Lend Me Leave

by Barbara Cornthwaite

  “I was very grateful for your bringing it to my attention. What a very good idea it was to verify Hartfield’s boundaries. There might have been sad consequences if something had been done in error.”

  “I suppose, John,” said Knightley, “that you have seen many cases where mistakes about where boundaries lines are drawn resulted in serious legal ramifications.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember one lawsuit...”

  Knightley applauded his own wisdom. Having got John onto the topic of interesting court cases, the rest of the time before they joined the ladies would be filled, and he would neither have to contribute anything nor listen to any more irritating speeches. John was a good storyteller, and he could not imagine Elton changing the subject before it was time for them to leave the table. And when they joined the ladies, he might possibly be able to sound Emma out about the letter. Perhaps he could ask her something about a note he had written to her, and if she offered to get it for him to see, then he would know that she kept every note she got. Now, what was the last thing he had written to her? He could not remember. It had been a long time since he had written to Hartfield; for weeks he had been happy to take the excuse of needing to impart information about some trivial matter in order to go to Hartfield and do so in person. There must be another way to see which letters she kept.

  Knightley was not required to open his mouth again until the men rejoined the ladies. He and John had settled themselves near Emma and Mrs. Weston and he had just time to hope that somehow in their conversation he would find a way to discover if she always kept the notes of those who wrote to her, when Weston came in and they all had to stand again and greet him. Knightley was happy to see him, of course, but he wished he had come a half-hour later. Weston, in his genuine happiness to see his friends, and his loud way of talking, dominated the conversation in the room, and as Emma was nearly as interested as Mrs. Weston in all he had to say, there was no chance of a little quiet conversation with her while Weston was telling of such small items of London news as the death of Fanny Burney’s father, a fire in a Cheapside warehouse, and a rumour that a massive new bridge would be built in Southwark later in the year.

  And then he pulled a letter from his pocket and gave it to his wife, saying, “I found this waiting for you at home; I took the liberty of opening it. Read it, read it—it will give you pleasure; only a few lines—will not take you long; read it to Emma.”

  He did not wait until they had finished looking at it before he said, “Well, he is coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say to it? I always told you he would be here again soon, did not I? Anne, my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me? In town next week, you see—at the latest, I dare say, for she is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to be done. Most likely they will be there tomorrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all nothing, of course. But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, so near as town. They will stay a good while when they do come, and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted. Well, pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, put it up; we will have a good talk about it some other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the circumstance to the others in a common way.”

  Here was the most unwelcome news in the world. Churchill returning! And spending half his time in Highbury! And to make matters worse, Emma had not received this news with indifference. He did not see that genuine delight on her face which Mrs. Weston’s showed; to his eye she looked disconcerted. It was not to a degree which anyone but himself would notice, but still, the news had affected her. The anxiety he had been afflicted with since the conversation about handwriting was fast deepening into depression.

  Emma, always polite, expressed her satisfaction in the forthcoming event, and Weston nodded his head happily at her sentiments, and then, seeing Knightley looking in his direction, came over to him.

  “I suppose you may have overheard, just now, a little of what I was saying to Mrs. Weston and Emma. My son Frank will be among us again soon. Yes, the Churchills are coming to London, on account of Mrs. Churchill’s health—or so she says. But Frank will be near us, and will no doubt spend a good deal of his time in Highbury. A very good thing for the neighbourhood here, you must agree!”

  Knightley did not see how any neighbourhood could be improved by the presence of Frank Churchill, that glib, insinuating, selfish…

  “The neighbourhood will certainly be livelier,” said Knightley judiciously. “I only hope he will not be so much in demand at the Highbury tea-parties that he neglects to spend time at Randalls.”

  Weston chuckled. “No fear of that, I am sure. Well, I must go and tell the others.” He excused himself with a half-bow and went to tell Mr. Woodhouse his news.

  The rest of the evening seemed very long to Knightley. He wished he might leave, but could think of no good excuse to do so. He felt very little like conversing and sat next to Mr. Woodhouse, who was content to be quiet with him. After tea was carried round, he lost his companion, for Mr. Woodhouse sat down to cards with Elton and the Westons. The other five persons sat together, rather ignoring Mrs. Elton’s attempts to centre the conversation on herself.

  “Well, Emma,” said John unexpectedly, “I do not believe I have anything more to say about the boys; but you have your sister's letter, and everything is down at full length there we may be sure. My charge would be much more concise than hers, and probably not much in the same spirit, all that I have to recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic them.”

  Emma smiled. “I rather hope to satisfy you both, for I shall do all in my power to make them happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic.”

  “And if you find them troublesome you must send them home again.”

  “That is very likely. You think so, do not you?”

  “I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father, or even may be some encumbrance to you, if your visiting-engagements continue to increase as much as they have done lately.”

  Emma looked surprised. “Increase!”

  “Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half year has made a great difference in your way of life.”

  “Difference! No indeed I am not.”

  John smiled at her incredulous expression. “There can be no doubt of your being much more engaged with company than you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for only one day, and you are engaged with a dinner party! When did it happen before, or any thing like it? Your neighbourhood is increasing and you mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties—dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the Crown. The difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great.”

  This was so true that Knightley found himself saying aloud, “Yes, it is Randalls that does it all.” He could hear the bitterness in his tone. Well, so be it. He was in a bad humour, and did not care to come out of it.

  “Very well,” continued John. “And as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less influence than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that Henry and John may be sometimes in the way. And if they are, I only beg you to send them home.”

  “No,” said Knightley emphatically. “That need not be the consequence. Let them be sent to Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure.” He would not let Randalls bring about a quick end to the boys’ visit. His nephews, at least, should not be injured by Churchill’s advent.

  “Upon my word, you amuse me!” exclaimed Emma. “I should like to know how many of all my numerous engagements take place without your being of the party, and why I am to be supposed in danger of wanting leisure to attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine—what have they been? Dining once with the Coles, and having a ball talked of which never took place.” She turned and nodded to John, saying, “I can
understand you—your good fortune in meeting with so many of your friends at once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed.” She turned back to Knightley and said, “But you, who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from Hartfield, why should you foresee such a series of dissipation for me, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear little boys, I must say that if Aunt Emma has not time for them, I do not think they would fare much better with Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours where she is absent one.” Her left eyebrow lifted as she added, “and who, when he is at home, is either reading to himself or settling his accounts.”

  In spite of his fears, in spite of his resentment, and in spite of the whole wretched evening, he could feel himself beginning to smile. Her teasing look was a balm to his soul, and he would have continued the conversation in hopes of still more friendly banter, if Mrs. Elton had not chosen that moment to address him.

  “Oh, Knightley! I have been meaning to tell you—Serena wrote to me last week to say that she is thinking of new-furnishing her dining room. I told her she could do no better than to come to Donwell Abbey and see yours. They are hoping to come here, you know, within the next month or two, in their barouche-landau, and explore. They will be enchanted with the Abbey, Knightley—I really think I cannot use any other word than enchanted. I have no doubt they will ask to see all over the house, so I give you fair warning. I would not like your housekeeper to be taken by surprise and unprepared for such a viewing. Of course, Serena may not ask outright: Mr. Suckling may be the one to make the request. Serena can be timid at times. Not so timid as to be tiresome, you know, but just a little more than she needs be. Women who are overly timid are a positive plague, I think. I know that brides are always a little in the background, at first, but I hope I am not one of those inconveniently shy women who hide behind of veil of bashfulness so that one can hardly get them to say anything. I abominate that sort of behaviour—I have quite a horror of the idea.”

  “Oh, my dear Mrs. Elton,” said John gravely. “You need have no fear. There is not the slightest danger of anyone thinking that of you. You are perfectly safe from any charge of too much diffidence.”

  5

  The guests departed Hartfield before the hour grew late; only Knightley stayed on to talk to his brother. Mr. Woodhouse went up to bed and Emma withdrew to the nursery to ensure that everything was as it should be. The two brothers sat in the empty drawing room, which was still awaiting the tidying hand of a servant. John absently shuffled the deck of cards left on the table, and Knightley watched him.

  “So, George, did my behaviour satisfy you tonight?”

  “I was amazed at your civility, John. The entire party is in your debt. You do have undoubted powers of conversation when you choose to employ them.”

  “Well, you managed to awaken my compassion for Emma. I can afford to be amused by Mrs. Elton, but I do not have to tolerate her society frequently.”

  “It was kind of you to talk so much to Miss Fairfax.”

  “I like her,” said John. “She is quiet but very intelligent, and there is that in her situation that warrants a great deal of sympathy.”

  “She bears it well.”

  “She does, but I do wonder if she is under more strain than is commonly supposed.”

  “Oh?”

  “I mentioned in passing my hope that she would someday be married and have a family, and she nearly cried—I saw a tear.”

  “I am sorry to hear it.” Knightley rose from his seat and stirred up the fire. He hoped that Emma’s invitation to Jane Fairfax this evening was evidence of a growing friendship between the ladies; it would do Miss Fairfax good.

  “I suppose you’ll be off to the Easter quarter sessions next week,” was John’s next comment. “You’ll miss all the gaiety that comes with the visits of Mr. Frank Churchill. Highbury will be lost without you.”

  “Oh, they have Mrs. Elton. They will do very well.”

  John snickered.

  “And you leave for town in the morning?” Knightley was not in a humour to talk about the possible advent of Frank Churchill.

  “Yes. Will you come to see me off like a good brother?”

  “Of course. I will even shed tears at your departure, if you like.”

  “No, no, you’ll start John howling if you do. The watchword in partings is ‘cheerfulness’.”

  “Ah. Well, I can manage that. As your carriage departs I will look absolutely radiant.”

  Knightley wished the quarter sessions had not come just at this time. If Frank Churchill was spending half his days at Highbury, he did not want to be so many miles away. Perhaps, if he were at home, he might do something—something to prevent an attachment or a declaration. He had no very firm idea as to how he might avert such things, but nonetheless it made him nervous to be here at Newington, so far removed from the scene of action.

  Well, it could not be helped. He tried to put the thoughts aside as he heard case after case: a woman accused of vagrancy, a fifteen-year-old boy who had picked the pocket of a coal merchant, a workhouse inmate who was supposed to have stolen a fellow inmate’s clothes, a man who had left his family at the charge of the parish, a farm labourer accused of stealing several small items from his master’s house…a seemingly endless procession of petty larcenies, assaults, frauds, and housebreakings, motivated by greed, poverty, revenge, or malice. He was thankful to be spared the more difficult trials of the assize judges, who presided over cases of murder and the more serious crimes. He would never be compelled to order anyone hanged. As it was, he did his best to find the truth in the haze of lies that came from the accused or the prosecutors—or both.

  Once case appeared to him to be completely straightforward. The defendant, a man aged about forty-five years, was accused of assaulting a young man. The older man looked very respectable, though poor. Upon being questioned he admitted that he had hit the young man—the son of a gentleman—but could not regret it. When asked the circumstances of the attack, he said that he had been walking with his daughter, a comely girl of about sixteen, when the young man had addressed her “in a manner that was entirely too free”. The father had remonstrated against such talk, and the young gentleman had responded by saying something yet more coarse and lewd. Whereupon the older man had hit the young man in the face and given him a bruise which had lasted almost a week.

  Knightley did not like the young man, whose fashionable waistcoat and supercilious air reminded him forcibly of the man who might even now be insinuating himself into Emma’s life. In his opinion, the father was quite justified in his actions, and although he could not help the jury rendering a verdict of “guilty”, he immediately gave the man a free pardon.

  “It is a pleasure to be in your library again, Mr. Knightley,” said Dr. Hughes, sinking into a chair and leaning his cane against the table which stood beside it.

  “And a far greater pleasure for me to have you here, sir.”

  “I thought you would not return until tomorrow, but I was out this morning and saw William Larkins and John Perkins, who told me you were back.”

  “I had opportunity to return earlier than I had thought I could, and arrived late last evening.”

  “You have no great love for Newington, then? You seem to have been in a desperate hurry to leave.”

  “Not at all.” He had been desperate to get home, not desperate to leave; they were two entirely different things. “Any news of note while I was away?” He could hardly suppose that Dr. Hughes would know anything about possible romantic attachments at Hartfield, but even so, he held his breath while he waited for his answer.

  “Not news, precisely, but there was an incident I thought you ought to hear about. My wife called on the widow Hunt the other day, and as she was walking home, she passed a tree—you know the one—the large oak that stands a stone’s throw from the road.”

  “Yes, I know it—right where Upton’s land begins.”

  “That is the one. As I say, my wife was passing that
spot when she heard the sound of sobbing. You know how tender-hearted Mrs. Hughes is, Mr. Knightley: she could not do otherwise than investigate. And she found a woman there, weeping. She put an arm around her, to comfort her, you know, and the woman flinched as if my wife’s touch gave her pain. When she grew calm, my wife gently questioned her and she said that she was a Mrs. Cooper, whose husband keeps the Crow’s Nest in Langham. She would not say why she was weeping or what she was doing in Donwell or anything else, but my wife’s fancied it was something to do with her husband.”

  “She thinks he is mistreating his wife?”

  “Well, Mrs. Cooper would say nothing directly, and of course we must not ‘answer a matter before we hear it’, but it impressed my wife so. I know that even if my wife’s guess is correct, there is nothing you can do unless Mrs. Cooper brings an indictment against her husband, but I thought perhaps you should be aware.”

  “Thank you. I don’t suppose you know anything against the Crow’s Nest that could invite the justified interference of a magistrate?”

  “Not really. The reputation of the place is not of the highest sort, but I have not heard of anything definitely illegal.”

  “If you do hear of anything, will you tell me?”

  “I will. You may, however, have a difficult time getting anyone to prosecute or be a witness, for fear of reprisals.”

  “I know it.” Knightley sighed. It was not his duty to ferret out crimes; it was the duty of victims to report them and pursue justice. Still, a place like the Crow’s Nest did no one any good, and he wished for the excuse a legal indictment would give him to make changes there.

  “I have a happier bit of news,” Mr. Hughes said. “Richard is coming home for a month; he arrives on Monday.”