“Even so,” Mr. Knightley said, still reading, “the codicil adding Frank to the will leaves the estate to him only if Edgar Churchill died without issue.” He looked up from the page. “Under these terms, if Edgar had remarried and produced a child, Frank would have been left with nothing.”
“Was Edgar Churchill likely to remarry?” Darcy asked.
“Neither Perry nor I knew him well enough to answer that,” said Mr. Knightley. “This visit to Highbury was his first. To all appearances, he was still grieving, but that is not to say that remarriage would never have entered his mind. He did, however, seem to truly bear affection for Frank and regard him as a son, so I cannot imagine him deliberately cutting off Frank altogether.”
“Might Frank have killed him to prevent the possibility of remarriage ever occurring, thus insuring his inheritance?”
“That would seem an extreme, premature act,” Mr. Knightley replied, “given that there was no actual marriage on the horizon.”
“Premature to you or me, yes,” Darcy said. “But to an impatient young man who spent his life subject to the caprice of a controlling benefactor, ever conscious that should he cross his aunt he could be disinherited? With the estate unentailed, Edgar was free to change his will at any time, and by all accounts Agnes had tremendous influence over her husband. Though Edgar’s affection was steadier than Agnes’s, and Frank’s future therefore more assured after she died, Frank’s status as heir to Enscombe could never be entirely secure until the moment of Edgar’s death.”
Darcy paused, another thought occurring to him. “Too, you have stated that you were not well acquainted with Edgar Churchill, had never seen him outside of this single visit to Highbury. Though remarriage might not have yet entered his mind, it could already occupy the thoughts of some enterprising lady—or her mother—among their larger circle. Many a young woman has wed an old man, willing to invest a few years in a short marriage that leaves her a financially independent widow. Mrs. Churchill has been dead nearly five months, during which time her widower likely received countless expressions of sympathy and solicitude. If Frank suspected a particular lady of scheming to become the second Mrs. Edgar Churchill, now would be the ideal time to act—before an impending marriage made his motive more apparent, and before his uncle had an opportunity to change his will for any other reason.”
“Indeed, Edgar Churchill might already have intended to change his will,” Mr. Perry said. “Mr. MacAllister told me that on the day of Mr. Churchill’s death, he received a letter from Edgar requesting a meeting.”
“On what business?”
“Mr. Churchill did not specify.”
“He could have wanted to discuss any number of matters,” Mr. Knightley said. “We cannot assume that he wished to discuss his will.”
“The search of his chamber at Randalls turned up no physics or other evidence of belladonna, but were any papers found?” Darcy asked. “Perhaps he retained a draft of his letter to Mr. MacAllister, or received correspondence from somebody else that might have prompted the need to consult his solicitor.”
“If he did, those documents were gone by the time anybody thought to look,” Mr. Knightley answered. “With no such proof of his intent, I am afraid there is but one person who might have been privy to Edgar’s thoughts: Frank Churchill.”
Eighteen
“A piece of paper was found on the table this morning—(dropt, we suppose, by a fairy)—containing a very pretty charade.”
—Emma to Mr. Woodhouse, Emma
The reestablishment of the Donwell party at Hartfield much soothed Mr. Woodhouse. He had not been easy while his beloved daughter and Mr. Knightley resided, however temporarily, at Donwell; indeed, his imagination conjured more horrors to be endured in an old abbey than any gothic novelist could invent. Let readers of Mrs. Radcliffe and Mr. Lewis shudder over skeletons and clanking chains; to Mr. Woodhouse, these terrors were nothing to the potential threat of drafts, damp, or food prepared by any cook but Hartfield’s own Serle.
So comforted was he to see his younger child safe once more under Hartfield’s roof, that relief overrode the anxiety occasioned by the influx of strangers along with her. Mr. Thomas Dixon’s tenancy he accepted on the basis of the gentleman’s vague connection to Jane Fairfax Churchill, whom Mr. Woodhouse had always esteemed. Too, it helped that although the prodigious number of wardrobe trunks with which Mr. Dixon traveled arrived along with the Darcys’ luggage, the man himself would not appear until late in the day, after carrying out his promised errand in Piccadilly.
To the Darcys, Mr. Woodhouse was cordial, if wary. Their unanticipated arrival in Highbury coinciding so closely with Edgar Churchill’s permanent departure fixed them in his mind as being somehow associated with it—not in the sense of having contributed to Mr. Churchill’s demise, but in their being the sort of individuals who possess a regrettable tendency to attract misfortune. Indeed, so convinced was he of their ill luck that Emma was forced to embroider the truth by suggesting that Mr. Darcy’s purpose in coming to Highbury was to assist Mr. Knightley in apprehending the poultry thieves terrorizing the neighborhood. This intelligence raised Mr. Darcy considerably in Mr. Woodhouse’s regard, for in his opinion one could not be overaggressive regarding such persons.
It was Mrs. Darcy, however, who in the end most completely earned Mr. Woodhouse’s solicitude. In this coup she received unwitting assistance from Frank Churchill, who called to determine whether his uncle’s body could yet be released. Upon being told that Mr. Knightley was presently occupied with Mr. Perry and Mr. Darcy, he sat with the ladies and Mr. Woodhouse to pass the time until Mr. Knightley was at liberty to see him. Emma ordered tea, and as they waited for it, Mr. Churchill enquired after Mrs. Darcy’s headache.
As Emma had not known her guest suffered any discomfort, she wondered how Frank had heard of it. Mrs. Darcy, however, smiled.
“It is much improved, thank you.”
“Have you the headache, Mrs. Darcy?” exclaimed Mr. Woodhouse, his thin face and slight frame becoming animated by the subject. He gripped the arms of his chair as he leaned forward. “Why did you not speak of it sooner? I would have sent for Mr. Perry posthaste.”
“It troubled me yesterday; I feel quite better.”
Her recuperation did little to placate his apprehension. There was no one more generously the object of Mr. Woodhouse’s sympathy than a fellow invalid, and he would not be denied the pleasure of commiseration. His watery eyes lit with interest. “Does it pain you still?”
“Not at all,” she assured him as tea was brought in. “Indeed, I am altogether recovered.”
Emma poured tea. Serle had also sent up a warm plum cake, which Emma sliced to serve to her guests, and dry toast for Mr. Woodhouse.
“Even so, you ought not indulge overmuch, or it could return,” Mr. Woodhouse said. “Plum cake is far too rich for a recovering constitution. Do not jeopardize your hard-won health, Mrs. Darcy. Emma, tell Serle to send up dry toast for her.”
Emma, hoping to spare her new friend from this little peculiarity of her father’s—of serving food to guests but then insisting they not eat it—handed a serving of cake to Mrs. Darcy. “I think plum cake will not adversely affect Mrs. Darcy’s head, Papa.”
“One cannot be too cautious. In fact, my dear, we should summon Perry from the study immediately. Surely Mr. Knightley has done with him by now.”
After some little debate between father and daughter, the apothecary was allowed to remain undisturbed, but dry toast was brought up for Mrs. Darcy. Elizabeth politely nibbled upon it between surreptitious tastes of cake.
Before long, Thomas Dixon entered. “Fresh from Piccadilly,” he announced, “my mission fully executed. I come bearing fabric and wallpaper samples. The upholstery, however, I reconsidered. Though I would never utter this in the presence of Miss Bates, her furnishings are so worn that she needs must replace the pieces altogether. I have selected new furniture—my friend Ridley helped me decide. He has a ma
rvelous eye for such things. The furniture maker awaits only my confirmation to execute the order.”
“On whose authority were these items purchased?” Frank Churchill asked.
“Your wife’s.”
“Indeed?” Frank began to say more, but instead lapsed into silent contemplation.
Emma handed Frank a cup of tea. Apparently, Jane had not broached the subject with her new husband, an oversight Emma hardly found astonishing. Even the faultless Jane Fairfax Churchill must be hard-pressed to introduce a discussion of redecorating her aunt’s tired old rooms, into conversations dominated by funeral preparations. Seeking to avert any conjugal disharmony that might result from the omission—and the danger of Frank’s subsequently rejecting the entire enterprise—Emma thought it prudent to voice a few words in its favor. The project, after all, advanced not only Miss Bates’s domestic happiness, but also his own: if new furniture could help bring about a match for Jane’s spinster aunt, the young Churchills would be relieved of responsibility for her care and comfort . . . not to mention spared the possibility of her taking up residence with them. Though Frank could not, of course, be directly told of Emma’s matchmaking scheme and its benefit to himself, he must not unknowingly thwart it.
“When viewed in light of the more weighty matters commanding your attention in recent days, changing out draperies is so trivial a subject that doubtless your bride either wished to spare you the trouble of contemplating it, or herself forgot it in the course of other conversations,” Emma suggested. “But during previous visits to your new aunt and grandmother, a gentleman of your discernment could not help but observe that they might be made more comfortable by the improvement of a few aesthetic details in their apartment.”
Frank rewarded her with a smile reminiscent of their former rapport. “Perhaps a few.”
She returned to the tea table and sliced a piece of cake for him. “And having already proved yourself possessed of a generous spirit—who but you would have arranged for a pianoforte to grace their sitting room?—surely you wish to do more for them, now that you have the means. Under other circumstances, you no doubt would have initiated the project yourself. I am certain you wish to assure their continued independence.”
“New wallpaper and furniture will preserve their independence?”
“And draperies!” Mr. Dixon added. “Do not forget the draperies!”
“And draperies.” Frank turned to Emma. “Freedom can be purchased with brocade?”
“Yes.” Emma smiled. Then she crossed to Frank, handed him the cake, and said in a tone so soft only he could hear, “At least, yours can.”
His eyes narrowed as he tried to puzzle out her meaning. She resumed her seat beside Mrs. Darcy.
“As you are in mourning,” Emma continued, loudly enough for all to hear, “with more serious arrangements occupying your notice, Mr. Dixon has been so kind as to assume the management of this comparatively trifling matter.”
“Indeed, I am pleased to be of use,” said Mr. Dixon.
“Did you make certain that the draperies are of a heavy fabric?” Mr. Woodhouse asked. “Take care that they are strong enough to withstand drafts.” It was difficult to determine whom he eyed with greater fretfulness—Mr. Dixon, who had been entrusted with so critical a selection, or Frank, who had started to eat the plum cake and seemed quite in danger of enjoying it.
He appeared to settle on Mr. Dixon. In truth, Emma mused, in this instance her father’s perpetual fear of drafts was not unfounded. In winter months, the Bates’s sitting room inspired a new definition of “airiness,” and there was a reason the chair nearest the fireplace was permanently reserved for old Mrs. Bates. But then Mr. Woodhouse’s gaze happened to stray toward Mrs. Darcy, who had been so reckless as to finish her cake.
“Oh, dear, Mrs. Darcy! Are you still feeling well?”
Emma sought a subject to distract him. “Shall I see what today’s post brought? Perhaps there is a letter for you.” She hoped the day’s mail would include a note from her sister confirming their arrival in London. Whilst Emma had no reason to doubt a successful journey, Isabella’s departures always left Mr. Woodhouse nervous until he knew she and her family were as safe in Brunswick Square as anybody could be who breathed London air.
A servant brought in the mail, which included the much-anticipated letter from Isabella. As he read the note aloud to the assembled company—for surely they all, too, waited anxiously upon the news—Emma broke the plain seal of another letter addressed solely to her.
She quickly discovered that it was not a letter at all, but a message of an entirely different sort.
My first rhymes with an object made of hemp
Howe’er, no object this, instead a ray.
My second, used with ciphers on a slate,
Will undo sums, and reduce some, I’d say.
Conjoined, a single word, a single lass
A single appellation for your cause.
You see, not all the scheming in the world
Can undo human nature or its laws.
The verse was unsigned. Frowning, Emma read the lines to herself once more.
“What have you there, Emma? It is not bad news, I hope?”
Reluctantly—for she had not yet puzzled out the solution to the charade, let alone the identity of its author—Emma lifted her gaze from the paper and donned a bright smile for her father.
“No bad news at all, Papa. An entertainment, in fact—a charade. Remember what amusement we had last autumn with Harriet Martin, collecting charades?”
“Ah, yes—poor Miss Smith that was.” Mr. Woodhouse grieved change of any kind, but most particularly that which affected his own domestic circle, to which Harriet had been a more frequent visitor before her marriage. Emma wondered how much time would pass before her father could bring himself to call Harriet “Mrs. Martin.” Emma’s former governess, Mrs. Weston, though enjoying perfect felicity for over a twelvemonth in her own marriage, would forever remain “poor Miss Taylor” in Mr. Woodhouse’s heart. And she had yet to hear him refer to herself as “Mrs. Knightley.”
“If that charade was meant for Miss Smith’s book, it has arrived quite late,” her father said.
Emma scanned the lines again. Whatever had prompted its authorship and delivery? Save for her conversation with Harriet the day before yesterday, such a diversion had not come before her in months. “I imagine Mrs. Martin herself sent it. We were just recalling her book, and she revealed that she had recently tried her hand at writing a riddle. This must be her latest attempt.”
In point of fact, Emma imagined nothing of the sort. The language was more elevated than anything she would expect of Harriet, and the solution, being not obvious, more clever than she would credit her with devising. She had deciphered the first half, but not the second, though she was confident that she wanted only a minute’s uninterrupted study to work out the charade entire.
“Oh, how charming!” Mr. Dixon said. “I adore word games—I find them the most diverting challenges. Ridley once presented me with a series of riddles on various themes—plants, birds, monarchs, cravat styles. There was even one on an Oriental theme. Do read it aloud.”
She recited the first two lines, sure that at least some of the company would solve them as quickly as she had. Frank had proven himself adept at word games on previous occasions, and at Abbey Mill Farm, Mrs. Darcy had scarcely blinked before stating the solution to Harriet’s riddle.
“ ‘My first rhymes with an object made of hemp . . . ’” She continued through the reference to ciphers and slates. When she reached the fourth line, however, her tongue stumbled over the words as she suddenly realized their meaning. She finished reading the line aloud, then broke off and skimmed the second stanza in silence. She had unraveled the charade—and was not amused by its solution.
Her father penetrated her thoughts. “That seems terribly short. Is that the full charade, my dear?”
“Yes, Papa,” she answered absently, a suspicion
forming in her mind of the puzzle’s author. Closer attention to the handwriting confirmed it. Spiteful, vain creature! Emma endeavored to mask her vexation as she folded the paper and tucked it away. She glanced at Mrs. Darcy, who alone sat in sufficient proximity to have observed that additional lines filled the paper. Their gazes met; Emma could read in Mrs. Darcy’s expression that she had been caught in the falsehood. However, her new friend betrayed nothing to the others and merely regarded her with curiosity.
“We had longer riddles in my day,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “There was one in particular that I can never quite remember in full. ‘Kitty, a fair but frozen maid’—”
“Yes, Papa. We entered it in Harriet’s book, remember?” So oft during their enterprise had Mr. Woodhouse repeated the riddle, or at least the opening stanza of it, that Emma had heard enough of Kitty for a decade. “Garrick wrote that one; this riddle’s author must be less clever.” Far less clever, Emma declared to herself, if her deduction proved accurate.
“An object made of hemp would be a rope, I suppose,” offered Mr. Dixon. “And a ray that rhymes with ‘rope’ . . .”
“Hope,” Frank finished.
“So it is!” said Mr. Woodhouse.
Frank gave her a knowing look. “But surely Mrs. Knightley had already figured that out.”
Emma, despite her irritation over the puzzle itself, could not help but admit that she had. “It was not a difficult clue.”
“Nevertheless,” her father said, “I am amazed at how quickly you struck upon it, my dear. Though I should not be.” He turned to Mrs. Darcy. “Emma’s mother had the same quickness for these sorts of puzzles. They take me much longer, though I was faster in my youth. I suppose you, also, had guessed ‘hope’?”
“I thought perhaps that might be the answer.” She smiled. “I am sure you would have realized it, too, in another moment.”
The Intrigue at Highbury Page 15
