing to say on the short drive home.
Parties are hateful occasions, thought Jane. I shall never wish to attend another.
Next morning, however, brought an early call from Frank and Mrs Weston “to inquire after Miss Fairfax’s throat. Had it recovered from last night’s over-exertion? Frank had been so sorry — so bitterly ashamed afterwards that he had not noticed sooner —”
Miss Bates was able to assure them that Jane was quite herself again this morning, only a little languid. “Indeed, so am I — such
late hours, I assure you, are not at all what we are accustomed to. But, now, here is a thing — the rivet has come out of my mother’s spectacles — and we are all at sixes and sevens — for a bushel of apples came over from dear Mr Knightley — so kind as he is always — I had meant to take over the spectacles, before, to John Saunders, but, what with one thing and another —”
“Let me see the spectacles,” said Frank. “Oh, I think. I may be able to fasten that rivet, if you will allow me, ma’am? Indeed, I like a job of that kind excessively! All you need is to supply me with a little, a sharp, pointed knife. I feel certain I shall be able to repair it.” And, to his stepmother, “Were you not planning to visit Ford’s, ma’am? Why do you not leave me here, at my silversmith’s work, and come back with my father presently — I know he, too, wishes to hear the tone of Miss Fairfax’s new acquisition.”
“Very well,” said Mrs Weston good-naturedly. “And I believe I see Miss Woodhouse out there in the street; I must inquire how her father enjoyed the evening with Mrs Goddard —”
“Miss Woodhouse there? So she is!” cried Aunt Hetty. “Then I will just run out with you and invite her to come up and hear the new piano as well — she will be delighted with its tone I am sure, such a judge as she is —”
Miss Bates and Mrs Weston both left the little parlour.
Old Mrs Bates, deprived of her spectacles and therefore of her drawn-thread-work, sat slumbering gently in the armchair by the little hearth. Voices could be heard from the street outside — Good morning! Such a delightful evening! Such exquisite music! — amid the clatter of hoofs as Mr Perry rode by, his horse slipping on the cobbles. But for the pair inside, the external world seemed far distant; they were enclosed together in a small brief capsule of silence. At last Frank said softly,
“I wished so very much to dance with you.”
Jane found voice enough to reply “Indeed?” remembering his last remark to Emma Woodhouse. The cool dry note in her tone must have caught his ear; he went on with great warmth: “But I have since had a famous notion! I shall ask my father and stepmother to hold a little party at Randalls — a party expressly for dancing, you know, just the people who formed the set last night — five or six couple. I am sure there might be space in the drawing-room at Randalls. And then — and then we can dance together as we did at Weymouth. That night was such a joy to me —”
“Had you not better apply yourself to your task?” said Jane coldly. “I can hear voices at the street door.”
He had approached her, in evident hope of taking her hand; she turned away from him abruptly, stepped to the piano, and began rearranging the pile of music on it.
They could hear Miss Bates below: “Pray take care, Mrs Weston, there is a step at the turning. Pray take care, Miss Woodhouse, ours is rather a dark staircase — Miss Smith, pray take care. Miss Woodhouse, I am quite concerned, I am sure you hit your foot. Miss Smith, the step at the turning!”
Next minute the room was filled again with people. Miss Woodhouse, Miss Smith must be greeted, and seated, and offered baked apples and cake.
“What!” said Mrs Weston to her stepson, finding him still at work on the glasses, “have you not done yet? You would not earn a very good living as a silversmith!”
Frank explained that he had been helping Miss Fairfax wedge one of the piano legs with paper. He bade a very civil good-morning to Miss Woodhouse — more than civil; he was soon sitting beside her and choosing the best baked apple for her.
“Do, pray, Miss Fairfax, give us the pleasure of hearing your new piano!” exclaimed Mrs Weston kindly. “It is such a handsome instrument, I am sure it has a splendid tone. And your playing last night was such a treat — so far superior to what we are accustomed to.” She is protesting too much, thought Jane unhappily. Does she do it to cover up the fact that her stepson is paying marked attentions to Miss Woodhouse? But then, why should that trouble her? No doubt she feels it would be a most desirable match.
Oh, when shall I ever be free from these horrible feelings of discomfort, guilt, jealousy, suspicion?
Jane sat at the keyboard and played; she hardly knew what. Everybody was very civil in praising her execution and the tone of the instrument.
“Whomever Colonel Campbell might employ in the business,” Frank said loudly to Emma, “he has not chosen ill. I heard a great deal of Colonel Campbell’s taste in Weymouth; and the softness of the upper notes I am sure is exactly what he and all that party would particularly prize. I dare say, Miss Fairfax, that Colonel Campbell either gave his friend very minute directions; or else wrote to Broadwood himself. Do you not think so?”
His tone was laughing, teasing. Jane did not reply, so he went on,
“How much your friends in Ireland must be enjoying your pleasure on this occasion, Miss Fairfax. — There! It is done. I have the pleasure, madam” (to Mrs Bates) “of restoring your spectacles, healed for the present.”
After handing the old lady her glasses, Frank walked to the piano and selected a waltz from the sheet music. He put it before Jane.
“Such a delightful tune! You did not enjoy it as I did, last night, Miss Fairfax; you appeared tired. I believe you were glad we danced no longer. But I would have given worlds — all the worlds one ever has to give — for another half-hour. I beg you, play it now!”
She played.
After a few minutes Frank said, still in his teasing tone: “If I mistake not, that was danced at Weymouth?”
Blushing with irritation, very conscious of Emma close at hand listening to every word, Jane switched to another melody, and heard Frank addressing Emma behind her:
“All this music was sent with the instrument, you know, Miss Woodhouse. Very thoughtful of Colonel Campbell, was it not? I honour that part of the attention particularly. Nothing hastily done, nothing incomplete. True affection only could have prompted it.”
How can he? thought Jane.
And, with even greater indignation, she caught Emma’s reply, in a laughing, conscious tone: “Hush! You speak too plain. She must understand you.”
“I hope she does,” said Frank nonchalantly. “She is playing ‘Robin Adair’ at the moment — his favourite.”
Furious, Jane played louder, and the pair behind her moved farther away.
Miss Bates now observing Mr Knightley in the street outside threw open the casement and called out of it, inviting him to come up. “Here are Miss Woodhouse and Mr Frank Churchill. Was not their dancing delightful last night! Did you ever see anything to equal it?”
“Oh, very delightful indeed!” he answered drily. “I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr Churchill are hearing everything that passes. And,” (raising his voice still more) “I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be mentioned too. I think Miss Fairfax dances very well; and Mrs Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in England —”
“Oh, Mr Knightley — something of greater consequence —” And Miss Bates began to thank him effusively for the apples. “Ah — he is off! He never can bear to be thanked —”
Mr Knightley does not like Frank Churchill, Jane thought. I wonder if he sees through his play-acting?
“We must be running along,” said Mrs Weston. “Look at the time! Come, Emma, come, Miss Smith; we have discommoded Mrs Bates and Miss Bates quite long enough. Frank and I will accompany you as far as Hartfield.”
The party removed themselves; and Jane had time for only one quick burning look of reproach at Frank before he was gone.
A couple of days passed before Jane saw Frank Churchill again. He did not present himself during her morning visits to the post office; but she heard that he was repeatedly seen walking with Mrs Weston and Miss Woodhouse; and that the party from Randalls had spent an evening at Hartfield.
He is capricious, thought Jane.
Then she blamed herself. I have frightened him away with my coldness and irritability. It is my own fault.
But still, her heart was sore.
Miss Bates and her mother were not, of course, rich enough to be capable of such acts of charity to the poor of the village as were the prerogative of the wealthy Miss Woodhouse; but still the two ladies, in their quiet way, did perform many small kindnesses; through the offices of Mrs Cole, or other well-disposed persons, they obtained yarn and flannel from which to make up garments for the indigent; and many an old cottage-woman or turned-off field worker had cause to bless them in the cold winter days for a warm red petticoat or pair of sturdily knitted stockings. Sickness and poverty would always command their friendly efforts; Mrs Bates had a bookful of receipts for tried and tested remedies which, in the old days, had been available from the vicarage for any that needed them; and she still kept in her pantry various bottles of embrocation, Camphire Julep, and Black Plaister. Jane one day had been entrusted with such a remedy — a bottle of liniment for rheumatic gout — and was glad of the opportunity for a solitary walk to a cottage situated at some distance from the village, down Vicarage Lane, but a quarter of a mile beyond the vicarage itself. Arrived at her destination she delivered the bottle, was cordially thanked by the recipient, old John Abdy, and rewarded with copious anecdotes about her grandfather, the former vicar, to whom Abdy had been clerk for twenty-seven years. Lingering, listening, averse to take her leave before the old man’s flow of narrative had dwindled to its natural conclusion, Jane became aware of voices outside. There came a tap on the door, and somebody called, “May I come in?”
Next moment the door opened and Miss Woodhouse made her appearance, with Mrs Weston behind her, bearing a jug of soup. Over the shoulder of the latter, Jane perceived the face of Frank Churchill, which lit up at sight of her.
Emma was being extremely gracious.
