“Mr. Knightley!” Edmund looked somewhat startled. “Have you been in Langham? Is there anything amiss?”
“No, nothing. I was taking my nephews for a walk, and they have been inspecting the bridge to see if the repairs were done properly.” He introduced John and Henry, and the boys made their bows politely, if not gracefully, before resuming their scrutiny of the bridge.
“I meant to ask you, Edmund,” said Knightley in a lowered voice, “if you had any ideas about these thefts in Langham that have come to my attention.”
“Thefts, Mr. Knightley?”
“Yes. I have heard that there have been many small items taken recently from homes around Langham. You told me once that you sometimes play cards of an evening with some of the village lads—no fear,” he added at the panicked look on the young man’s face, “I have never told anyone what you said. I only wondered if you might have heard something that would shed some light on the identity of the thief, or thieves.”
“Oh!” said Edmund. “I have heard of the thefts—I suppose there is no one in Langham that has not—but as to who is responsible, I have no idea.”
He was lying. His demeanour gave it away as plainly as a full confession would have done. As accustomed as Knightley was to encountering liars in a court of law, it gave him pain to find one in Edmund.
“You are certain you don’t know?” A very little pressure might bring a more truthful answer.
“Quite certain.”
“Well then, if you do learn anything, will you send me a message?”
“Of course, Mr. Knightley.” The words were perfunctory, and Knightley was irritated by the man’s glib insincerity. Somewhat abruptly he bid him good day, and told Henry and John that it was time to be getting back to Hartfield. The energy of the little boys had flagged, and the journey was made at a very slow place, giving Knightley time to ruminate on this encounter with Edmund. It was bad enough, he thought, that the young man had been associating and likely gambling with undesirable fellows in the village, but now it seemed that he had some guilty knowledge of their misdeeds. He hoped that it was only knowledge, and that Edmund had not entangled himself in something more serious. There was no proof of any misconduct yet on Edmund’s part, for which he was grateful. If there had been proof, he would have been faced with the dilemma of whether or not to tell Gilbert of his son’s improper behaviour. It was a decision he hoped he would not have to make.
“I think you should know, Mr. Knightley,” said Larkins a week later, “that the widow Hunt’s sister is coming to stay with her for the foreseeable future.”
“Oh?” said Knightley, and then after a moment, in a changed voice, “Oh! Miss Castleman, is it?”
“Yes. I regret to say that it is. Mrs. Hunt said it was her sister Catherine, and she looked uneasy.”
“I suppose it was too much to hope that we had seen the last of her.”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley. A year or two ago when that dreadful fever made its way through Sussex, I thought perhaps—”
“Larkins! I trust you didn’t hope that she would be one of the victims.”
Larkins cleared his throat. “I do not say that I wished it to happen, Mr. Knightley, only that it crossed my mind that if she did fall victim to it, there might be occasion for…ah…relief.”
“I would not have thought you capable of such sentiments, Larkins. All the same—” Knightley sighed. “It would have been most convenient.”
2 June
Donwell Abbey
Dear John,
I will be very willing to escort my nephews home next week. Henry tells me he has never yet ridden in my carriage, and he is eager to compare it with yours; I cannot deny him the opportunity. Tuesday will best suit both my plans and those of Hartfield; tell me if this is agreeable to you as well. I will stay the night with you and take the opportunity to look in on Graham, as you say he is in Town, before returning home.
Tell Isabella that nothing more has been seen of the gypsies; I am sorry to hear she had any uneasiness on the subject. Bella need not worry, either; if any marauding gypsies came to the Abbey, Madam Duval would defend me with her last claw.
Mrs. Hunt’s sister has arrived for some unspecified period of time. You remember Miss Castleman, of course—the shrewish woman with a crooked front tooth, diminutive in stature, but stridently voluble in expressing opinions. You were here, I believe, when she publicly denounced Mr. Morley of the circulating library and threatened to burn all his novels. You gave it as your opinion that she was mad, although I daresay you based your verdict on her literary opinions more than on her outrageous behaviour. She has already called the Catherwood boy a freak of nature—thank heaven Spencer has not yet returned—and infuriated Mrs. Green by calling her a slattern. There may be bloodshed in the parish before another fortnight passes.
As you express concern about my lonely condition, I must tell you that I have been pulled into Mrs. Elton’s social whirlpool, and am frequently invited to join in one party or another. I do not—I could not—accept every invitation that is extended to me, but I cannot refuse them all, either. I am, in fact, going to dine at the Eltons’ tomorrow night. Not I alone, for which I am profoundly grateful, but with the Randalls family and, I think, Miss Fairfax. A party of so many will rather dilute the aura of Mrs. Elton. And then when I have finished my dose of affliction at the vicarage, I can return to my usual state of tranquillity at the Abbey.
Knightley put down his quill and reflected that “tranquillity” was not precisely the word to describe his state of mind. For three weeks he had, with Spartan-like discipline, followed the plan he had formulated for his own behaviour. He walked to Hartfield nearly every evening and spent the time there with as much emotional detachment as he could command. When he arrived home again, he confided to Madam Duval only the events of the day that had nothing to do with Emma. He continued to bid Emma goodnight at the library window, but he made no long soliloquies. It was a very great effort to hold himself in check, and the suppression of most of his Emma-ward thoughts reminded him of a swollen stream only just held back by an unstable dam. In spite of this, all was outwardly serene, and he congratulated himself on his ability to sail calmly over the sea of tumultuous passions with not only the appearance but also the reality of a measure of peace. It was, however, a fragile peace, and it was shattered the very next day.
8
“Mr. Spencer, sir.” Baxter’s quiet voice announced the visitor.
“Ah, Spencer,” said Knightley, smiling and rising to meet him. “You’ve returned. I hope you had a good journey.”
“Only tolerable, sir. I was very happy to get to the end of it.”
“And your family was well? You gave them my greetings, I hope?”
“Very well, thank you. My father sends his best compliments and thanks for the kindness you have shown me.”
“Please, be seated, Spencer. Will you have anything to drink?”
“No, I thank you. I trust you are well, Mr. Knightley.”
“Well enough, although a new worry has appeared while you were gone, in the form of a newcomer to the parish.”
“I know. Miss Castleman. I have been back in Donwell less than one whole day and no fewer than five people have already told me about her and what she said about James Catherwood.”
“It must be a comfort to know they respect you enough to bring the troubles of the parish to you.”
“Not at all; it irritated me to the last degree. I told them all to stop gossiping.”
Knightley would have laughed if the curate had not looked so annoyed. He could imagine the reaction of, say, Mrs. Green to such a rebuke from the young curate.
“That must have disappointed them,” said Knightley. “Knowing how you have championed the boy they must have expected you to go in search of Miss Castleman with a drawn sword, demanding satisfaction for the insult.”
“I felt like doing that, of course.”
“Yes, I daresay you did. I fear you will have
dealings enough with her in future. She is a woman who makes her opinions known, and they are usually not offered for the edification of her hearers.”
“Yes, I know the sort.”
Both men grew quiet, Spencer staring at his shoes and Knightley looking idly out the window. After a moment, Knightley cleared his throat.
“Did being away help…?” There was no need to elaborate.
Spencer shook his head. “You have heard the saying, ‘What the eyes do not see, the heart does not rue’? It’s not true, Mr. Knightley.”
“No. I do not think I would find it true, either.” He could not imagine ceasing to care for Emma merely because she was out of his sight for a time.
“I had a faint hope that I would return to find Mrs. Catherwood engaged to Mr. Perkins; it would put an end to the waiting, at least. Waiting is never comfortable, Mr. Knightley, but waiting for something one is dreading is the worst of all possible tasks.”
“They are not engaged.”
“I know it. If they were, some busybody would have told me by now.”
The shattering of Knightley’s peace took place at the Eltons’ dinner that evening. It was not a quiet dinner of the sort that was given at Hartfield; this was a noisy affair. Between the parading of Mrs. Elton, the glib speech of Churchill, the laughter of Weston, and the small talk of the others, Knightley’s head had begun to ache before an hour had passed. There was some satisfaction, however, in seeing Miss Fairfax looking very well. She seemed more animated than he had often seen her, and she entered into the general conversation without much prompting.
The talk around the table at dinner touched on the progress of the gardens at Randalls and the vicarage, the great trouble the Eltons had had in procuring the Stilton now gracing the table, and the chances that the newly-crowned Louis XVIII would not be a second Napoleon, but it always drifted back, under the guidance of Mrs. Elton, to topic of the Sucklings and the visit they were to make to Surrey in their barouche landau.
“I do so long to introduce you to Serena, Jane,” said Mrs. Elton. “She would dote upon you—positively dote! And if there were any hesitation on the part of a prospective employer, she would be able to answer their doubts absolutely! It is the very thing most to be desired as you seek a position. And time is slipping away, Jane: it is June now.”
“I have received word from the Campbells, ma’am—they are not planning to return until August.”
“Well, and what is that? A month’s delay. A month is nothing, my dear Jane, nothing at all. When a good situation is desired, it is folly to delay making plans.”
“Upon my word, Mrs. Elton,” broke in Churchill, “you keep an excellent table! My aunt prides herself on keeping the finest cook in the country, but I venture to say that even his kitchen could not produce a better roast goose than this one!”
Mrs. Elton smiled graciously. “Thank you, Mr. Churchill. I may say that if I had not told Cook to baste it continually with dripping while it was roasting, it would not have been half as good.”
Knightley saw Jane’s grateful glance at Churchill, and Churchill’s answering smile. There was something about that smile that gave Knightley pause; he could not put it into words, but it impressed him as more than a relatively impersonal smile of acknowledgement. It was a fleeting impression, but strong enough that Knightley puzzled over it. Of course, Churchill had met and known Jane in Weymouth, and had seen her frequently in Highbury, but it was still not the kind of smile he would have expected from that level of acquaintance. After a few minutes of trying to classify the exact nature of the smile he had seen in that instant, he gave it up, but he found himself watching Churchill more closely. He did not observe anything more of interest during dinner, but when the ladies retired to the drawing room, Churchill’s eyes followed Miss Fairfax out of the room, and his eyes lingered on the door even after she had vanished. It was not an absent-minded gaze, but something more admiring, and the look seemed somewhat out of place for a suitor of Miss Woodhouse’s.
He pondered this incongruity while the men lingered at the table, and his mind was still on it when they rejoined the ladies. The notion troubled him, even as he told himself that it was very likely nothing. Those who tried to interpret the actions of other people were often mistaken—witness the number of people who had wondered if he himself were attached to Jane Fairfax! Surely—surely—he had not looked at her with the sort of intimate, knowing smile he had seen on Churchill’s face (yes, those were the words he had been searching for to describe it!), but he must have done something else that could have been construed as more than simple friendliness. There could be—there must be—any number of explanations for Churchill’s behaviour. He was trying to think of one when Mrs. Weston spoke at his side.
“Mr. Knightley?”
He looked up to see the eyes of the company upon him.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, flushing. “I was not attending.”
“It is no great matter; I merely asked if Mr. John Knightley will be coming to fetch his little boys home.”
“No, I am delivering them to London myself next week.”
“No doubt it will be a relief to Miss Woodhouse to have that responsibility lifted,” said Mrs. Elton. “Caring for children can be so fatiguing—for inexperienced persons, that is. Children are so apt to fancy themselves the centre of the universe—so inclined to demand and manipulate and be impertinent—that unwary young ladies may be dreadfully overwhelmed. I quite pity Miss Woodhouse.”
“Oh, I think she has not felt herself much encumbered,” said Knightley. “The little Knightleys are under good regulation. Moreover,” he added, “it is not entirely outside the realm of her experience to encounter impertinent and self-centred persons. She has always been equal to it.”
“I tell you, Madam,” said Knightley to the cat that night, “I know how preposterous it sounds. ‘I am unsettled by Frank Churchill’s behaviour because he smiled at Miss Fairfax and also watched her when she left the room.’ When I hear myself say the words, I can suppose that there is nothing in it—that I have myself, like Cowper, been ‘creating what I saw.’ But when I see those looks again in my mind’s eye, I cannot quite dismiss it. I have had an hour of sober reflection now, and I still do not know what to make of it. It was not merely the smile of a flirt; that behaviour would not be surprising in him, reprehensible as it would be. No, this was a smile that seemed to assume reciprocation.”
He pondered it all for another moment and then made a helpless little gesture with his hands. “Well, there is nothing to be done, of course. I suppose I ought to put it out of my mind. I have become rather adept at that, you know.”
He rose and went over to the window to take his usual formal leave of Emma. “Good night, Emma.” He turned away, but then felt impelled to turn back and add, “I was given reason for suspicion tonight, Emma. No doubt it is nothing of consequence, but… No, try as I might, I cannot quite believe that it is nothing. Oh, my love, be careful with your heart. I cannot bear the thought of your being deceived. I will watch—” He stopped abruptly and forced himself to turn away from the window. He would keep his resolution; he had been doing so well—he must not give way now. He would go up to bed and close his mind to any more thoughts of Emma.
The lime walk was under threat again. This time it was Churchill who had ordered it cut down. Suddenly Knightley knew that Churchill had instigated all the previous threats to the lime walk, as well; he wondered that he had not realized it before. The workmen were not yet felling trees, and if only Knightley could talk to them before they began to work, all would be well. He left the house without delay, and to his surprise, there were no obstacles to bar his path to the lime walk. The distance had inexplicably increased tenfold, but he was making good progress as he hurried along. He saw Spencer coming toward him, and he called out, “I have no time to talk now, Spencer—I must stop those workmen from cutting down the lime walk!”
“But Mr. Knightley!” said Spencer, “I saw Miss
Woodhouse just now in the lime walk, sleeping peacefully beneath one of the trees! She will be crushed!” And in the distance they could hear the sound of an axe.
He was running now, every muscle strained to its utmost, his breath coming in gasps. The world was silent but for the pounding of his feet and the steady blows of the axe. The lime walk was in sight, but he was not getting any nearer to it. He saw the top of a tree shudder, lurch, and fall. He cried out.
The sound of his own voice wakened him. He lay there panting and sweating, unable to move for a moment. Slowly the terror subsided, leaving in its wake a horrible sensation of dread and helplessness.
“And how was the journey?” asked John when the first noisy greetings with his sons were over. “No mishaps, I hope?”
“None at all. It was quite an unremarkable journey—much to the disappointment of Henry. He wished us to be beset by highwaymen.”
“Highwaymen? Whatever for?”
“He said he wanted to see me fight them off.”
John laughed. “That would be a sight indeed.”
“I was thankful to be spared the necessity of making the attempt.”
“You left everyone well? Emma? Mr. Woodhouse? Mrs. Elton?” John’s lips twitched.
“All very well, and, I am sure, all grateful for your kind enquiry.”
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