“Are you cold, Mr. Knightley?” Emma’s voice sounded amused, and he realized he was still prodding the fire.
“No—yes,” he said, and put the poker back in its place. “I wonder, Emma…might I look into your library for a moment? I believe there is a book on your shelves that I wanted to read again.”
“Of course, Mr. Knightley. Shall I accompany you?”
“No, no, there is no need. I will be back very shortly.”
He needed a place to think, away from Emma’s eyes. The library was cool and silent, and he let himself sink into a chair for a moment and close his eyes. It would all be so comical if his whole happiness—and Emma’s—did not depend on it. If Emma married Churchill she would be miserable; he was certain of it. And as for himself—well, he did not want to think about what life would be like if he lost her.
Frank Churchill would not be so inept, of course. He had great charm and address, and was no doubt entirely too skilled in the art of flirtation. He, Knightley, had no such facility; it was unlikely that he had ever been considered a charming young man.
“Charm strikes the sight, but merit wins the soul.” Memory plucked the quotation out of the confusion in his mind and made him smile. One could always rely on Pope for an apt quotation. But was Pope to be trusted any more than the anonymous bard who had penned “The Lass of Killashee”? Knightley was inclined to think he was; he had always found Pope’s work to be full of good sense. For, after all, would not a reasonable young woman appreciate the thoughtfulness and consideration of a good man more than the glib flattery and empty compliments of a coxcomb?
Merit wins the soul. Knightley would become the kindest friend Emma had—the most sympathetic, the most faithful supporter in all her joys and sorrows. In return, she would recognize his merit and give him her heart. It would all be very gradual and natural, and there would be no more posturing or desperate stratagems. He got up and searched the shelves around him for a book to bring out with him. He found Sir Charles Grandison, whose hero, though a little dull, at least had the virtue of winning a wife through his merit.
On Knightley’s return to the Abbey, he was told that Larkins was waiting for him in the library. Larkin’s face was sober, and he gave his news without the usual eagerness.
“I think you should know, Mr. Knightley, that there has been a death in the parish.”
His heart sank. “Who?”
“Matthews—one of the hired men at the Bradley farm.”
“He married the kitchen maid here several years ago, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“Yes, I remember. He was from a workhouse. Orphaned, I believe.”
“Quite right, Mr. Knightley. His wife was an orphan, as well. I remember you remarking on the satisfaction it gave to see two young persons so alone in the world find happiness together.”
“I wish the happiness had not been so brief. Was he ill?”
“No, Mr. Knightley. An accident with one of the horses.”
Knightley shook his head. “That is a very great pity. There were children, were there not?”
“Three—one of them a babe in arms.”
“And no family to help her.”
“Mrs. Catherwood is there, I believe.”
“Of course, she would be. That woman is a blessing to this parish.”
“To be sure, she is.”
“I will call on the widow tomorrow, Larkins; I dine at the Gilberts’ this evening.”
“Very good, Mr. Knightley.”
Knightley sat at his desk when Larkins had left, musing on the tragedy of this unexpected death, and wondering how many deaths the parish had seen in the last twelvemonth. Five, he thought. Two children, an old woman, a middle-aged man, and now Matthews. It was fewer than might be expected for a parish of this size.
He found himself staring at the filigree box that held his pencils. Emma had made it for him when she was about fourteen, and it always made him smile. It was not perfect—one side was clearly done in haste, with the paper rolls spaced too far apart and not rolled tightly enough, and another side worked so neatly that he was quite sure it had been the work of Miss Taylor. He could imagine that Emma, having become impatient with the tedious work, had grown very careless and slack and perhaps threatened to abandon the project altogether. Kind-hearted Miss Taylor would have rescued the piece by finishing it herself. He reached out and touched the box. Emma’s fingers had formed these little rolls of paper and carefully arranged and glued them…for him. He had always found the box amusing, but now it was precious. He shook his head at his sentimentality. It was only a box, an ordinary box, made and given when they had been nothing more to each other than friends. And yet it made him happy to have it near him.
The clock struck the hour and it recalled him to the business at hand. He really ought to look over those papers Larkins had left before he went to dress for his evening at the Gilberts’. There would be time enough later to labour over the problem of how to make Emma aware of his merit without boasting about himself or making his affection obvious. He had determined to show so much consideration and kindness to Emma that she would think him the best man she had ever known, but herein lay a dilemma: all the small kindnesses he could imagine doing were things that he usually did anyway, and would therefore cause no change in her ideas about him. And any benevolence more grand would not be stealthy. Perhaps he might….
No, he needed to put it out of his mind now. Unless he began at once, he would not have time to finish examining the documents. And he could not be late to the dinner, not when Dr. Hughes would once again be a guest! It would be lovely to be dining out with him again; it had been many months since the after-dinner conversation had been enriched by the good doctor’s wisdom. He would be back at the table tonight, just the same as ever…with the addition, of course, of his beloved cane. The cane his son had given him. Yes, the cane that reminded him of his son, even when he wasn’t there. He ought to have thought of it before—especially with Emma’s filigree box sitting on his desk! He would give something to Emma; something that she would see all the time, and be reminded of him. It would have to be a gift chosen carefully: not so insignificant that it would be put out of sight and never looked at, but not so impressive that his secret would be laid bare. What could he give her?
The clock struck the quarter hour and brought back his errant mind to those documents. Reluctantly he put the first page in front of him, comforting himself that he had the key now, and it would only be a very little while before he would decide on the perfect gift.
2
“If John knew,” said Knightley to Madam Duval late that night, “that I end nearly every evening in the library, stroking my cat and telling her all the events of the day, he would have me shut up somewhere.”
The cat did not even pause in her purring.
“Heaven knows what Baxter makes of my behaviour. He has stopped asking when I will retire to bed, and as he does not allow the fire in the library to die out until after I am asleep, he must realize, at least in part… I only hope he is not listening at the door while I natter on.”
He had a sudden impulse to creep across the room and fling open the door to see if any of the servants would be found lurking there. A moment’s reflection told him that such a discovery would embarrass him even more than the servant, and that, after all, he would really rather not know.
“Well, Madam, I believe I must go to my rest now. Tomorrow will be taxing: there will be the call of condolence on the new widow and a wedding-visit to pay to the Eltons. I do not know which visit I dread more. And I must speak to Larkins about Gilbert’s proposition.”
He put the cat down on the floor, took up his candle, and walked over to the window.
“And as for talking to you every night, Emma, that is a piece of lunacy no one would credit me with. The cat, at least, is present when I talk to it.” He chuckled softly and added, “‘I am two fools, I know, for loving and for saying so’…to a lady who is a
mile distant and very likely asleep. However, it is now become such a habit to wish you a good night that it seems to me you would miss it if I did not. I am very much afraid that I have become a besotted fool, but I cannot help it. I am, at least, your besotted fool, my dearest Emma, and as such I bid you goodnight.”
As it happened, the visit to the new widow’s cottage was the more difficult call. He had been making such calls for years, as was his duty, but he had never become inured to the scenes presented to him. The raw anguish on the face of Annie Matthews, the muffled sobs of her children, the sorrowful murmurs of the neighbours who had come to express their sympathy all conspired to make him feel, for a moment, that this was a bleak world without consolation, where tragedy lurked at every turn. He gave the widow a few words of sympathy, and assured her that she had nothing to fear as to her future welfare, or that of her children. He knew she valued this small attention and he would not have shirked it for anything, but he also knew how little he could do to lessen the screaming ache of her grief.
He returned to the Abbey, thankful that he would not be able to call on the Eltons for several hours yet; the contrast between the true sorrow in the one place and the false elegance and vanity in the other would be too much to bear in close juxtaposition.
He busied himself with letters, documents and leases until Larkins came for his usual meeting. They were busy for an hour before they had finished with the accounts, and then Knightley closed the ledger and said, “I called on Mrs. Matthews today, Larkins. Is Bradley doing anything toward her support, do you think? She has no family, you know, and she cannot go back into service with those children.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Knightley, but I don’t think he could do much. He is a kind-hearted man, but the farm is not large and I should think he has little spare income for supporting the widow of one of his farm labourers.”
“Look into it, will you? We might manage a small pension for her—through Bradley, of course—if there is need for it.”
“Certainly, Mr. Knightley.”
“Now, there is another matter I need to speak to you about. Gilbert had a proposal for me last evening; you know he has a new bailiff—Perkins, I think the name is.”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley. I may say I was surprised at Mr. Gilbert’s taking on such a young man with so little experience.”
“Just so. I think there was a promise made to his father or some such thing. At any rate, he seems a good fellow—intelligent and eager, but as you say, quite young and inexperienced. Gilbert wondered if I might let you mentor the youthful Perkins—perhaps he could come twice a week for a half-day or so and observe you as you go about your duties. There will be compensation for your time, of course.”
“I am honoured, Mr. Knightley, to be of service to Mr. Gilbert.”
“Good. Gilbert says he would particularly like you to show Perkins your system of accounts, and also acquaint him with the improvements that tenants can make on their farms. I thought you might show him the Foote place, as a sterling example of what only a few months’ careful labour might produce.”
“Very good, Mr. Knightley.”
“I think that is all for today, Larkins. I will speak with Gilbert tomorrow.”
“Perhaps you should know, Mr. Knightley, that the freeholder Munnings and Tadgett, the head gardener at Hartfield, are at loggerheads.”
“Munnings’ farm borders some of the grounds at Hartfield, does it not?”
“It does. It seems there is some dispute about the boundary. There is a wall in disrepair, and some pigs got through. Munnings says the wall is on the Hartfield property, and Tadgett says the wall stands on Munnings’ ground.”
“Has Munnings any record of the boundary?”
“Not to my knowledge. The farm has been in the family for generations, of course, and these things have not always been arranged in a regular fashion.”
“No. Well, perhaps there is some record at Hartfield that would give the answer. I suppose it is, strictly, none of our business, but I would hate for the dispute to come to Mr. Woodhouse’s ears; it would trouble him greatly.”
“Will you be going to Hartfield today, Mr. Knightley?”
“I have every intention of doing so, but first”—he stifled a sigh—“I must pay the Eltons a wedding-visit.”
Mrs. Elton was all that was gracious and voluble. Indeed, conversation with her bore some resemblance to talks with Miss Bates in that Knightley had very little to do except listen. He far preferred the conversation of Miss Bates, however; with her there was no presumption, no preening, no flaunting. Mrs. Elton spent most of the fifteen-minute call discoursing at length about the wealth of the Sucklings, the delights of Maple Grove, the offerings and resources of Bath, and the dismal selection of ribbons, muslins, and gloves at Ford’s. He did not retain any clear idea of what Mrs. Elton said; he managed to nod in the right places and give short answers when they were required, but his attention was caught quite early in the visit by a beautiful little ormolu clock sitting on a secretaire cabinet, and he spent much of the time wondering if a clock would be a good gift for Emma. A lovely little time-piece would be looked at a dozen times a day. He might get it for them both—Mr. Woodhouse and Emma, and then his motives would not be conspicuous. If only he could be certain that it would be placed where she would see it! There was already a handsome clock in the drawing room, and as Mr. Woodhouse abominated change of any sort, it seemed unlikely that a new clock would be allowed to displace the old. And then, too, Emma would think it a strange gift. They had no need for another clock, and it was unlike him to give the Woodhouses gifts for no particular reason, especially expensive ones. Then again, he needed to do something.
He looked around the drawing room for more inspiration. A chinoiserie vase? A brass inkstand? A gilded mirror? No, none of them would answer his purpose. Whatever he gave needed to be unremarkable, and any of these things would be too obviously out of the ordinary.
It was time to be going, anyway, and he took his leave quite happily, more than ready to go to Hartfield. If he found Emma alone, he could talk to her about the boundary dispute and explain to her what was needed and she would be able to help him. Mr. Woodhouse, if confronted with the knowledge that there had been any sort of altercation between his head gardener and their near neighbour, would be shocked and grieved beyond anything.
When Knightley arrived at Hartfield, Mr. Woodhouse was out-of-doors taking his three turns, but Harriet was there with Emma to share in the greetings and dash his hopes of a private word.
The young ladies, it appeared, were just embarking on a discussion about the impending visit of the little nephews. Knightley settled into his usual chair and watched as Emma, with all the light of animation on her face, talked to her friend.
“As I was saying, Harriet, Henry and John will be here then.”
“Oh, yes, the dear little boys,” said Harriet. “Such delightful young gentlemen! I was so pleased to make their acquaintance at Christmas.”
“They were equally delighted to make yours, Harriet. I have often remarked how fond you are of children, and they of you.”
Harriet blushed and thanked her. “But the little Knightleys are so clever!” she went on. “I am sure I do not know when I have seen such intelligent children.”
“Well, Isabella takes great care with their education, and so does John. I only wish there were more I could do, but at such a distance, you know…”
Mr. Woodhouse came in just then, full of concern for the trials of his guest, as Knightley had been sitting without him for, he was quite sure, a very long time.
Knightley made his usual denials and expressed his thanks for Mr. Woodhouse’s solicitude, and, after Emma and Harriet had begun to talk between themselves again, began the subject of the boundary.
“I have heard of an instance, sir, where a wall between farms was suffered to get into disrepair because the owners of both farms believed the wall stood on the property of the other. It is a pity, for the di
fficulty would be avoided if the landowners each had a record of his land’s boundaries.”
“Very true,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “It is most distressing to think there might be some disagreement over such a thing! I have even heard that sometimes men are driven to go to law to settle a dispute of this nature.”
“Indeed; I have often been appealed to arbitrate quarrels of this kind. But there is another consideration, too. A man such as yourself, who has such good neighbours, would not like them to undertake needless expense. Suppose a wall between your property and theirs was in need of repair, and the farmer—say, for example, Mr. Munnings—mistakenly thought the wall was on his property and repaired it at great expense. It would be a very sad thing, would it not? You would not mind the expense of repairing a wall that is yours to repair, but you are too kind-hearted to wish that Mr. Munnings should unnecessarily take so much upon himself.”
“Oh! dear, of course not. I am much obliged to you for drawing my attention to the matter.”
“I wonder—are the records of Hartfield easily to hand? We ought, perhaps, to make certain we know which land and which walls belong to the grounds here.”
“I dare say it is all written down somewhere, but I really do not know where. It has always been understood, I think. But, as you say, one of our neighbours may be under some misapprehension. I daresay we ought to make an attempt to find the record—if you would not mind joining me in the search. Perhaps after we have a little tea...”
“Certainly, sir.”
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