Lend Me Leave

by Barbara Cornthwaite

  He could not speak for a moment. She was not in love with Churchill. She had never been in love with him. Only this morning it had seemed there was a locked gate between himself and Emma. Then had come the letter, and the news that the gate was not locked after all. Now, it seemed, the door was standing open, and there was nothing to hinder. He could woo her without a known rival. The thought was felicity.

  They reached the end of the path and turned back, giving him a moment to be sure his tone of voice would not sound too ecstatic before he said, “I have never had a high opinion of Frank Churchill. I can suppose, however, that I may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has been but trifling. And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he may yet turn out well. With such a woman he has a chance. I have no motive for wishing him ill” (that was a sentiment he had never thought to express!) “—and for her sake, whose happiness will be involved in his good character and conduct, I shall certainly wish him well.”

  “I have no doubt of their being happy together,” said Emma. “I believe them to be very mutually and very sincerely attached.”

  The thought of Churchill—Churchill, of all men!—being happy with the woman he loved while Knightley was still in suspense, was galling. What had Churchill done to deserve this happy conclusion?

  “He is a most fortunate man!” said Knightley. “So early in life—at three and twenty—a period when, if a man chooses a wife, he generally chooses ill. At three and twenty to have drawn such a prize! What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has before him! Assured of the love of such a woman—the disinterested love, for Jane Fairfax's character vouches for her disinterestedness; every thing in his favour—equality of situation—I mean, as far as regards society, and all the habits and manners that are important; equality in every point but one—and that one, since the purity of her heart is not to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it will be his to bestow the only advantages she wants. A man would always wish to give a woman a better home than the one he takes her from; and he who can do it, where there is no doubt of her regard, must, I think, be the happiest of mortals. Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of fortune. Every thing turns out for his good. He meets with a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her by negligent treatment—and had he and all his family sought round the world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have found her superior. His aunt is in the way. His aunt dies. He has only to speak. His friends are eager to promote his happiness. He has used every body ill—and they are all delighted to forgive him. He is a fortunate man indeed!”

  “You speak as if you envied him.”

  His heart stopped. He had said too much—his bitter tone must have given it away. She had seen a little way into his heart. Well, there was nothing to be gained by denying it. He would put an end to the repression and covering up of his deepest feelings. He would not ask her to marry him—not now. But he might gain permission to try to attach her. He boldly pushed the conversation forward.

  “And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy.”

  He waited for her to ask the obvious question. She did not. She must sense his reckless mood—guess what he was going to say—and think it better to keep the discussion until another day . But he would not. Having got so far, he was not in humour to let it die.

  “You will not ask me what is the point of envy. You are determined, I see, to have no curiosity. You are wise—but I cannot be wise. Emma, I must tell what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next moment.”

  “Oh!” she said quickly. “Then don't speak it, don't speak it. Take a little time, consider, do not commit yourself.”

  He was crushed. She knew what he felt, what he was going to ask—and was rejecting him. She only wanted to spare him from speaking out to his greater mortification and her discomfort.

  “Thank you,” he managed.

  Well, it was better to know. He had entertained such hope for a moment! Its shattering was all the worse for its having been suddenly elevated before it fell.

  They had reached the house by this time, and he made himself say, “You are going in, I suppose.”

  “No, I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not gone.” They could see the gentleman through the window, still smiling amiably at Mr. Woodhouse.

  Knightley would far rather have been finished with their walk. What could they say to each other now? How could he converse on general topics with her after what had passed? Nevertheless, they turned around and started down the path again. Hardly had they begun, when Emma spoke.

  “I stopped you ungraciously just now, Mr. Knightley, and I am afraid gave you pain. But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of anything that you may have in contemplation—as a friend, indeed, you may command me. I will hear whatever you like. I will tell you exactly what I think.”

  “As a friend!” Did she not understand? Was she under some misapprehension? “Emma, that I fear is a word—” He stopped. If she had not understood, there was no need to make it plain now. “No, I have no wish—” He stopped again. “Stay, yes, why should I hesitate? I have gone too far already for concealment. Emma, I accept your offer, extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend. Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?”

  He stopped walking and looked fully into her face, allowing all that he felt to show in his expression. If his hopes perished here, they perished, but he would at least say it all now.

  “My dearest Emma—for dearest you will always be, whatever the event of this hour's conversation—my dearest, most beloved Emma—tell me at once. Say 'no' if it is to be said.”

  She stared at him with a look of utter astonishment on her face. This was a revelation to her. Whatever she had expected him to say, it was not this. But she was not saying no! Even after she would have recovered from the initial shock and found her voice, she did not say it.

  “You are silent,” he said gratefully. “Absolutely silent! At present I ask no more.”

  She took him at his word, and said nothing. If he were eloquent, he would say something clever now, something to make her melt and fall hopelessly in love with him. As it was, he could only be himself.

  “I cannot make speeches, Emma. If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me. I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it. Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows I have been a very indifferent lover. But you understand me.”

  She knew. She knew all about him; she knew what he was trying to say. There was understanding in her eyes. And the fact that she had not said no, had not contradicted him, meant that she was willing to be courted.

  “Yes, you see, you understand my feelings—and will return them if you can.” She was still silent, evidently he had understood her aright. If only she would say it! “At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.” He waited, holding his breath.

  “Must I speak?” said Emma softly. “I would rather listen to you go on talking if you will keep saying such delightful things.”

  A smile broke over his face. “Would you, Emma? I will say them all day if it will please you. If you will only tell me how to win your heart, I will do it.”

  “You have done it already, Mr. Knightley. You did it long ago. I did not realize—I did not know my own heart—I was mistaken about my sentiments. But it has all been done.”

  “Then—you love me?”

  Her look answered the question, but she was so good as to confirm it with the words “I do.”

  “Oh, Emma. My love.” He was glad they had paused behind a particularly large lilac bush, hidden from the house, for even if they had been on the terrace outside
the dining-room window at that moment, he did not think he could have stopped himself from folding her into his arms.

  They lingered as long as they dared in the garden, and then entered the house. He could hardly have thought it possible that Mr. Woodhouse would not notice the smiles that they could not hold back, or the distracted way in which Emma served the tea and occasionally forgot to listen to her father. Their eyes met continually.

  It was enough for that day to sit and watch Emma, knowing that her heart was his, and that she was as happy in their understanding as he was. After the agony of the past months, it seemed impossible that such felicity could be his—and yet it was. He would have been content to sit there forever, he thought, drinking in her beauty and giving her the loving looks he had been at such pains to suppress before. But at last the clock struck the hour and he knew he must depart.

  “Shall you come tomorrow morning and breakfast with us?” asked Emma as he stood reluctantly to go.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “if you are certain you can bear so much of my company.”

  “I am not certain,” Emma said with her left eyebrow raised, “but I am hopeful.”

  “You must practice, then. I will come very often, until you can tolerate my presence without any difficulty whatsoever.”

  “You must do as you think necessary, Mr. Knightley,” she said, a sly smile gracing her lips. “I will try to submit to whatever measures you think appropriate for such training.”

  “I could have kissed her then—would have, too, if her father had not been right there, fully awake and watching us,” he told Madam Duval when he got home. “I restrained myself from kissing her in the garden—I knew I would have been overstepping the bounds of propriety—prudence—gentleness—all those things. And we have made no formal promises, after all. That must be remedied, of course, at the earliest possible moment.”

  He stroked the cat affectionately. “You have been of inestimable service, Madam, during this ordeal. And although I will not spend my evenings talking to you after I am married, I will see to it that you are suitably rewarded. A bowl of milk every day, perhaps? And if you promise to be very gentle, I may even present you with a little Knightley before very long, to roll pencils across the floor for you to chase.”

  15

  He was awake before the sun came up the next morning, in spite of a restless night. Happiness evidently had no more settling effect on the mind than despair did. He lay in his bed, smiling drowsily at the enchanting future stretching before him. This house, so long a bachelor’s domain, would be a family home. Soon Emma would be here—and not only to visit. She would live here, eat here, sleep here…sleep here! The thought jolted him awake. He must renovate the bedroom that had been his mother’s. Emma might not—indeed, he hoped she would not—choose to sleep there often, but it would be a quiet room of her own which she might use for reading or embroidery or writing letters. There would be other changes to make, too. The garden, for example. He would ask Emma if there were any flowers she would like planted for the next year. And the carriage—ought he to buy some carriage horses? That would please her. The drawing room, too—they could order wallpaper and curtains if she liked.

  Emma here; the thought was incredible after so many weeks of being certain that she would be absent from his life forever. And now he could make plans: firm, concrete plans instead of the vague wishes that he had never allowed himself to contemplate. He could even think of Emma here in his bed without guilt—although, he acknowledged to himself, it might not be prudent, considering the inevitable lapse of time, however long, before there could be a wedding.

  His mind moved on to the pattern of days that would develop after the first month or two of wedded life. He would sit across the table from her at breakfast and she would smile at him and pour their tea. They would talk about the letters that came or about their plans for the day. And then she would take her sewing or a book and go into the small parlour near the library—it would make a splendid morning room for her—or perhaps Mrs. Weston would pay a call. And sometimes Emma would go out and visit—she would enjoy meeting the inhabitants of Donwell—and someone would say to her “Your husband says”—and that would be him. Husband. He grinned at the word.

  And while she was doing those things he would meet with Larkins and go over the accounts and visit the tenants and go to parish meetings at the Crown. Now and then he would surprise her as she read. He would bring her a bouquet of flowers and invite her to take a turn in the garden with her. And under the fairy oak he would steal a kiss...

  And she would visit her father sometimes—ah, yes, her father. She would visit him daily, of course. She would spend much of the day there. It could not be otherwise—to think of Mr. Woodhouse sitting alone at Hartfield, hour after hour, would break Emma’s heart. She would hardly be willing to leave him at the close of every day. Would she, even then? He paused to consider.

  Mr. Woodhouse, who was never easy when Emma was from home even for an hour—what would he do if Emma lived at Donwell? As soon as he put the question into words, he knew the answer: an inner conviction told him that he would die within a month. Well, he must come and live at Donwell, too. He would soon adjust to living in another house. Well, perhaps not soon, but eventually. He would sit in the drawing room, and…but Knightley’s imagination gave out. All he could see in his mind’s eye was Mr. Woodhouse perched unhappily on a chair by the fire, anxious to return to Hartfield. Well—there would be some way around this difficulty. He and Emma would talk it over, and settle upon some plan. They would talk it over this morning, just as soon as he formally asked for her hand. He glanced at the clock, wondering how soon he could reasonably arrive at Hartfield for breakfast.

  It was a scene that had met his eye countless times over the years—Emma sitting with her father in the drawing room—but there was a warmth in her greeting that had never been there before, and never had she looked so beautiful. He drank in every detail of her appearance, and she blushed under his open admiration. If only they had been alone so that he could say the things he could only now express with his eyes!

  Breakfast was a quiet meal. Mr. Woodhouse had exhausted his stock of news the evening before, and Emma seemed more silent than usual, but Knightley reflected that it was probably because, like him, her heart was fully of loving things that could not be said in front of Mr. Woodhouse. When breakfast was finished and Mr. Woodhouse settled back in his chair by the fire, Emma expressed a wish to walk in the garden.

  “Will you join me, Mr. Knightley?”

  “Why, yes, I believe I will—if you wish it.”

  She smiled at him and led the way out to the garden. Once out the door, he tucked her hand under his arm. He would have been tempted to kiss the hand first if there had not been a gardener working in a flower bed not thirty feet from where they stood.

  “We had a very pleasant walk here yesterday,” he said. “Shall we take the same path today?”

  “Please,” came the reply.

  The walked silently until they were past the lilac bush, and then Emma gave a happy sigh and said, “I have been trying all night to believe that this is not a dream; that you have not somehow changed your mind overnight.”

  “I have been pondering the very great change that twenty-four hours can make. From complete despair to utter happiness—I never knew how heavy my heart was until it was given wings.”

  “When Mrs. Weston became engaged to be married,” said Emma, “she told me that she felt like she was dancing in the clouds. I know now what she meant.”

  “I should like to see you dance again.”

  “And I, you. We danced well together, did we not?”

  “Perfectly. Those were the only blissful moments in an otherwise wretched ball.”

  “I suppose you disliked my dancing with Frank Churchill.”

  “You may well suppose it. Although it was your first dance with him—at the Coles’—that opened my eyes to the true state of my heart.”

 
; “Was it?”

  “I knew I cared for you, of course, but thought it was only because of our family connection and our long friendship. Until I saw you paired with him, that is, and it made me want to challenge him to a duel.”

  “My poor Mr. Knightley! And that was so long ago! You have been very patient. I am sorry.”

  “Yes, you have made me suffer a good deal, you know, making me think that you were going to marry Frank Churchill. At least I never put you through the same agony—I am happy you were spared that. For, of course, you could not have thought that I really wanted to marry Jane Fairfax!”

  “Not after you told me you did not. I knew you were telling the truth.”

  “Well—I am glad of that. There is nothing worse than thinking the love of your life is going to marry another.”

  “I can imagine,” murmured Emma.

  “But there is no need to think on it any more,” said Knightley. “It is ridiculous of me to use our precious moments alone to dwell on something so irrelevant.”