by Nina Clare
‘What of Mistress Weston’s maid?’ Emma prompted, shaking her head free of the whirl of Mistress Baytes’ convolutions. ‘What is it you wish to tell me of her?’
‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, only that she has been seen.’
‘Seen?’ Emma’s vexation crept into her voice.
‘With a young man. In the lane. Patty saw them. They were holding hands Mistress Woodhouse, so there can be no doubt of their being, you know… I tell you because I am sure Mistress Weston would want to know if her maid were engaging her affections. It is always advisable to know if one’s servants have engaged their affections, especially when they are young girls like that pretty Hannah, and a young girl without a mother. We should certainly wish to know if it were Jane, would we not, Mother?’
‘And who was the young man?’ Emma asked briskly. ‘Was he a young man eligible for engaging the affections of a maid?’
‘Well, that is the concern, Mistress Woodhouse, that is why I thought that somebody, perhaps Mistress Weston, ought to speak to the poor girl, for the young man in question was William Larkins’ son, the youngest son, the one still at home. I believe his name is Benjamin, you may have seen him, Mistress Woodhouse, for he is employed at Donwell, he assists his father, such an old friend is William Larkins.’
‘I do not see what is the problem, Mistress Baytes. I’m sure William Larkins’ son is not the sort of young man to trifle with a young woman’s affections. Perhaps they are soon to announce their engagement. Mistress Weston will be sorry to lose Hannah, I’m sure, but I don’t see why you consider the situation warranting attention. It was a little indiscreet of the young couple to be seen together in that way, to be sure, but if the Larkins’ boy is an honourable young man—'
‘But that is the difficulty, Mistress Woodhouse, I am sorry to say that Mistress Larkins has her heart set on her youngest boy being wed to a certain young lady, who I will not name, but who is not of the name of Hannah. And thus, I am afraid that the young people are setting themselves up for a great disappointment, for what good can come from a secret engagement of affections, without the knowledge and blessing of the parents? Indeed, Mistress Woodhouse, I see only disagreeableness in store for that poor motherless girl, and I would wish that someone kind, such as Mistress Weston, would speak to her. If such a thing were to happen to poor dear Jane, we would certainly wish that someone kind would speak to her, would we not, Mother?’
‘I see,’ said Emma. ‘Well, I will mention the matter to Mistress Weston, but I beg, Mistress Baytes, that you do not speak to anyone else of this, it is a very delicate matter, consider young Hannah’s reputation if it is got out that she has entered into an understanding without their parents’ approbation?’
‘Oh, I quite agree! And that is just what Mistress Cole and Mistress Cox agreed, as did Mistress Wallis, but we all agreed that we should not speak a word of it to anyone else, for the sake of the young people, and Mistress Perry quite agreed with us, for she came in also as we were discussing this.’
Emma could bear no more and determined to make her departure.
‘Goodbye, Dame Baytes,’ Emma called out to the half-deaf old lady, ‘I hope you—’ she was about to wish her good health but was arrested by the look on Dame Baytes’ face – the sweet old lady looked positively livid.
‘Dame Baytes, are you well?’ Emma said, staring at her in surprise.
The old lady blinked, and her face cleared. Her usual countenance returned. It had happened so fast that Emma was not sure if she’d truly seen the odd look.
‘My mother is not very happy with all the talk of a secret engagement,’ Mistress Baytes whispered. ‘I try not to speak of it with her, though it will spill out sometimes. Mother has very sensitive feelings on such matters. I daresay things were not done so lightly in her day.’
Emma nodded and left with instructions about minding the stairs ringing in her ears.
‘Goodness, how that woman talks,’ Emma exclaimed, when she and Harriet had gained the street and were out of hearing of the Bayteses’ window. ‘And to involve me in such a matter as though I were some matchmaking Godmother to wave my wand over the young couple and separate or unite them according to whim.’
‘To be sure,’ agreed Harriet. ‘But what do you think of them being in a secret engagement? I think it romantic.’
‘I think it foolish. It is never worth the disapproval of one’s parents for the choice of partner. Only division and misery can come of it.’
‘But if it is true love,’ sighed Harriet, feeling that at last something good had happened, for surely this showed that Myrtle’s matchmaking of Hannah was making excellent progress. She could hardly wait to tell her of it, but she must not betray to Mistress Woodhouse that Hannah Hazeldene was a ward.
‘To my mind, true love needs to have some practicality and sense about it or there can be no lasting happiness.’
‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse, how can you talk so?’
‘I am not romantic,’ said Emma. ‘I have never been in love, and I do not think I ever shall be. It is not in my nature. That is why I would make an excellent Godmother. I can bring an objective eye to the matter of love.’
‘It is so strange to hear you talk so,’ said Harriet, looking up at her friend. ‘I think romantic love the most delightful thing in all the world.’
‘That is why you make an excellent ward, Harriet. And if it is your wish to marry, I shall not rest until I see you settled in a manner that is both practicable, sensible, honourable and satisfies your romantic sensibilities.’
Harriet only laughed.
Emma mistook the edge of hilarity in Harriet’s voice, not discerning that it was anxiety in Harriet that made her laugh in that shrill manner.
‘Ah, no giggling, Harriet. Laugh genteelly or retain a dignified silence. Young ladies should always keep their romantic feelings to themselves until the appropriate time.’
‘I will try,’ Harriet promised.
18
Broken Bounds
Master Knightley burst into the drawing room and surveyed it in a sweeping glance. Emma stood in the centre, at an easel with a paintbrush held mid-air; she turned her head to look at him in surprise.
Harriet was perched on a stool, presumably as Emma’s model, looking uncomfortable, but her interest roused by this sudden entrance. And Elftyn – he was to be found hanging around Hartfield a good deal these days – was sat on a chair between the two ladies, with a book in his hand.
‘Good afternoon,’ Emma greeted him, her paintbrush still raised. ‘Is all well?’
‘I am looking for your father.’ He made a curt bow of acknowledgment to Elftyn, who stood to greet him.
‘He is in his dressing chamber at this hour,’ replied Emma. ‘You know how he likes to dress early for dinner. Would you care to stay for—?’
Master Knightley turned and left as abruptly as he had arrived.
A few corridors, a staircase, and he reached the chambers of Master Woodhouse. He rapped on the door. Master Woodhouse’s valet, a wizened elf who had served the Woodhouses for three generations, opened the door and eyed him warily.
‘Who is it, Lowry?’ Master Woodhouse’s voice called from within. ‘It cannot be Emma. Emma never knocks like that.’
‘It is George Knightley, sir!’ Master Knightley called out, before Lowry had answered his master. ‘On urgent business.’
‘Dear me. Urgent business before dinner. What is to be done, Lowry?’
‘You must wait until my master has completed his dressing,’ Lowry said in his raspy voice.
‘Has he breeches and shirt on?’
‘He does, but he has no cravat or—’
‘Then you will excuse me,’ Master Knightley said, pushing the door open to step past the valet. ‘He is dressed well enough to hear what I must tell him.’
Master Elftyn resumed his reading of The Epigrams and Poems of Lord Fairley. He seemed to Emma’s ear to be picking out all the romantic poems, but that was very a
pt; how could his thoughts not turn to romance when his beloved sat before his eyes in her new pink ribbons?
‘Fair she sat on grassy knoll, with violets sweet clutched to her heart,
And there did I, in one fell look, first know the piercing of love’s dart.
Up looked she—'
‘I wonder what Master Knightley has come about,’ Emma wondered aloud.
‘Up looked she—’
‘It is unlike him not to stop and speak a word.’
‘Ahem. Up looked she—’
‘Quite unaccountable behaviour. He was positively blunt. Perhaps something is amiss. Something must be amiss. What do you consider, Master Elftyn? Did you think Master Knightley looked as though something were amiss?’
‘I… that is to say—’
‘I must see.’ Emma put her brush down. ‘I will be gone only a moment.’ She looked between Harriet’s blushing cheeks and Master Elftyn’s uncertain expression and thought it would be a very good thing to leave them alone for five minutes. Who could tell what might transpire between them?
As she reached the door, she heard Master Elftyn clear his throat and cease his poetry-speaking voice, which really was rather affected and ridiculous, though Harriet no doubt thought it fine.
‘I will read this one, I think,’ he said to Harriet. ‘The Tolling Bells of Death do Knell and We Must Hasten to Our End. It is celebrated for its iambic pentameter, as I’m sure you know.’
Poor fellow, was Emma’s last thought as she left the room. He is too shy to read love poetry to her while they are alone. This will not do, Master Elftyn, you must exert yourself! Faint heart never won fair lady – to quote another poet.
Emma paused outside her father’s dressing chamber. Through the open door she could hear Master Knightley’s clear voice: ‘My dear sir, you must attend, indeed you must.’
Her father’s voice was too soft for her to distinguish the words, but the distress in his tone was clear, and she hurried in, anxious for his well-being and wondering what could be so important that Master Knightley should disturb her father at his dressing.
‘Papa?’ she said, crossing the room to where he sat. ‘Is all well?’
‘Oh, Emma,’ wailed her father, putting out a hand to her. ‘I am glad you are come! No, I am not glad you are come, for you ought not to hear this.’
‘Hear what, Papa?’ She kept her voice as light as she could and only threw Master Knightley a pointed look of enquiry. ‘Surely our good friend cannot bear tidings so bad that I cannot hear of them?’ She stared more decidedly at Master Knightley, while patting her father’s quivering hand.
‘It is my unpleasant duty,’ Master Knightley said gravely, ‘to inform your father that there was a sighting of the bridge this morning. I have just learnt of it.’
‘The bridge? Not the—?’
‘Yes. The old darkling bridge.’
‘But that has been closed for a century,’ said Emma. ‘Who saw it?’
‘One of the miller’s boys.’
‘Their word can hardly be trusted without evidence. They cannot be above ten years old. Likely it was only rising mist they saw.’
‘There are other signs,’ Master Knightley said. ‘Footprints. Trampled hedgerows.’
‘That sounds like the work of a stray cow,’ argued Emma, for her father’s sake.
‘Cows have hooves,’ Master Knightley said. ‘The footprints had four-clawed toes.’
‘Why should darklings wish to trample hedgerows?’
‘Clearly they are of the heavy-footed type, who would plough through a hedge rather than go around it.’
‘Not trolls?’ said Emma, whispering the dreaded word as though it were too terrible to say fully aloud.
‘Oh, Emma!’ wailed her father. ‘What is to be done? There have not been trolls sighted in Highbury in more than a century!’
‘Master Knightley did not say that he actually saw any trolls, Papa. He only said there was possible evidence of them.’ She spoke soothingly, but she shared a look with Master Knightley that showed her true alarm. She knew he would not have brought such troubling news without good reason. There must be more to it than a trampled hedge. ‘And what would you have Papa do, Master Knightley?’
‘Assert his authority as Guardian,’ said Master Knightley simply but firmly. ‘Send all darklings packing in the name of the Green Man, before they move an inch further into our kingdom.’
Master Woodhouse was trembling all over. His valet appeared at his elbow with a glass of the master’s special medicinal wine. ‘Is it watered down?’ Master Woodhouse asked.
‘Indeed, sir,’ rasped Lowry.
‘Consider what Master Knightley counsels, Papa,’ Emma said, when the wine had been sipped at a few times and the trembling had lessened a degree. ‘He would attend upon you. You would not go alone.’
‘I cannot leave Hartfield, Emma. I feel unwell. I will not leave you unprotected.’
‘But I shall not be unprotected, Papa. All our servants are about us, and I am not without resources of my own.’
But Master Woodhouse was shaking his white-haired head, and the trembling of his limbs resumed. ‘You must not leave the grounds, Emma. It would be better if you would stay in the tower, you would be safe then. Do, Emma, do go into the tower! I think I must say the words, I think I must speak the binding—'
‘No, Papa!’ Emma spoke firmly, with a hint of panic in her voice. ‘There is no need to bind me there.’ She calmed herself into a gentler tone. ‘Drink some more. You must not get so agitated. As to staying in the tower and never leaving the grounds, there is no need for such measures. Master Knightley will tell you the same.’
‘There is certainly no need for Emma to be bound to the tower, Master Woodhouse,’ said Master Knightley. ‘She is confined enough as it is.’
Emma gave him a grateful look.
Master Woodhouse stood up, his eyes wide and wild, as though he were seeing something invisible, his hand stretched out into a pointing finger and he said in an odd voice, ‘I’ll be waiting, I’ll bide my time, I’ll have my magic, my hair, my shining, shining hair.’
He spoke in a chanting voice. Master Knightley looked at him in alarm.
‘The witch,’ whispered Emma. ‘He is remembering that dreadful time when she came and cast her threats and curses.’
She tried to coax her father into sitting down again, but he remained standing and trembling and pointing and chanting.
‘Go beyond this tower, leave the Green Man’s power, and I will have my magic, my hair, my shining, shining hair.’
‘You see how it is, Master Knightley,’ Emma said. ‘You see how badly he takes any talk of trouble. Oh, Papa, do sit down, do be calm, all will be well, you will see.’
‘Let me assist, my lady,’ said the raspy voice of Lowry. He stood before his quivering master, and stretched up his hands to reach Master Woodhouse’s head. ‘Be calm, sir. You are the Wild Man of the Woods, you are the Guardian of the border, you are the Green Man’s servant, you are bold and strong and true.’
There was soft magic in Lowry’s voice. He had a small gift of persuasion, though he rarely used it, for it taxed his strength too much in his old age. It worked, however, for Master Woodhouse’s trembling eased and the wildness faded from his eyes. He blinked and looked at his daughter. ‘Emma?’ he said, ‘is all well?’
‘Yes, Papa. Sit down and take a little sip of your wine. All is well.’
‘Master Knightley!’ said Master Woodhouse, seeming very surprised to see him. ‘Are you in my dressing chamber? Why is everyone in my dressing chamber? What can it mean? Is all well?’
‘All will be well, sir,’ said Master Knightley, in a resigned voice.
‘What time is it?’ Master Woodhouse asked, ‘am I dressing for dinner, or am I undressing for bed? I feel a little odd, Emma. I don’t feel quite myself. Have I been sleeping? Did I have a nap? I am sure I had a very dreadful dream. I am sure I dreamt of dreadful creatures trampling over th
e shrubbery, oh, Emma, I am sure I dreamt of her.’
Emma did not need to ask who her was. ‘It is time for dinner, Papa. Lowry will finish dressing you and we shall go down.’
‘I do not think I could eat,’ he said faintly. ‘I do not know why, but I feel a little odd.’
‘I shall order a bowl of gruel, Papa. It shall be made by Serle, just as you like it, with a little butter and a little salt. You know that a bowl of gruel always agrees with you when you are over-tired.’
Master Woodhouse nodded. ‘Very well, dear. Have a basin of gruel sent up.’
‘No, Papa, we shall all go down to the dining room, just as we always do. Will you stay for dinner, Master Knightley?’ She hoped he would. It would not be an easy meal to sit through with her father in such spirits. It would take a good deal of soothing talk to keep him calm.
‘I cannot,’ was Master Knightley’s blunt reply. ‘I am very sorry.’ He spoke these last words to Emma, who understood their meaning. He was very sorry that Master Woodhouse could not take up his duties as Guardian. He was very sorry to see Master Woodhouse reduced to such a state of terror at the mere suggestion of danger. He made a bow of farewell. ‘I wish to call in at the school library,’ Master Knightley said in parting. ‘There is a book of mine I lent to them which relates to the subject of—’ he refrained from the offensive word of trolls or goblins, or whichever word he had been about to say. ‘I wish to look up some facts that may be helpful. In the meantime, I shall set a watch over the border myself.’
Emma watched him go with a pang. She would have liked his help that evening. But there was still Harriet. If she could keep Harriet chattering her cheery nonsense at dinner, then it would go a long way to lifting her father’s spirits. Harriet! She was still shut up with Master Elftyn! For proprietary’s sake she must return to them immediately.
