Lend Me Leave

by Barbara Cornthwaite

  “Mrs. Weston makes an excellent wife for Weston, but you are a better wife for me. If you doubt it, you may recall that I might have married at any time in these last ten years, but I have never found anyone that came close to what I hoped for—until you grew up and I saw you as the woman you are.”

  “I have the comfort of knowing, at least, that you have seen me at my worst, and that did not drive you away—for long.”

  “Nothing would, Emma.”

  “Not even if I attribute Paradise Lost to Milton?”

  “But Milton did write—”

  Emma giggled.

  “Stop teasing me, Emma, or I may be driven to do something unprecedented.”

  “Such as…?”

  He leaned down impulsively and kissed her cheek.

  He could see that she did not mind—her cheeks were tinted pink, but there was still a teasing smile on her face. “I believe,” she said with a raised left eyebrow, “that you missed your mark, Mr. Knightley. Your aim is a little faulty.”

  “Is it?” he said. “I must try again.” He leaned down slowly and kissed the other cheek. “I see you are correct, my love. My aim is a little faulty.”

  “My aim is perfect,” said Emma unexpectedly, and she stood on her toes to kiss his lips. It was a good thing they were standing on a public road, for if they had been in a secluded place he surely would have been tempted to practice his aim for some lengthy period of time. As it was, he smiled at her and murmured “Perfect” in a voice not nearly as controlled as it ought to be.

  12 July

  Hartfield

  Dear John,

  I am writing this from Hartfield—Emma has just informed me that Miss Smith will be travelling to Brunswick-square in the Hartfield carriage tomorrow, and has invited me to send you a few lines by her. Keep the book until you come to Surrey in August—there is no hurry about my getting it back.

  Tell the children I am sorry my departure was so sudden, but it will not be long until they see me again. They will enjoy playing with Miss Smith, and I daresay they will have forgot all about me before an hour has passed. Let us hope that the dentist has good–and rapid—success with Miss Smith’s tooth.

  I have not forgotten what you said while I was in Town—that you might be willing to be a trustee of whatever asylum is set up. Clatworthy has written to me to say that his young friend, Grainger, is keen to begin. He desires me to draw up a plan—or convey my suggestions, at least, for such a place. I have very few ideas, as it happens, but I will write what I can. I beg you will have the goodness to look them over and see if you can add anything—the legal mind, of course, sees with clarity such things as distracted farmers such as myself might miss.

  Madam Duval is very well. I am certain she will enjoy seeing Bella when you all come. I will try to remember to put the ribbon around her neck for their reunion.

  Mr. Woodhouse has just come into the room and is voicing his fears for Mrs. Weston’s safety, so I ought to cease writing and begin helping Emma to calm his nerves. It will not be easy, I fear.

  Knightley signed his name, folded and sealed the letter, and gave his attention to the conversation.

  “But my dear,” Mr. Woodhouse was saying, “How can you be sure that Mr. Weston will be at home when the time comes? He might be away—at the Crown or at church—and Mrs. Weston left alone!”

  “She is never alone, Papa,” came Emma’s soothing reply. “Hannah is with her constantly—never leaves her side, I believe, when Mr. Weston is away. And all the servants know who is to fetch the midwife and who is to find Mr. Weston—they have all been told. You need not worry about that.”

  “Very true, my dear, that is very true. I remember Mr. Weston told me the same. But it is all very distressing—so many women I have heard of who died giving birth—”

  “But, my dear sir,” put in Knightley, “you must think how strong Mrs. Weston is. Remember her general health. It was all those years at Hartfield with your constant care for her that has preserved her constitution; she may thank you for such scrupulous attentions.”

  “Well, I daresay you are right,” said Mr. Woodhouse, although the anxiety had by no means disappeared from his face.

  The door opened and Mr. Perry was announced. His visit could not have been better timed, thought Knightley; he alone could calm the agitation of Mr. Woodhouse’s fretful mind, at least temporarily. They all sat together for a decent interval, and then Emma said, “Mr. Knightley, would you be willing to come with me to the garden? I wish to have your opinion on the placement of the new hyacinth beds.”

  “By all means,” he said, rising quickly.

  For form’s sake, they wandered toward the suggested spot and Knightley pronounced it an ideal location.

  “Good,” said Emma, with an impish smile. “My mind is much relieved.”

  “I consider it to be my duty to relieve your mind of all its apprehensions.”

  “Speaking of duties, Mr. Knightley, have you nothing to do at Donwell? You have been at Hartfield every day for the last five days, sometimes more than once, and you are never in a hurry to leave…”

  She did not look as if she were rebuking him, but he was a little hurt all the same. “Would you prefer I come less often?”

  “Oh no! Only you have always seemed so full of business before—journeys to Kingston, appointments with William Larkins, visits to tenants… now it seems you have nothing at all to do.”

  “Sheer laziness, my Emma. I am having the greatest difficulty in finding any of it important. A temporary state of mind, I am sure, but there it is. I will be forced back to my duties soon, however; there is a meeting at the Crown on Saturday.”

  He tucked her hand under his arm and began strolling down the path. “Do you enjoy having a secret that no one else knows about?”

  “I did at first,” she said. “At least, the thought of sharing a secret with you was entertaining. My mind must be more inclined to mischief than I knew. It is growing a little inconvenient now. I suppose it is as well that everyone is used to you calling here—no one yet suspects from our behaviour that there is any attachment between us.”

  “Yes, that is a boon. I must say, Emma, I’m tired of keeping it a secret. It is a little amusing to confound Larkins, but to be forming all one’s plans around something that no one knows—well, almost no one...”

  Emma’s eyes held a question, and he answered before she could voice it.

  “I had to tell Mr. Spencer—actually, he guessed.”

  “He guessed?”

  “He had divined my malaise some weeks ago, and when I went away, he knew why. When I suddenly returned, looking happy…”

  “I see.”

  “But he is more discreet than anyone I know, and poses no danger to our secret. All the same, I wish it known. I have little relish for mysteries.”

  “Neither do I,” said Emma. “But I fear we cannot tell my father now. He is so worried about Mrs. Weston! I have resolved to defer the telling him until the baby has arrived.”

  “You are right, of course. We cannot add to his burdens just now.”

  “I wish the news would not be a burden to him.”

  “Yes.” Knightley pressed her hand sympathetically.

  “It will be for his happiness, if only he could think it.”

  “True. He will be happier for it—eventually. It is only that it is a change, and he dislikes change of any sort. At any rate, we shall wait until Mrs. Weston is safe.”

  “And if we have Isabella and Mrs. Weston telling him that this is a good thing, it will help him to be convinced.”

  “Exactly. And once your father and the Westons and the Knightleys are told, we may begin to tell everyone else.”

  Emma laughed. “There will be no need for us to tell everyone else. When Mr. Weston hears it, the news will be all over Highbury and Donwell within a day.”

  “Indeed it will. I must take care to tell the news to Larkins the same day we tell Weston; that way both parishes will hea
r the news together.”

  “John and Isabella might be trusted to keep the secret.”

  “Yes, we can tell them sooner. As soon as the Westons’ baby arrives, our engagement shall be known in Brunswick-square. At least, I will write to John then; you may write to Isabella when you like.”

  “I should think our letters should arrive together.”

  “I am a besotted fool, I know, Emma, but I do not think I will ever tire of hearing you say the word ‘together.’”

  Baxter met him at the door when he returned home.

  “Mr. Larkins is waiting for you in the library, sir.”

  “Is he?” Knightley paused in the very act of handing over his hat to the butler. He really had no desire to be talking to Larkins. Perhaps he could go out again…

  “He is, sir, and determined to wait for you. He has the account-books opened on the desk, and has refused any kind of refreshment. I suggested he might return in an hour or two, and he said he would wait until you arrived—‘Even if he doesn’t appear until midnight!’ was his statement. I thought you might want to be aware...”

  “Poor Larkins,” said Knightley. “He tries so hard to do his duty. Thank you, Baxter. I shall see him now, then.”

  Larkins was, as Baxter had said, seated at the desk looking at the open account-books.

  “Well now, Larkins, what is the news?”

  This breezy greeting was evidently not what Larkins had been expecting, for he gaped a little at his employer before clearing his throat and unburdening himself.

  “Have you heard that the farmer Mitchell had some of his farm tools stolen?”

  “No, I had not heard. Does he know who took them?”

  “He suspected Mrs. Plover’s son, evidently, but Mrs. Plover said he was with her during the evening in question, and she is not one to cover up anything for him.”

  “No. And has there been any news about the paternity of the child of the serving maid at the Crow’s Nest?”

  “Nothing, sir. But there is something else—there has been another incident with Miss Castleman.”

  “Oh? What happened?”

  “She became convinced that this man that follows her, as she thinks, was lying in wait under her bed. She went and hid herself behind a hedge near the smithy, and was out all day and all night. Her sister was frantic with worry, of course. The smith found her this morning.”

  “And she is unharmed?”

  “Yes. The night was warm, and she caught no chill. She was brought back to the widow Hunt’s and has slept all day.”

  “That is well. But I see that there is now an urgent need to do something about her.”

  “Yes, Mr. Knightley. Mrs. Catherwood has offered to help watch over Miss Castleman, but she cannot be expected to do so continually.”

  “No. I will write to Clatworthy today and ask if there is some temporary place she could be confined until the asylum is ready to receive her.”

  “And now, Mr. Knightley, will you permit me to go over the accounts with you?”

  Knightley heaved a sigh. “As you wish, Larkins, as you wish. ‘What cannot be cured must be endured,’ I suppose.”

  Among the letters laid beside his plate the next morning was a message from Elton, saying that he wanted to see him about a matter of importance, and that he hoped to consult with him at Donwell in the course of the morning. Knightley scribbled back a note saying that he would certainly be at home until one.

  After breakfast, Rooker desired him to come to the kitchen gardens and see the largest cabbage Donwell had ever grown. He was suitably impressed with the immense vegetable, and praised the skill of the gardeners. John Page was at work on a row of marrows, and it was only natural to greet him and ask after his family. John said he was very well, thank ye, sir, but one of the children was ailing, and if it wasn’t too much trouble, sir, Mags would be ever so pleased to receive a visit from Mr. Knightley. Of course it was no trouble for Knightley to oblige—he would not omit doing anything that might cheer the little sufferer—and he promptly left for Page’s cottage.

  Children played around the doorway as Knightley approached; they greeted him with clumsy bows and curtseys. Little Mags was indeed heartened by such attention, and she promised to get well as soon as she could. And as the cottage was on the road to Hartfield, it was unsurprising that his feet turned in that direction when he was finished with his visit.

  Mr. Woodhouse was very glad to see him, the more so as Emma was in Highbury, visiting the Bates’. He talked over all Mr. Woodhouse’s bits of news and talked away all his anxieties, and by the time Emma came in, he felt that he had been of service to more than just the Pages that day.

  Emma answered all her father’s enquiries about Mrs. Bates, Miss Bates, and Miss Fairfax, and he was very interested to learn that the Eltons had also made an appearance there.

  “I daresay they were very pleased to see you, my dear. I’m sure I do not know who is not.”

  “Mr. Elton was rather too hot and tired to be pleased at anything, I think,” said Emma. “He told us, Mr. Knightley, that he had expected to find you at Donwell this morning.”

  “Oh! I did forget. He sent me a note this morning.”

  “For shame! You had better go and see him now.”

  “But you only just returned home,” said Knightley quietly. “You cannot expect me to leave your side now.”

  “He said it was most important—something about the meeting at the Crown tomorrow.”

  “Well, I will go and see him this evening. When I can no longer in politeness stay here.”

  Emma glanced at her father who, apparently exhausted by so much conversation, was beginning to nod. “I wish you never had to leave.”

  “That, Emma, is exactly the sort of thing you ought not to say to me, lest I be tempted to elope with you. I try to think myself content for the present, having won your hand against all expectation. But such thoughts as you present overthrow all that.”

  Emma blushed and looked at her sleeping father. “I could not.”

  “I know. I could not, either. But still, you ought not to tempt me.”

  Knightley, standing in the vicarage drawing room with his hat in his hand, felt more like a truant schoolboy than he had in thirty years. “I beg your pardon, Elton. I meant to wait for you this morning and was distracted and then forgot all about it.”

  “Well, I am glad to see you now,” said Elton, rather ungraciously. “Pray, be seated.”

  “You wanted to see me about the meeting at the Crown tomorrow?”

  “Yes. You’ve heard, of course, about this theft from the Mitchell farm.” He waited for Knightley’s confirming nod before going on. “I heard today of another theft, this time from Edwards, who lives on the road to Aston. I have heard that there was a spate of thefts from Langham in the past months; might it be that the thieves have been venturing nearer to Highbury?”

  “Possible, of course, although it is difficult to say. There are always reports of thefts—most unreported to me, as they are so petty, and the perpetrator unknown. Two such thefts in two weeks is not unusual for Highbury. On the other hand, it may be that same gang of thieves coming this direction. But what has this to do with the meeting at the Crown?”

  “I wondered if a watch could be set, and the perpetrators caught in the act.”

  “Well, it is feasible. I must tell you that not one in twelve cases that come before me have the offender caught by such means. You may have a long, lonely night of waiting for no purpose.”

  “I? I could not be part of a watch. Mrs. Elton would not desire it. But I wondered if the parish council could not hire watchers—we have the constable already, and perhaps a few of his friends—to see what they could discover.”

  “You know that the coffers of the parish are not exactly brimming now.”

  “Could the watch be hired on the basis of potential reward?”

  “They could, I suppose, but one wonders, if it is a fruitless errand, how long they will be willi
ng to give up their nights.”

  “Could we pay them a small amount for keeping watch for a week, with a larger reward if the thieves are caught? It would be worth something to the parish to keep its citizens from worrying about being robbed.”

  “That is so, Elton. We shall bring it before the council tomorrow. But why did you need to tell me now? You could have brought it up at the meeting itself.”

  “I wanted to know if there were any objection to the idea—be sure it would go through… to say the truth, Mr. Knightley, Mrs. Elton urged me to do something to protect her silver.”

  “Ah!” was all Knightley trusted himself to say.

  “You are fortunate not to have concerns at home pressing upon you regarding such things. A wife is such a delicate creature and her sensibilities must be considered. A single man has no such burdens.”

  “A single man has other burdens,” said Knightley. “But I agree with you: I am most fortunate.”

  21 July

  Donwell Abbey

  Dear John,

  Mrs. Weston’s baby has made her appearance—all well, which is a relief on more than one score.

  I hope you are seated while reading this, because the news I have to share will be a shock, though not an unpleasant one, I trust.

  Emma and I are engaged to be married. My love for her is long-standing, though unrecognized as such until a few months ago. I will not enter into the raptures you are no doubt expecting from me; I will only say that I know now what the poets speak of.

  In brotherly affection,

  George

  23 July

  Brunswick-square

  Dear George,

  I do congratulate you with all my heart. You were formed for the role of husband and father, and I am exceedingly pleased to see you finally assume that position. (I will, of course, be on hand to give you advice on both responsibilities, and will be giving it to you freely whether you think yourself in need of it or not.)