Knightley looked at Emma—she was blushing and smiling as she shook her head at her father. Then she turned toward Knightley and their eyes met. Without a word from her, he understood it all. She had listened to him when he reproved her, and she had gone to the Bates’ this morning to make amends for her rudeness yesterday. It would not have been easy for her, but she had done it because it was right. He forgot to repress his feelings or hide his affection—he only wanted to honour her sentiments and her actions, and it was the most natural thing in the world to move nearer and take her hand and press it and—No!
He let go of her hand before he actually kissed it, but Emma must have known what he had intended. How could he have been so lost to discretion as to try to kiss her hand—that sign of affection reserved almost entirely for close family and betrothed lovers! Anything he could say to explain would only make it worse—the best thing to do was to go. He bowed quickly and immediately left the room.
Perhaps he would have done better to have followed through on kissing her hand, he thought as he mounted his horse outside. She must question why he had stopped himself, and that might have told her more than actually kissing her hand would have done. With a sigh he spurred the horse toward London. Ah well, at least they had parted friends. If he must divide himself from Emma, he was glad for this sort of parting, rather than his last interview with her being the one on Box Hill. And now, he had done. He would teach his heart to be indifferent—to think of her no more than he did of Miss Fairfax or Miss Smith. He would learn to care about her for Isabella and John’s sake, and not for his own. And the first step would be to think no more of Hartfield or its occupants. It would be a blessing to be surrounded by the large and cheerful family of his brother. Too much solitude would be fatal. Plenty of distraction was just what he needed.
Knightley found John in his chambers at Gray’s Inn.
“My dear fellow!” exclaimed John at the sight of him. “What are you doing here? Anything wrong?”
“No worries, John. I thought to make some enquiries about a place for Miss Castleman—and the thought of the pleasure of your company made me come before I could write a letter announcing my intentions.”
John looked at him doubtfully. “The pleasure of my company? You mean, of course, that Mrs. Elton has become a little too much for you to bear and you have come to hide. I do not blame you, of course. You may take cover here as long as you like. Have you seen Isabella yet?”
“No, I came directly here.”
“Well then, we shall go home now. Bernard may carry on here—put those papers in order, Bernard, and let Hilsman know about that witness turning up, if you would.”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley,” answered the dutiful clerk.
“Now then,” said John as they left the building. “Have you brought treats for the children like a good uncle?”
“I confess I have not.”
“Humph. Forgetting your duties already. Well, shall we stop by the confectioner’s so that you may rectify this omission of yours? Macaroons will, I think, fit the bill.”
“By all means.”
John looked at him. “Not unwell, are you?”
“No, I am very well.”
“You seem unlike yourself.”
Bother. He ought to have made more effort to appear natural.
“Hungry and tired, dear brother,” said Knightley. You must feed me before I faint.”
“I will, I will. Here—there is a tea room next to the confectioner’s—you will eat something there.”
They had not been in the tea room more than ten minutes before Knightley was eager to leave again. Instead of regaling him with stories about his latest cases, John was full of questions about Hartfield, about Emma, about the Westons and Churchill, about Miss Bates and Jane Fairfax—Knightley could almost believe he was talking to Mr. Woodhouse instead of his brother.
“I suppose the Eltons still take charge of Miss Fairfax,” said John. “I hope her spirits have improved since my conversation with her at the dinner at Hartfield.”
Knightley thought of Jane’s face at Box Hill, and remembered Mrs. Elton’s proposed gathering when they returned to the vicarage. Had they all gone there at the end of the day?
“She seemed still oppressed when I left,” said Knightley.
“And how does Churchill do? Is he still the light and life of all gatherings in Highbury?”
“I don’t know,” said Knightley. “He was certainly in high spirits the day we travelled to Box Hill. Have you almost finished there? I am rather weary.”
“Never known you to be wearied by that journey before! Sure you’re not ill?”
“Of course not. No doubt it is my advancing years that make the difference.”
“That must be it. Come, we have a very nice chair at home for you to rest in, and a cushion for your back. We may even be able to find a blanket to put over your knees.”
“Thank you. My declining years will be all the more comfortable for your thoughtful attentions. You are finished with that sandwich, aren’t you?”
“For an old man, you certainly are demanding. I had hoped you would be like Mr. Woodhouse in your old age—patient, content, thinking well of everyone…”
“Will you pay the bill, or shall I?”
They took a cab to Brunswick-square, in deference to Knightley’s age and infirmity, John said. Isabella was in the drawing room when they came in.
“See who I brought home with me?” said John.
“George! How delightful! But you gave us no notice—did you?”
“No, Isabella, I came on a whim and trusted to your politeness not to reproach me with my thoughtlessness.”
Isabella smiled—that smile that was so startlingly like Emma’s.
“Of course not. We are only too delighted to see you. I believe the children have returned from their airing with Sarah—I will fetch them. They will be overjoyed at your coming!”
She smiled again at the bag of sweets he was clutching in his hand, and left to inform the children that a surprise awaited them downstairs.
“And how long will you be staying?” asked John.
Until I no longer care about Emma… until Emma and Churchill are engaged… until…
“I don’t know,” said Knightley.
“Oh? Well, stay as long as you like, of course.”
“I will.”
“Yes, you always do just as you like, don’t you?”
“Not always,” muttered Knightley.
He was not as comfortable at Wellyn House as he would have been at the Abbey. He missed the solitude, however harmful it would have been for him to have it. The children seemed to have grown noisier since his last visit, and far more inquisitive. And Isabella, with the kindest heart imaginable, was so solicitous as to his health, comfort, and well being as to require as much patience as he usually needed in dealing with her father.
The fourth morning after his arrival saw him closeted in the library with A Description of the Retreat on his lap. He had spent enough time in the past few days with the book in his hand to have read the whole thing twice, but he was having trouble keeping his thoughts on the topic. Isabella had received a letter from Emma that morning, but had not opened it during breakfast. Had she said anything about his departure? Did she miss him at all, or was Churchill all she could think of? Had Churchill made his intentions clear? Was he still trifling with Jane Fairfax? And would Churchill carry Emma off to Yorkshire, or would they settle in London? Poor Mr. Woodhouse, to be deprived of Emma’s company! No doubt Churchill, having gained his object when he married Emma, would not allow her to travel back to Hartfield more than once or twice a year. Emma would be unhappy, of course…
With a sigh he marshalled his errant thoughts away from the forbidden subject and returned to his book, which he had unconsciously closed while his mind wandered. He found his place again and applied himself to reading once again. “Several instances have occurred in which melancholy patients have been much impro
ved by their journey to the Retreat.”
A journey to a retreat… how aptly that described his own flight to London! Flight, perhaps, was not the correct term. He had merely removed himself from a situation that was causing acute mental distress. Or was it so simple? Had he done right to come away? Was it cowardice or prudence that had prompted him to come to his brother’s house? He had done well, he thought, to go to Box Hill that day—he had been able to help Emma one last time. True, it was a rebuke, and not the sort of parting help he would have desired, but she had heeded it, and he knew her well enough to be sure that she was thankful, in that case, for his interference. Was it possible that— And then he remembered that he was not supposed to be thinking of Emma at all. It was no good—he could not hope to accomplish anything by sitting here battling with his thoughts. He would go out and see Sir James Clatworthy about the asylum.
Sir James was the sort of genial, talkative personality that Knightley usually associated with pie vendors. He was, in fact, a member of the King’s Bench who had become something of a specialist in the subject of madness. He had once had a client who was judged guilty by reason of insanity, and had managed his defence so brilliantly that he had been asked to undertake several other like cases. Moreover, it was rumoured that his own uncle had gone mad—hence his special interest in the topic.
“Yes, Knightley, of course. Your brother told me you might call. Come to ask about private asylums, if I remember aright. Well now, come and be seated and tell me what is it you’d like to know.”
Knightley told his tale briefly, and ended with “I was hoping you knew of a place in Surrey that is conducted along the lines of Tuke’s methods.”
“Much needed,” said Clatworthy, “very much needed. But I regret to say that I know of none nearer than Northampton, which is much too far. There is a private asylum in Aldershot, but I couldn’t recommend it. In my opinion, a local gaol would be preferable.”
“And what would be needed to establish a good asylum? I have little desire to be sole patron of such an institution, but would not object to contributing to the establishment of one. Perhaps not in Donwell itself…”
“There you hit upon one of the biggest difficulties,” said Clatworthy. “The first ordeal is finding a neighbourhood which will tolerate the idea of a madhouse in their vicinity—particularly one that does not chain up the inmates, but leaves them free to, as they think, murder innocents in their beds.”
“Would a small country estate answer?”
“Have you one in mind?”
“No—no—I was merely thinking of an ideal situation.”
“Ah. Well, yes, a place in the country with a little bit of land would be perfect.”
“Yes,” said Knightley. “I remember Tuke mentioning how the exposure to Nature was often a help to the sufferers.”
“Very true. A place with a little bit of land, and not too close to a large population who will be frightened by the inmates—poor devils—most of them harmless, and the ones that are frightening are usually frightened themselves—that is what you need.”
“And how does one undertake to find someone to run the place?”
“I know a man—a bit over-religious for my taste, but a good fellow all the same—who was thinking of setting up an asylum. I’ll speak to him. He has no money, of course; pious people never do. But he has energy and zeal, which are nearly as good.”
“Better, sometimes,” said Knightley. “You’ll let me know what he says, will you?”
“To be sure.”
Knightley left Clatworthy’s with a feeling of satisfaction. He felt he had made a start in helping the Widow Hunt and her sister. It was good to be in London, diverted by the sights and sounds of the metropolis. He had not thought of Emma once, the whole afternoon—and then he grimaced at the realization that he was thinking of her now. And there was a whole evening to get through. It might have been easier, he thought, if Isabella were a difficult woman who made the thought of matrimony something to be avoided. Unfortunately, his brother’s home life was a desirable haven, designed to make him regret his loss even more. It was what he and Emma would have had, if they had married, and they would have done without John’s lapses into ill humour and Isabella’s needless worries.
He passed a bookseller’s and went in to buy something with which to occupy his mind. Not a novel: novels contained heroines who would inevitably make him think of Emma, whether the character resembled her or was so conspicuously different as to invite comparisons. The proprietor, informed that a book to fully engage the mind was required, recommended Elements Of Agricultural Chemistry In A Course Of Lectures. The purchase was made and Knightley disappeared into the library with it as soon as he arrived back at Wellyn House.
The book answered the purpose very well in that there was nothing in it to remind him of Emma—a fact which frequently came to mind as he retrieved his wandering thoughts. By dint of concentrating very hard he made it through the first two chapters before dinner was announced, and he was glad enough to lay aside the book and be tortured by the pleasant family atmosphere for a change.
“You received a letter from Emma this morning, did you not?” said John to Isabella over the roast beef. “Had she any news?”
“Oh! Indeed, yes. I kept it by to show you when you came home. Here it is.”
John took the letter and perused it silently. Knightley’s impulse was to snatch the letter and read it; the word news had a very unpleasant connotation to him. His next thought was to ignore it all, but he could not help watching John’s face as he read. John grinned suddenly.
“What is it?” said Knightley. “What does she say that is so amusing?”
John’s eyes flicked up to his in surprise at the impatient question. “Only a quotation: ‘As Hamlet says, “Death lays his icy hand on kings”’—that isn’t Hamlet, surely?”
“No—but you are half right: James Shirley.”
“Ha! Surely—Shirley…very good.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Isabella.
“Never mind,” said John, shortly.
“An odd quotation for a letter of Emma’s,” said Knightley.
John turned back to the letter. “Ah, here is why: Mrs Churchill has died.”
“Yes,” said Isabella. “How very unexpected! Poor lady! She has never been a favourite person of mine—she was a legend for tyranny—but perhaps she was really very ill all the time.”
Churchill’s aunt dead. That was rather unexpected. And what might result from it? Churchill would have to go away from Highbury now, of course. The funeral and the period of mourning to be observed would keep him away for a little while. But when that was over, what would happen? It could be that the last impediment to a union with Emma had been removed. Mrs. Churchill was, after all, the sort of imperious woman who might demand that her nephew marry a woman of her own choosing, or not marry at all if she were still alive. She was not likely to enjoy making way for another woman to be mistress of Enscombe. But would she have insisted on the point to such a degree that Churchill had been held back by it in his pursuit of Emma?
There was no way to know; only time would tell. He could only wait again—wait to see if this event precipitated an offer of marriage, wait until her fate was sealed, wait until his hopes, already condemned, received the final death-stroke. Spencer had been right: waiting for something one is dreading is the worst of all possible tasks.
The older children joined them, as usual, after dinner, in the small parlour.
“May I sing my song for Uncle Knightley?” asked Bella.
“If Uncle Knightley would like to hear it,” replied her mother.
“Of course,” said Knightley.
Bella stood before him, hands clasped behind her back, and warbled away, tolerably on pitch. He ought to have known the song would be that singularly unhelpful ballad, “The Lass of Killashee.”
For tho’ she scorned to give her hand
His patience constant won the day
And gently stole her heart away.
He listened with a smile for Bella’s benefit, and congratulated her on her performance at the end of it, but he hoped privately never to hear the piece again. The lyrics were obviously the result of a poet’s flight of fancy and could have no basis in true history. Now, if only the writer had thought to compose a ditty about someone who had learned to be indifferent—that would be a song he would like to hear! There must be some song—or poem or novel—that described someone falling out of love. There might be a secret to learning to be indifferent, and surely one who had found it would have shared it with the world in the form of literature—didn’t Horace say that the purpose of literature was to teach and delight? But no examples came to mind. He thought of several poems where the object of affection was unfaithful or otherwise unworthy, but the end of those stories was not that the thwarted lover was thankful to have been spared union with the faithless one, or found happiness in a marriage with someone else. No, they all seemed to end with untimely death or unending sorrow. And in any case, Emma had not broken any promises, and if her morals had slipped on Box Hill, it was not enough for him to turn from her. She had tried to make amends with Miss Bates, after all.
“Uncle Knightley?” Little John stood before him hopefully. “Will you throw me up in the air?”
“Not tonight, I think,” said Knightley. “It is very late, and tossing-the-children-in-the-air is a very noisy game.”
“Uncle Knightley has had a long day,” said Isabella, giving Knightley one of her Emma-like smiles. “Perhaps you ought to ask him tomorrow, when he is not so tired.”
“Uncle seems always tired now,” said Henry.
“‘He that is weary, let him sit,’” came from John.
Knightley laughed. “If you will invoke Herbert, you ought to have chosen the more apt quotation, ‘weariness may toss him.’
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