Lend Me Leave

by Barbara Cornthwaite

  The Randalls contingent was already at Hartfield when Knightley arrived, Mrs. Weston sitting with Mr. Woodhouse, and Weston and his son full of cheerful anticipation. Weston was in one of his hearty moods, and Churchill met Emma and Harriet with lively banter as they appeared in the drawing room together. Emma acknowledged Knightley briefly but sincerely, but it was Churchill who escorted the ladies outside, helped them into the carriage, and shut the door.

  They stopped at the vicarage to allow the Eltons’ carriage to join the procession; Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax were already at the vicarage, and it was only a few minutes before the Eltons’ carriage was leading the way on the seven mile trip to Box Hill. Rather than contemplate what the day might hold, Knightley let his mind drift to the problem of Miss Castleman. Should he seek to establish an asylum in Surrey? Involvement with such an institution would take up a good deal of time—he would have all the headaches of trustees, reports, funding, overseers, inspections, and personal visits. On the other hand, a county asylum was no doubt needed, and it was his duty to do what he could.

  Long before he had come to any sort of decision, the road began to rise abruptly, signalling that their destination was at hand. The carriage horses strained to pull their loads up the hill, and were brought to a halt, panting, at the summit.

  The carriages were emptied of ladies, servants, and food; Weston arranged with the coachmen to take the horses to the public house at Mickleham at the base of the hill, water them, and rest them for the two hours the party would be on the hill. Just as they were pulling away, another carriage arrived at the summit. It was an Irish car with four ladies perched on its seats. Mrs. Elton immediately began to direct the servants about where to put the food and how to arrange it all; Knightley suspected that she wanted this unknown company to realize that she was the one in charge of this very large party. The Irish car ladies, however, seemed very little in awe.

  “Now then, Frank,” said Weston, “Look at that vista, and tell me whether you have seen anything like it in Yorkshire!”

  Frank went over and joined his father. “Nothing like this, sir,” he said. “There are, of course, taller peaks than this one, but none of them affords a view like this.”

  For once, Knightley thought, Frank might be telling the truth. There could be few sights in England to rival this one. Perhaps it was only the contrast between their ordinary scenes and the grandeur of this one, but the spirits of everyone in the group seem lifted by the natural beauty before them. He was pleased to see the delight on Emma’s face, and glad that she should be given this pleasure at whatever cost of comfort to himself.

  “Oh, Miss Woodhouse!” said Harriet. “Highbury looks so near from this height!”

  “I believe the town you see there is Dorking,” said Emma. “Highbury is further off—we might be able to see it, if that cluster of trees were not blocking our view.”

  “I do not think this is the absolute peak of the hill,” said Weston. “There is another, slightly higher point—you see how the ground slopes upward a little here. You might see Highbury from over there.”

  “Well, Miss Woodhouse,” said Churchill, “what do you say to us looking at the view from that point? Miss Smith?”

  The ladies were agreeable and the little group moved away. Mr. Weston might possibly have joined them if Mrs. Elton had not called to him just then to calculate the distance between Mickleham and Dorking for her. As it was, Churchill, Emma, and Harriet went as a trio, for Knightley could not force himself to make a fourth to that party.

  “It is breathtaking, is it not, Mr. Knightley?” said Miss Bates at his side. “I was here many years ago—dear me, it must be twenty years ago now—when I was rather a young lady. A small party of friends—Captain Fairfax and my sister, Mr. Prescott and his sister—my father’s curate, you know.”

  Mr. Prescott... Good heavens, I had forgotten all about him, thought Knightley. Mr. Prescott had been the last curate in the parish of Highbury, before the town’s population had diminished to the point where a curate was not needed. Knightley’s memories of the man were very dim, but he seemed to recall that he had been a tall man who had married a woman from Langham and soon afterwards been given a parish somewhere in Hampshire.

  “My dear Jane,” said Mrs. Elton, “Come and look at this! I believe you can see that church from here—remember the church with the odd tower we saw on the way here? Come and see if it is the same one.”

  Miss Fairfax came dutifully to Mrs. Elton’s side and looked out into the distance in the direction Mrs. Elton was pointing out.

  “You may be right, Mrs. Elton,” said Jane in so listless a tone that Knightley looked at her thoughtfully. Miss Fairfax had escaped Mrs. Elton’s company yesterday by walking home, but she could hardly do the same today.

  “My dear Augusta,” said Elton, “ought the food baskets to be sitting in the sun there? I would have thought that the shade of a tree might be a better place.”

  “I told the servants to move the baskets—that shiftless Betty does not hear one word out of three that I say. I will go and see to it that things are done properly—servants can never be expected to think of these things.”

  She started off, with Elton at her heels, and Knightley saw his chance.

  “Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax—will you join me in exploring this hill?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Knightley,” said Jane, with the first smile he had seen from her all day.

  “Have you heard anything of Mr. Prescott lately?” asked Knightley. “I have not thought of him these ten years or more. I believe he was living in Hampshire.”

  “Oh, yes—he has a parish near Petersfield. Sophia—his sister—writes to me. We used to go on drives quite often—we had the carriage then, and dear Papa would let us drive with—I think he rather hoped—ah, well. How long ago that was, to be sure!” There was a wistful note in her voice as she said the last.

  Long ago, indeed. The Bates’ had not had a carriage for the last decade, at least. Miss Bates had been a young lady then—he could not picture her as demure, for she would always have been talkative—but in her youth her leading characteristic must have been her enthusiasm. He had a vision of her as a young lady with a party of friends—bubbling over with good cheer, enthusiastic for every scheme proposed—perhaps being escorted by Mr. Prescott—who Mr. Bates evidently had hoped would marry his daughter. Knightley glanced at Miss Fairfax to see what she thought and was struck by her inattention. She walked languidly and seemed to be indifferent to her surroundings. It might be that she was weary—the heat was oppressive and any exercise in it was liable to produce exhaustion in one who had been lately ill.

  “Here is some shade,” said Knightley, as they passed close to a large tree. “Perhaps we might stop here for a few moments.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Knightley, what a good idea,” said Miss Bates. “Always good to rest—sun so warm—slight cooling breeze beneath a tree. Ah, and here come good Mr. Weston and the Eltons! How do you do? How do you like the view?”

  “Capital!” said Weston as the two groups converged under the tree. “Can’t think why everyone has scattered in this way—only way to see the place properly is in a group—otherwise there is little point in coming together, what? Ah, there is Frank, walking with Miss Smith and Miss Woodhouse—I will get them to join us, and we will all explore together.” He hurried off in their direction, but was not immediately successful in his object—instead of coming with him, they seemed to keep him with them, and they stood there in the distance, talking.

  The group beneath the tree watched as a rather battered old buggy pulled up the hill. Knightley judged the family in it to be something in the merchant line, taking a day to see the beauty of the views. There was no luggage; evidently they were from some local place. The children were young and climbed down from the buggy as soon as it had stopped. One of them, small enough to be wearing a dress regardless of sex, came racing across the grass in their direction, happy to be able to run freely a
fter a confining journey. He was drawing close to the tree when he stumbled over some hidden obstruction and lay sprawled on the grass. Wails filled the air as he sat up, clutching his hand.

  “Oh!” cried Miss Bates as she hurried to the child's side. The Highbury group watched as she picked him up, soothing him and drying his tears with her handkerchief.

  “A family excursion,” Knightley remarked to no one in particular. In the distance, he could see the mother looking about her for the missing child. “Perhaps they need help.”

  “A tradesman’s family,” sniffed Mrs. Elton.

  Jane moved to help her aunt with the child, and Knightley took the opportunity to remove himself from the Eltons’ company by facilitating the reunion between parents and child, and assisting the man to unload a hamper of food from his buggy. They had only just finished when Weston found them and told them it was time to eat.

  For a little while it was pleasant enough. Mrs. Elton’s cold collation of ham, meat pies, cheese, bread and fruit was ample, and worthy of the magnificent setting in which they ate. There was no general topic of conversation; those with something to say said it to their near neighbours. If Emma and Churchill had not been seated together, he might even have enjoyed his meal. However, their occasional comments to each other progressed, as the meal did, into chatter and giggles and teasing in an unrestrained way. Churchill grew noisier in his nonsense until Emma even gave him a quiet hint, and then he, after a whispered comment, came out with, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse—who, wherever she is, presides—to say that she desires to know what you are all thinking of.”

  Mr. Weston laughed. “What, Emma? I had thought you had penetration enough to guess what is in our minds!”

  “Oh, for my part,” said Miss Bates, always ready to enter into the plans of another, “I was only thinking of how the trees down along that ridge are so much grown since I was here last. To be sure there is nothing surprising in that—trees always do grow unless someone fells them—and I do not know who would fell them on Box Hill, it being the property of—”

  “I am thinking of how hot it is,” said Elton.

  Knightley looked at the affronted expression on Mrs. Elton’s face and the unhappy one on Miss Fairfax’s, and could not think it likely they would have anything pleasant to say any more than himself. He looked directly at Emma. “Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all thinking of?”

  Emma laughed—to his ears, a forced laugh. “Oh! No, no—upon no account in the world. It is the very last thing I would stand the brunt of just now. Let me hear anything rather than what you are all thinking of.” She paused and added, “I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps, whose thoughts I might not be afraid of knowing.” She glanced at Harriet and Mr. Weston.

  Mrs. Elton muttered to her husband about the impropriety of the question in a voice loud enough to reveal her displeasure to the entire group.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Churchill began again after a few more murmurs around the circle, “I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of and only requires something very entertaining from each of you in a general way. Here are seven of you, besides myself—who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining already—and she only demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated—or two things moderately clever—or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all.”

  “Oh!” said the helpful Miss Bates, “Very well. Then I need not be uneasy. ‘Three things very dull indeed.’ That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan’t I? Do you not all think I shall?” She smiled brightly at her friends.

  Knightley cleared his throat to say that cheerful words were always more useful than mere wit, but Emma spoke first.

  “Ah, ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me, but you will be limited as to number—only three at once.”

  It took Knightley a moment to catch her meaning, in part because he could hardly believe Emma would say such a thing. It took Miss Bates a moment longer to apprehend it—and then the smile slipped. Her eyes dropped, and her face coloured.

  “Ah! Well—to be sure.” She turned to Knightley, who fought to keep his rage and disgust off his countenance. “Yes, I see what she means, and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend.”

  She spoke without resentment, but she was wounded—how could she be otherwise? And at Emma’s hand…Emma’s! She who had always been polite, at least! To stoop to such cruelty—leading the way for others to mock. Churchill, of course, would find it all terribly amusing, and would not scruple to carry the joke further. Knightley’s feelings were almost of horror to think that his Emma should have come to this. He could not have made a sensible comment if he had tried. Dimly he heard that Weston was attempting to join in the game with some clever thing, and there was banter between Churchill and Emma, but his attention was not caught until Weston brought out his conundrum: “What two letters of the alphabet express perfection?”

  No one knew, and Weston supplied the answer: M and A, Em-ma. It was hardly a bon-mot worth repeating, and the only people who found it amusing were the little coterie around Emma. He was past caring about politeness, and only wanted to put an end to it.

  “This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for himself. But he must have knocked up everybody else. Perfection should not have come quite so soon.”

  “Oh! For myself, I protest I must be excused,” said Mrs. Elton. “I really cannot attempt—I am not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was not at all pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!” She nodded toward her husband. “You know who I mean. These kind of things are very well at Christmas, when one is sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty things at everybody's service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please, Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane and myself. We have nothing clever to say—not one of us.”

  “Yes, yes, pray pass me,” said Elton. “I have nothing to say that can entertain Miss Woodhouse or any other young lady. An old married man—quite good for nothing.” Anyone observing him with any amount of attention would see from his manner that he was alluding to something in particular. “Shall we walk, Augusta?”

  “With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other arm.”

  “No, I thank you, not now,” said Jane, and Mrs. Elton did not insist.

  Churchill watched them go off, and when they were out of hearing commented “Happy couple! How well they suit one another! Very lucky—marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance formed only in a public place! They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky! For as to any real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath, or any public place, can give—it is all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among their own set, just as they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it is all guess and luck—and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!”

  It was an odd speech to make at such a time, and seemed to be given with particular meaning. Knightley almost fancied there was a touch of bitterness in it, quite in contrast with Churchill’s earlier light manner.

  “Such things do occur, undoubtedly,” said Miss Fairfax, unexpectedly. Her voice seemed ragged, and she ended her sentence with a
cough.

  Churchill turned to her with studied civility. “You were speaking,” he said.

  “I was only going to observe that though such unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent attachment may arise—but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be understood to mean that it can be only weak, irresolute characters—whose happiness must be always at the mercy of chance—who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an oppression forever.”

  She spoke without undue emotion, but Knightley thought there was an undercurrent of something deep—there was a defiance in the set of her shoulders that seemed at odds with her words.

  Churchill bowed briefly in acknowledgement and seemed to dismiss the matter from his mind. “Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgement that whenever I marry, I hope somebody will choose my wife for me.” He had resumed his former matter and turned to Emma with a smile that Knightley could only have described as flirtatious. “Will you? Will you choose a wife for me? I am sure I should like anybody fixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know”—he gave a smiling glance toward his father here. “Find somebody for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate her.”

  The flirtatious manner in which he said it was galling, and what was worse—Emma did not quell him, but rather raised her left eyebrow as she said “And make her like myself.”

  “By all means, if you can.”

  “Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming wife.”

  “She must be very lively and have hazel eyes. I care for nothing else. I shall go abroad for a couple of years—and when I return, I shall come to you for my wife. Remember.” More games on Churchill’s part.

  “Now, ma’am,” came Jane Fairfax’s voice, “shall we join Mrs. Elton?”

  “If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was ready to have gone with her, but this will do just as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is—no, that's somebody else. That's one of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her. Well, I declare—”