Lend Me Leave

by Barbara Cornthwaite

  “Robbed?” said Mr. Woodhouse, pale. “Thieves in the neighbourhood, breaking into houses… Oh, Emma, Emma, what shall we do?”

  “Oh, Papa,” said Emma, getting up to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, “it was only the poultry house—everyone is perfectly safe.”

  “That’s right,” said Weston, “Nothing to worry about.” He looked as if he regretted sharing his news while Mr. Woodhouse was present.

  “But the robbers might come to Hartfield, Emma!”

  “With Mr. John Knightley to protect us?” said Emma. “Papa, you forget. While he is here, we are very secure and need not fear any harassment.”

  “Very true, sir,” said Knightley. “John will keep you all safe. He can see to it that the locks are securely fastened at night, and he can stand guard in the hall, if you wish, all night long.” He smirked at John who rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Woodhouse, colour returning to his face. “Of course. I thank you for reminding me. Mr. John Knightley is here to protect us. We are safe.”

  “I’ll speak to Burton later in the morning,” said Knightley. “And now, sir,” he said to Mr. Woodhouse, “perhaps you will join me in a game of backgammon while John consults with Tagget about the lock on the poultry-house.”

  Knightley saw Burton later that afternoon, after Mr. Woodhouse’s mind had been distracted by the game of backgammon. Burton said that the watch had not seen anything the night before, having been situated on the other side of Highbury, close to the Donwell road. They had seen Mr. Spencer go by in the early hours—they suspected he had been visiting a house of sickness or some such thing. Perhaps Mr. Knightley ought to ask Mr. Spencer if he had seen anything?

  “I’m sorry to say I did not, Mr. Knightley,” said Spencer when the question had been put to him. “I was sitting with Mr. Croker; he has been very ill, but he seems to be on the mend now. I saw nothing as I walked home, but I was probably lost in my thoughts and may easily have missed something. I’m sorry I cannot be more helpful.”

  “Quite all right,” said Knightley. “Very likely there was nothing for you to see.”

  Muffled sounds of voices came from the front of the cottage, and after a few minutes Old Maggie came in, and said in her peculiarly loud, flat voice, “There’s John Lindsay ’ere to say the ewes is very bad off. He says it’s urgent, though I can’t see why he should come to you with these troubles—you know nothing about sheep! Shall I show ‘im in, sir?”

  “The ewes? Well then, if you please, Maggie,” nodded Spencer, and when the housekeeper departed said to Knightley, “Very likely she misheard him—I’ll let him speak for himself.”

  Lindsay appeared in the sitting room after a moment, hat in his hands, and he declined to take a seat.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Spencer, and Mr. Knightley, too, but I’ve been sent to fetch the parson on account of Mrs. Matthews being in a very bad way. They don’t know as she will live the day through, poor soul, and so I’ve been sent to ask you to come.”

  “Of course,” said Spencer, “Will you come with me, Mr. Knightley?”

  “By all means,” said Knightley. “We will go at once. Let us hope that things are not as bad as they seem.”

  The Matthews place was not far from Spencer’s cottage, and the men spoke little as they walked. The sky was overcast and the air seemed close and stale, even out of doors. It was going to rain, thought Knightley; and he found himself longing for the freshness that a shower would bring, even if it did make the paths muddy.

  Mrs. Catherwood opened the door of the Matthews cottage when they knocked. She was holding the baby, a lovely little thing that looked to be about baby Emma’s age. Spencer started, the way he always did when he saw Mrs. Catherwood unexpectedly, but he recovered quickly and snatched off his hat.

  “Mr. Spencer, Mr. Knightley.” She curtseyed briefly and opened the door wider. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  They entered the hot, airless room. There was a strong smell of camphor and of sickness, and the heat from the fire with its pot of boiling water contributed to the atmosphere, made more oppressive by the quantity of persons in the small space. The rough table in the centre of the room had two little children sitting at it, eating bread and butter, along with Mrs. Catherwood’s son and an older girl that Knightley recognized as the daughter of one of the gardeners at the Abbey.

  Spencer greeted each child kindly, and said to the older girl, “How do you do, Rachel? Is your mother here?”

  “She’s in the bedroom with Mrs. Matthews,” said the girl.

  “They came this morning, to help,” said Mrs. Catherwood.

  “And is she improving?” said Knightley.

  “No. Sleeping, now, but…” She glanced at the children at the table. “Are you finished eating now? Shall you go and play outside for a little while? Rachel, shall you take them? Good girl. Take James by the hand, if you will.”

  “Shall I take the baby, too?” asked Rachel.

  “No, she will be asleep soon. I’ll lay her down in a moment.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Come along, Sam and Jemimah. Come, James, take my hand.”

  Knightley waited until they were out of the house before asking “Is there no hope for her?”

  “There is always hope while there is life,” Mrs. Catherwood said quietly. “And after that, there is a different sort of Hope. I’m afraid it will be the latter hope that we must look to in her case.”

  “I see,” said Spencer.

  “The thing that troubles me,” said Mrs. Catherwood, “is the question of what will happen to the children if she dies.”

  “There are no other relatives, I know.”

  “No, there are not. She is worried that the children would be sent to a workhouse. Her husband came from one, remember. She has asked me to care for them—and I would—but I don’t think my brother’s wife would agree to it.”

  “I suppose there might be a family willing to take them in,” said Knightley. “I could enquire around the parish…”

  “If we had been married,” said Spencer pensively, “they could have lived with us—”

  A gasp from Mrs. Catherwood brought his head up with a jerk—horror on his face.

  “Oh! I beg your pardon—I did not mean to say—that is, I did not mean—I was not meaning anything—only musing—and said it aloud.” He sighed heavily and looked to the floor, mumbling, “Was there ever such a man for stumbling over himself?”

  “Please,” said Mrs. Catherwood softly. “Please do not reproach yourself. The same thought occurred to me as well.” She said it gently, reassuringly, and it was only after the words were said that she seemed to realize their implication, and blushed.

  “Did it?” said Spencer, with quite a different tone in his voice. “Dearest Mrs. Catherwood—Susan—” He swallowed and pressed on. “I must ask—that is, permit me to say—my offer still stands. I will not importune you again on this subject, but as the issue is before us—let me tell you what I neglected to make clear during our last discussion: I love you. It is not because of little James or because of these children I make the offer—as much as I truly desire their welfare—I love you, and want you to be my wife.”

  Her whole face was pink now, but she smiled and glanced at Knightley, who suddenly recollected that he ought not to be there.

  “You must excuse me,” he said, and flashed a grin at Spencer, whose attention was completely absorbed by the lady and did not even seem to notice Knightley going out.

  The passing bell tolled late that night for Mrs. Matthews. It woke Knightley from his sleep, and he felt a pang for the children, twice bereft. There was a satisfaction in knowing that they would have the best of care from their new family, but when he fell asleep again, he dreamt of gardens full of dead flowers.

  He ate breakfast in his own home the next morning, and went to the curate’s cottage as soon as he was finished eating. Spencer was home alone, Old Maggie having gone to help at the Matthews cottage. He gree
ted Knightley with a beaming face.

  “I need not ask,” said Knightley, “how you parted with Mrs. Catherwood last evening.”

  “No,” said Spencer. “I suppose my smile is eloquent enough. There are no firm plans—there was no time to make any—except that we are to be married. Mrs. Matthews was alert enough in her final hours to be assured that her children would be cared for, and she died at peace.”

  “I am glad for that,” said Knightley. “Will you keep living here? This cottage would be stuffed full—you and your wife, four children, and Old Maggie. Not to mention that there might be more children within a year.”

  “Oh! I suppose you are right. I had not thought of that. Perhaps we ought to take a larger house.

  “Most people would consider you as choosing very stony ground to till—no wedding-trip, no privacy—beginning married life with four children, three of them recently orphaned—it’s not what most men would desire for their first months of wedded bliss.”

  “No, I suppose not. But I am not getting married only to please myself… and most men are not getting a wife like Susan.”

  “Do you know, Spencer, if anyone else said the same thing, I would think that they were shutting their eyes to coming difficulties, and that they would have an unpleasant surprise when the inevitable frustrations began to arise. But I do not have the same worries about you; I think you will actually be as happy as you think you will be. You won’t wait very long, I daresay, for the wedding.”

  “No, a week or two at most. My father will like to come for it, I know. I will write to him today.”

  “Well, I will leave you to your letter, and all your other business.”

  “Yes. There is the funeral tomorrow, of course, and then we will make our plans.”

  Knightley went to Hartfield when he left Spencer, and found a very nervous Mr. Woodhouse in company with John and Emma.

  “Oh, Mr. Knightley, have you heard? There has been another house-breaking!”

  “Has there?” said Knightley, looking to Emma for confirmation.

  “Not exactly,” said Emma. “It was another poultry house that was robbed. Miss Bates told us on a visit this morning.”

  “It is frightful, quite frightful. The world seems to be filled with marauders in these modern times. Nothing like it was ever seen in Highbury before. I cannot help but pity those who have been robbed. They do not have the Mr. Knightleys that we do to protect them.”

  “Indeed. But you know, Papa, Mr. John Knightley must be in Town again by the first of November. After that, we will be alone at night.”

  “You had better have George and Emma marry immediately, sir,” said John. “If they married in, say, three weeks’ time, they would be settled back at Hartfield by the time we leave.”

  Mr. Woodhouse was silent, his mind pondering the idea. Finally, with a sigh, he spoke. “Emma, my dear, I think perhaps Mr. John Knightley is right. Perhaps you ought to bring your wedding forward a little.”

  “Yes, Papa, I agree,” said Emma, looking at Knightley with sparkling eyes. “Three weeks will be just enough time for preparations.”

  20

  “And so we have come to the very last day,” said Knightley to Madam Duval. “This is my last evening here alone as a bachelor. All is in readiness. In the morning the carriage comes to bring me to the church in Highbury, and will wait there to take my wife and me back to Hartfield for the wedding breakfast. And when that is finished, we will leave for our wedding trip to Worthing. A fortnight of no responsibilities except those demanded by my wedding vows, and the continuing pursuit, as Dr. Hughes has enjoined me, of Emma.”

  The cat purred as he stroked her gently.

  “I saw Spencer today—he has been married nearly a week now. He has been busy settling the family into the new house. Most men would find moving house, gaining a wife, and becoming father to four children in the space of a week to be a positive penance, yet he thinks of it as a reward. ‘Can you believe,’ he said, ‘that I have been so blessed?’ He was as happy as a lark.”

  There was a tap at the library door, and Baxter entered the room. “Mr. Edmund Gilbert to see you, sir.”

  Edmund entered the room in great excitement, not to say perspiration and dishevelment.

  “Hello, Edmund. Come to give me good wishes on the eve of my wedding?”

  “What? Oh, no, Mr. Knightley—although of course you have them—but I have some news, Mr. Knightley. I went to Simmons as constable, but his wife said he was laid up with gout, so I came to you. I heard of the thefts of poultry in Highbury—I saw feathers outside the door of the cellar of the Crow’s Nest—I thought someone ought to know.”

  “Yes, indeed. You saw feathers, did you?”

  “Yes. I was helping myself to another glass of ale—one of the privileges of being a ‘friend’ of the tavern—and there they were on the floor. I listened carefully for the noise of birds, but I heard nothing. As soon as I was able to get away without suspicion, I did, and came directly here. Do you think you ought to search the cellar of the Crow’s Nest? I didn’t hear anything down there, you know.”

  “I should think the thieves would wring the necks of whatever birds they took, to keep them quiet. It does mean, however, that they will be transported soon—dead birds will not keep long in this fine weather. They may be gone already.”

  “I suppose that is true. And if you do not find the birds in the cellar, there will be no evidence.”

  “I would not go so far as that. If there are feathers, and perhaps other stolen goods, there may be enough evidence for a conviction. I suppose a warrant is in order. Get Burton, if you will, the constable for Highbury—he will be willing to go, since Simmons is indisposed. I will have a warrant for searching the premises of the Crow’s Nest by the time you return.” He paused, looking at Edmund’s face. Gone was the truculent expression, and in its place was an eager animation. It seemed that doing some service on behalf of justice had been a good thing for him. “You’ve done well,” Knightley added.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll be off to get Burton. I suppose,” he added with a grin, “you would not care to come with us?”

  “No. Interested as I am in the outcome of your search, I will leave the strenuous activity to yourself and to Burton.”

  “We’ll be back for the warrant soon,” said Edmund, and vanished.

  “There now,” said Knightley to Madam Duval, “perhaps this is the end of the plunderings of those desperate marauders. And perhaps it is the beginning of a new outlook for Edmund. I will not spare much thought for it right now, however. I have more important things to occupy my mind.”

  The wedding was simple and quiet, just as Knightley and Emma preferred it. Only their close friends—the Westons, Spencer, the Martins, and the Knightleys, along with Mr. Woodhouse—were there to see the ceremony. Emma was more beautiful than he had ever seen her. She repeated her vows in a clear voice, and her hand did not tremble when he slid the ring onto her finger. She gazed into his eyes with an expression of trust, and he knew he would rather die than prove unworthy of it.

  They all repaired to Hartfield after the ceremony for the wedding breakfast. It was not a boisterous party—it could not possibly be, with Mr. Woodhouse sitting there in patient resignation—but it was a glad one. The guests stayed beyond the meal, urged by Mr. Woodhouse who insisted that they all warm themselves in the drawing room for a little while against the chill of an October day.

  Knightley noticed Serle quietly beckon Weston out of the room while everyone was standing in little groups, conversing. When Weston returned, he came up to Knightley and said, “Burton didn’t want to disturb you, but he thought I ought to know that they found a quantity of feathers, as well as a number of other items in the cellar of the Crow’s Nest—candlesticks, jewellery, and things of that sort. Cooper has been bound over till the next quarter sessions.”

  “Ah! It seems we have caught our thief—or one of them; he could not possibly be responsible for all the robberies
himself.”

  “No. And how does his wife do?”

  “She didn’t seem distressed, Burton said. In fact, he thought her somewhat relieved. She said she would return to her parents’ home while she waited for the outcome of her husband’s trial.”

  “Good. Yes, John?” Knightley said, turning to his brother, who had appeared at his elbow.

  “You probably ought to be off soon,” said John. “You have a long journey ahead of you.”

  “True. You will see to Mr. Woodhouse carefully, won’t you, while we are gone? Emma will worry, you know.”

  “I will. I promise to remain in good temper, to accompany him on his three turns around the garden if he wishes it, and to reassure him hourly that you have not encountered any catastrophe on your wedding trip. I will not, however, promise to eat gruel with him, so you need not ask.”

  “I will not. I believe we should slip away now, with no fanfare—it will be less of a wrench for Mr. Woodhouse if there is not a crowd of people shouting ‘Goodbye’ at our departing carriage, I think.”

  John agreed to this, and Emma was consulted. She, too, agreed that this would be best, and she quietly said her goodbyes to one and another of the guests as they stood talking with each other. Her father was not content to say his farewells from his chair, but would accompany them to the front hall, with John at his side, to bid goodbye to his youngest daughter.

  “Goodbye, my dear,” he said with trembling voice. “Come back soon.”

  “Goodbye, Papa. Of course we will be back soon—almost before you can miss us.” Emma smiled, but she was near tears.

  “Come, sir”, said John. “Let us go back to our guests—they may need tea or gruel before they return to their homes.” He nodded to the wedded pair before turning back to the drawing room. Emma stood for a moment, looking after the retreating form of her father as he accompanied John.