“Ah, that is good news. And he is going on well, John tells me.”
“He is. You have heard from Mr. John Knightley recently?”
“I saw him last week when he came to bring his little boys to Hartfield.”
Dr. Hughes’ face broke into a wide smile.
“Ah, little Henry and John! I do hope that on one of their visits to the Abbey you will bring them by the rectory. Mrs. Knightley brought them at Christmas, but I was still in bed at that time, and saw them for only a few minutes.”
“I will, certainly. I am going to Hartfield today and will arrange it all with Emma.”
He had been planning to go to Hartfield as soon as his breakfast was finished, but the morning post had brought a letter which needed an answer without delay. Then Rooker, the head gardener, had requested to speak to him about the preparation of the ridges in the melon and cucumber beds, which had necessitated a visit to the kitchen gardens, and he had only just come into the house again when Dr. Hughes had arrived.
Dr. Hughes stayed for nearly an hour, and Knightley fought to keep his mind on the conversation instead of wondering if Frank Churchill had come to visit frequently while he was gone—or if he was at Randalls even now. Worse, suppose he was at this moment seated in the drawing room at Hartfield, dazzling Emma with his charming conversation and handsome face? Dr. Hughes stayed to eat the cold meat which was brought to them in the library, and then expressed his thanks, took his cane, and walked slowly back to the rectory.
Knightley watched from the window until he was out of sight, and then set off for Hartfield before he could be delayed again. It was cloudy, but as warm as a day in late April might be expected to be, and he was not terribly surprised to find Emma out of doors with the little boys, examining something on the ground.
“Uncle Knightley! Uncle Knightley!” shouted the boys as they ran to him. He embraced them in turn, and submitted as they tugged him by the hand to where Emma was standing.
“Come, Uncle Knightley, and see the snail!”
“Wait a moment,” said Knightley. “It would be impolite for me not to greet your aunt first. Hello, Emma.”
She smiled. “Hello, Mr. Knightley.”
“And now, where is this snail?”
“Here it is, Uncle,” said Henry. “Is it not a fine snail?”
Knightley bent down to examine it. “As fine a snail as I ever saw.”
“I want to give it a name and keep it in the nursery,” said John sadly, “but Aunt Emma says I may not. I want to call it Peter.”
“Peter would be happier out of doors,” said Knightley. “Would you like to sit always in your nursery or would you rather be out in the garden?”
“I would rather be in the garden.”
“Well, there you have it.”
Knightley straightened up and turned to Emma.
“Is your father well?”
“Yes, perfectly well. How was your time at Newington?”
“Tedious. I am thankful to be back.”
“Is it the comfort of your own library that you miss when you are away? Or is it the company of William Larkins?”
“Perhaps I miss Hartfield.” His heart missed a beat. It was as close to a hint as he had ever given.
“Perhaps you miss me.” She had not caught the hint; he could tell by her eyebrow that she was teasing him, and he treated her statement as lightly as she expected him to.
“Perhaps.”
“Does my face ‘make a sunshine in a cloudy place’ as Shakespeare’s heroine’s did?”
“Yes, indeed it does, although I must be pedantic and inform you that it was Spencer who wrote those words, not Shakespeare.”
Emma laughed. “Only you, Mr. Knightley, could agree with a gallant compliment and then in the same breath issue a correction to the object of your flattery.”
Her words hit home. How could he possibly win her with such behaviour? He was a fool. Churchill, for example, would never have done such a thing. The little boys interrupted them then, wanting to show Uncle Knightley a new book Aunt Emma had given them.
“Yes, do come in,” said Emma. “Papa will like to see you. Will you stay and dine with us?”
He yielded immediately. Given enough time and conversation, he was bound to learn how often Churchill had been there without needing to bring the subject up himself.
He sat with Mr. Woodhouse for a little while, sure that among the small items of news which formed the bulk of their conversation there must be some intelligence to be gleaned about Churchill. There was not, however. Before Mr. Woodhouse told him much of anything beyond the slight ill-health of the nursery-maid, Emma and the boys pressed him to join them in playing with their box of letters, and he would have found it difficult to refuse them, even if Mr. Woodhouse had not added his judgement, saying, “Ah, yes, Mr. Knightley, go and help amuse the little boys. Emma has been playing with them all the morning in consequence of Ellen’s cold, and I think she had better go and rest.”
Emma smiled lovingly at her father. “Dear Papa, I am very much obliged to you, but I am not in need of rest at present. The boys have been as good as gold, and many of our games have been quiet ones.”
“Well, perhaps if Mr. Knightley will join you, you will be all right. You will keep her from too much exertion, will you not, Mr. Knightley?”
“Most certainly.”
The next two hours gave Knightley almost no opportunity for private discussion with Emma; the boys were nearly as expert as Mrs. Elton at keeping the conversation centred on themselves. Still, Knightley enjoyed this interval of cheerful domesticity. It was all too easy to imagine the same scene with Emma as his wife and the children being their own.
At four o’clock the nursery dinner was sent up, and Ellen declared herself quite well enough to preside over it. Knightley gave Emma his arm as they went downstairs to join Mr. Woodhouse in the dining room.
“My dear sir, I hope you find the soup to your liking,” said Mr. Woodhouse as the dinner began. “Not everyone can eat peas-soup without ill-effects, although Serle is most careful when preparing ours. We do not eat it very often here, but I think most people of a healthy constitution will not suffer from a small serving.”
“It is excellent soup,” said Knightley. “The flavour is remarkable and it is certainly very wholesome.”
“It is indeed,” put in Emma. “You remember, Papa, how you asked Mr. Perry if he recommended peas-soup for a constitution such as yours, and he said there would be nothing better.”
“Ah, yes, my dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “I remember now. That was the day that Mr. Churchill came to call, was it not?”
Knightley started. In the comfortable family atmosphere, he had almost forgotten that person’s existence. He cleared his throat. “So, Mr. Churchill has been here?”
“Oh yes, although there has only been the one visit. He has wished very much to come more often, but has always been prevented.”
Only one visit? Knightley’s relief was palpable. He was still convinced that a young man who was determined to come would have found a way to do so, and his apathy in the matter meant that he probably did not care much. And more encouraging still was the fact that Emma did not seem to regret Churchill’s absence in the slightest. She might not have said anything about it, but he thought he would have been able to detect if she were unhappy at the young man’s non-appearance.
Knightley enjoyed his dinner to the full, and when he was invited to remain and play backgammon with Mr. Woodhouse, he gladly accepted. Emma sat nearby and watched the progress of the game, offering encouragement and advice to her father, and teasing remarks to his opponent. It seemed to Knightley that he had never had such a good evening. To be part of a quiet family circle like this, knowing that he was bestowing happiness as well as receiving it would have been enough, but after so many fears, to be allowed to hope again was a very sweet sensation. He stayed on even after the game was finished, pushing aside the thought that there was much to be done at the Abbey after hi
s time away. This was far more important. He once more had the luxury of hope, and he was going to savour it.
The next few days were busy enough that Knightley had no time to visit Hartfield. This would have been cause for anxiety only a week previously, but now he could attend to his own business rational and unperturbed. His security was shaken, however, the following Tuesday, when he learned from Weston, during the parish meeting at the Crown, that the Churchills had removed to Richmond some days before, the noise of London being injurious to Mrs. Churchill’s nerves. This was not a happy development, although Knightley refused to be alarmed. A Frank Churchill who could be apathetic from sixteen miles away would probably continue to be so even from only nine miles away. Nine miles was really not that much closer than sixteen. Richmond could still be considered a fair distance from Highbury.
Knightley, walking home to Donwell after the meeting, found Miss Bates walking on the same road, and accompanied her the rest of the way. She was going, she said, to call on Mrs. Hughes.
“And have you really seen Mr. Richard, Mr. Knightley? I am so very eager—such a nice young man—known him from quite a small child. I do believe it has been above six months since I have seen him—he was here, I know, very briefly a month or two ago—I do not believe he saw a great many friends on that visit. A barrister now! And only just the other day, it seems, he was running about and his mother scolding him for doing something naughty! I shall not tell him so, however—I do not believe young men enjoy being reminded of their infant days! We have high hopes that he will attend the ball, seeing as he is already here. And there can never be too many gentlemen at a ball—isn’t that so?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Knightley, “Did you say there was to be a ball?”
“Bless me, have you not heard? No, I suppose you could not have—so recently decided—there was a letter from Mr. Churchill to the Westons several days ago saying that the Churchills were removing to Richmond on account of Mrs. Churchill—the noise of London, that is—too much for her nerves—and as soon as they had settled there he wrote again—just this morning—that is, the letter arrived just this morning—Mrs. Weston came and showed it to us, you know—and the letter begged that the ball might be resurrected, as it were—and Mrs. Weston is to ask her husband when she sees him—for he has not been at home today, and does not yet know of the new letter—but as I say, when she sees him, she will ask him to talk to Mrs. Stokes about the ball being held there next week.”
It was nothing. He knew it was nothing. The mere fact that there was after all to be a ball did not change anything. He could not at all account for the sudden plummeting of his spirits. Regardless, a change of topic was absolutely necessary.
“How is Patty’s brother getting on?”
“How very kind of you to enquire!” said the gratified Miss Bates. “I think he is quite well, Mr. Knightley. He has not gone back to that tavern where he was cheated, and I think it is a very good thing, for sometimes young men do get a taste for gambling for high stakes, you know, Mr. Knightley, and among company who are not as nice in their habits as might be desired. –I declare, is that good Mr. Spencer? How do you do, Mr. Spencer?”
“Good day, Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley. I am very well, thank you. I was coming to see you, sir, if you had a moment.”
“I do. Come to the Abbey now.”
The little group walked on until they reached the rectory and said farewell to Miss Bates there. The men went on in a companionable silence. They had seen each other more frequently of late, and talked of everything but the state of their hearts—what was there to say about that?—but each was grateful for the unspoken sympathy of the other.
“Now then, Spencer,” said Knightley after they had been relieved of their coats and hats and settled into the library, “what is it you wanted to see me about?”
“Well, sir, I was thinking that I might go and visit my family in Norfolk. Dr. Hughes is able to preach again, and I would only be gone for two weeks. Dr. Hughes has given the scheme his approval, but I wished to consult you as well.”
“There is no need for that, Spencer, but you certainly have my blessing. I hope you will give my regards to your family.”
The entrance of Baxter just then interrupted them. “Excuse me, Mr. Knightley, but Mr. Larkins is asking to see you for a moment. Shall I ask him to wait?”
Knightley turned to Spencer. “Should you mind if I see him? He will not stay long.”
“Please, do.”
“Very well. Send him in, Baxter.”
Larkins came in briskly, made his bows and greetings to the men, and informed Knightley that he had met Hamilton on the road and been told that draining the land around the Fisher farm might commence in the next day or two, if it pleased Mr. Knightley.
“Thank you, Larkins. I will speak to him about it. How are you getting on with Perkins? Has he learned much, do you think?”
“A very able young man,” said Larkins. “I believe it will not be long until there is no need for my tutelage.”
“And was he impressed with the Foote farm?”
Larkins chuckled. “He was impressed with the occupants, at any rate.”
“So he admired all that Foote has done to improve the place?”
“He seemed to admire Mrs. Catherwood more. After our first visit he asked me about her three times, and was anxious to go back and, as he said, learn more of the farm’s workings. We have been there twice since, and were invited to dine with them. I have never seen anyone so eager to accept an invitation.”
Knightley glanced at Spencer, who had gone white.
“I would not be surprised,” went on Larkins, “if Donwell were to lose the Catherwoods to Langham before Christmas.”
“May I ask—would you say he is a good man?” asked Spencer resolutely. “Is he likely to treat the boy well, and so on?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so.”
Spencer nodded, and Knightley said, “Was there anything else, Larkins?”
“No, nothing else, Mr. Knightley. I wish you good day, sir. And you, Mr. Spencer.”
The door closed behind him. Knightley took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh.
“I’m sorry, Spencer.”
“No, it is better that I should know.”
“I’m afraid it’s a bit of a shock.”
“Yes. But I have, after all, been praying that she and the boy would be cared for, and here is an answer to that prayer. I ought to be grateful. I will be grateful. Tomorrow.”
“You are a far better man than I, Spencer. I would never be able to give thanks…”
“Has anything happened, Mr. Knightley? Mr. Churchill has not been visiting much, has he?”
“No. In fact, my hopes had grown stronger this last week or so. But I heard from Miss Bates, not two minutes before you joined us, that there is to be a ball next week in Highbury—and Mr. Churchill will be present. It should not worry me, I know—but it does.”
“Perhaps if you dance with her…” Spencer’s eyes twinkled briefly.
“I think not. My dancing must be quite inferior to Churchill’s, and I would rather not give Emma the opportunity to compare my level of skill to his.”
“I understand. I suppose you must attend, even if you will not dance?”
“I think I must.”
The men were silent for a moment before Spencer roused himself and said, “Well, I must go, I think. I will write to my father and tell him that he shall soon see his long-lost son. I confess, I am thankful to be going away for a little time, until I am more used to the idea of Mr. Perkins and—” he gestured meaninglessly. “You know.”
“I know. I think your visit could not be better timed. And if you return to discover that I have left on a sudden journey to foreign parts, you will know that I have followed your wise example!”
“I trust it will not be necessary in your case, sir.”
“I don’t know, Spencer. At times I think I am foolish to hold out any hope at all.”
6
“I saw Emma today,” said Knightley to Madam Duval. “She was all aflutter over tomorrow’s ball. It is to be a very grand occasion, as they have compelled guests to come from the highways and hedges—that is to say, they have invited people from beyond the bounds of Highbury. The Gilberts, the Whitings, the Hughes’, and a whole tribe of Huttons. And there is to be supper, of course. Quite a splendid affair. Are you listening, Madam?”
The cat’s ear twitched, but otherwise she remained curled into a comfortable ball, her eyes shut.
“I cannot see how I am supposed to enjoy the evening. I will not dance, of course, and I do not think I will be able to hide in the card room—not only do I have very little taste for cards, but I would spend the whole time wondering what Churchill and Emma are doing. But to stand and watch Emma dance with Churchill will be no joy at all, either. And they will dance, you know, probably more than once.”
He got up from his chair and began to pace slowly across the floor. “I quite envy Spencer, away in Norfolk. Well, not envy, exactly—but I am certain he feels some relief in going away from the scene of circumstances which are so distressing. I wish…well, there is no use wishing, but of all the men who deserve a good wife, I think he is the foremost. It is hard to believe that heaven thought it better to bestow a wife on Elton than on Spencer. Of course, the wife bestowed was Augusta Hawkins, and perhaps Providence saw her more as a penalty than as a reward. Still, Elton has yet to regret his choice, and he may be so blind as to never regret it. I wish he were not a clergyman, Madam. No one demands perfection from a vicar, but I would rather the shepherd of any flock lead them by his example. Spencer, now—he is a model of how a rejected suitor ought to behave. He kept on at his post for weeks fulfilling his duties, steadfast and patient and only a little paler than usual…I only hope I would do as well in his place.”
Knightley stopped by the library window and looked out. “I hope, Emma, my love, that I will not be put to the test. It had seemed to me recently that I would not be. I have been telling myself for a week that I have nothing to fear from the ball—that Churchill will not pursue you, that you will not fall in love with him, that Churchill will go back to Richmond after the ball and never come to Highbury again—but I cannot depend upon it. I am afraid of what the ball may bring forth.” He traced with his finger the pattern of the lead between the squares of glass. “And yet…I am glad you will have opportunity to dance, dearest Emma. I would not deny you that pleasure.”
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