Beginning, Section II, Next Section

Chapter Six

11th November
Wellyn House
Brunswick Square
Dear George,

Thank you for yours of the 2nd. We are all well here; that is to say, Isabella is as usual and the children are very healthy. Little Bella’s fourth birthday was last week, and she was presented—rather against my inclination—with a white French cat. It is made much of by everyone but myself, and though it is confined to the nursery most of the time, Bella brings it down every evening after dinner so that it may pay its respects to the rest of the family. Bella asked me what name the cat should have and I suggested “Madam Duval”—out of Evelina , you know. I fear the joke is lost on everyone here.

I hauled myself over to the Club last night for the annual dinner—thank God only one dinner is required all year. Good food is a weak substitute for poor company. I ought not to speak so harshly, I suppose; the fellows are not so bad. But the talk is everlastingly the same: the War, politics, Prinny, the theatre and all the other sort of gossip that sends me to sleep over the port.

I met up with Graham and he asked to be remembered to you. He has suddenly inherited an estate in Northamptonshire—cousin died unexpectedly, apparently, and the whole lot was entailed to Graham. He’s in a quandary, though, as to how to make the estate pay. He says it’s in a poor state, the previous owners having lived in London and relied on a worthless bailiff to manage the place. He wants your advice. I told him there was nothing you liked so much as arranging everyone else’s business. I think he believed me.

Thank you for the kind invitation to stay with you at Christmas. You know as well as I that it would be too difficult for Mr. Woodhouse to have Isabella anywhere else but Hartfield at Christmas, but I appreciate your offer of hospitality. It makes little difference, really, as we will see you every day. The boys continually ask how many days must pass before they can see Uncle Knightley again.

Isabella sends all her kind wishes, as usual, and I remain,
Your favourite brother,
John

“Ah, my dear Mr. Knightley!” said Mr. Woodhouse. “It is indeed a delight to have you dining here once again. How weary you must be after that dreadful fair in Kingston! And here is Mr. Weston returned from Town as well, as you see. I am sure you must both be extremely thankful to be home.” Mr. Woodhouse would have been wrung to the depths of his soul if he had been required to leave his home and travel elsewhere, and he had the utmost pity for anyone else obliged to do so.

“I am very glad to be dining here again, sir,” said Knightley. “I regret that I have been engaged for so many days together which prevented me from calling at Hartfield.”

“It is always so dismal when you cannot come, Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Woodhouse, faintly reproachful. “Emma and I miss you so.”

Knightley looked around for Emma. There she was, dressed in a new green print gown that brought out the rich hazel of her eyes.

“And here is Mr. Elton come,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Knightley…” He gave a courtly little bow and moved off to welcome the vicar as he entered the room.

Knightley went over to Emma. For once she was standing alone; Harriet was talking to the Westons.

“You look very well,” he said. “That is a new gown, is it not?”

“It is,” Emma smiled—her natural smile, with all its openness and sincerity, “but I am surprised that you perceived such a thing. You never noticed whether a gown of mine was new or not before, I am sure.”

“I have never needed to. Miss Bates has always informed me when you had a new gown.”

Emma laughed. “I see. How did you fail to hear about this one, then?”

“I have not been near the Bates’ for several days; in fact, I have not had leisure to call on anyone.”

“Ah! Well then, I must give you all the news that Miss Bates would otherwise have informed you of. Mrs. Weston has a new silver teapot which Mr. Weston brought her from Town, the bridge is finally completed, and”—lowering her voice—“Mrs. Bates has a cold. My father has not heard of it yet. Pray don’t mention it to him; it would disturb his comfort so.”

“No, of course I will not.”

“There must be other news as well...Oh! Mrs. Saunders was delivered of a baby girl yesterday, and Mrs. Plover’s son was…but then you would know about him already.”

“Yes. Have you visited Mrs. Plover? Is she well?”

Emma’s brow wrinkled thoughtfully. “Well enough, I suppose. I wish she had a better son. She manages to keep from relying on the parish, but only just. I do not believe she would be able to do it without the help of her neighbours.”

“And the help of Hartfield,” added Knightley, “for I know what you do. Well, will you let me know if I may be of service to her?”

Emma smiled and nodded. She did indeed look very well this evening, Knightley thought, and he was on the verge of telling her so when he remembered that he had already said it once.

“Well now, Elton!” Weston hailed the vicar from across the room. “What took you so long to get here? I’ve never known you to be the last to arrive at a Hartfield gathering.”

“I was detained at the Bates’,” said Elton with a polite smile on his face but a note of frustration in his voice. “Mrs. Bates has caught a bad cold and Miss Bates was very worried about it.”

Blast the man! thought Knightley, as Mr. Woodhouse’s face revealed his dismay. Cannot he learn when to keep silent? Mr. Woodhouse’s peace will be cut up for the entire evening now.

“Emma, my dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse in consternation, “Should not Perry be sent for? Should we not send a message for Perry to see Mrs. Bates? And we ought to send her some beef-tea. Oh dear, oh dear. Poor Mrs. Bates!”

“I’m sure Mr. Perry has been to see her already,” said Emma soothingly, “Has he not, Mr. Elton?”

“Oh, yes. He came twice today, I believe.”

“There, Papa! You know that Mr. Perry is very attentive to Mrs. Bates. I was sure he would not neglect her. And when Mr. Perry calls here tomorrow we may ask him what we may do for her. We will suggest beef-tea and he will tell us if that is what we ought to send.”

“And I will call on the Bates’ tomorrow, Mr. Woodhouse,” said Mrs. Weston, coming over to him. “I shall bring you a report of her health. A cold, you know, if carefully watched, is seldom very serious. She has a strong constitution, as well, sir. I think we need not be uneasy for her.”

“No indeed!” said Emma. “Miss Bates loves her mother so much that it is natural she should be nervous at the slightest symptoms of ill-health, but we who have seen her come through many a cold may safely trust to Mr. Perry, I think.”

“You must be right, of course, my dear Emma,” sighed Mr. Woodhouse, endeavouring to be comforted by her logic. “My dear Mrs. Weston, I am sure you are right; you always are. But it is a dangerous season.”

A new topic of conversation was needed now, and Mrs. Weston took the responsibility of finding it.

“Mr. Knightley, how does the new curate at Donwell get on?”

There was a pause as Knightley felt the eyes of the entire company on him. In his opinion, Spencer was not getting on very well. Knightley had now sat through two of Spencer’s sermons and the experience had been rather painful. The poor young man had read his sermons with a quiet voice and faltering manner, never once lifting his eyes to the congregation. For a parish used to the masterful and eloquent sermons of Dr. Hughes, Spencer was an enormous disappointment. Furthermore, the first Sunday he had actually left out a whole set of responses through sheer nervousness.

Out of the corner of his eye, Knightley saw Elton smirk. No doubt he had heard reports of the curate’s sermons. He determined to represent Spencer as well as he could.

“Not so badly,” he said. “Dr. Hughes tells me that he has visited half the families in the parish already—he began visiting the day after he arrived! And his sermons are very…thoughtful.” Now that he had said it, it struck him that it was entirely true. The content of the sermon had been thoughtful, however feeble the delivery had been. “He is young yet,” Knightley went on, “But he is very sincere. I think the parish may consider itself fortunate to have him.” Elton’s eyebrows went up at that, and even Knightley knew he was overreaching what he really felt. It was best to leave the subject altogether.

“Mrs. Weston, I have heard rumours that you have a handsome new silver teapot. I do hope Weston brought you a sugar bowl to match.”

Knightley sat at the breakfast table the next morning with his eyes on his egg but his mind recalling the previous evening. He was thoroughly impatient with Elton. His sneering attitude toward poor Spencer was disgraceful, and the way he fawned over and flattered Emma was scarcely less so. Knightley would not interfere. Let him offer for Miss Woodhouse and be refused. It would do him good.

It would also do Emma good. She would find that her manner was not always flawless, and she would be disappointed in her scheme to marry Harriet to Elton. She must be disabused of the notion that she could arrange the lives of everyone in Highbury as if she were a master chess player, moving and positioning the pieces at will.

Then again, it was no wonder she had the idea that she could do so with poor Harriet admiring and supporting everything she said or did. Last night had been specimen enough of that. “Yes, Miss Woodhouse…You are so clever, Miss Woodhouse!...Of course, Miss Woodhouse…Do you think so, Miss Woodhouse?” The silly girl could not even make up her mind whether or not to eat peaches, even though she owned that she disliked them! Miss Woodhouse must advise her first.

Knightley pushed his plate away and looked out the breakfast room window at the trees which were now completely bare. It was impossible to be annoyed with Harriet. The girl was transparently free of design in all she did. Emma might have seen through a girl who meant to flatter her for her own advantage, but Harriet’s artless veneration pleased her. Harriet was only too grateful to be directed and Emma thought herself a philanthropist for directing her. And, unfortunately, Emma’s direction would not make Harriet a better woman. Harriet would most likely be the wife of an artisan or shopkeeper, and she needed to learn how to be a capable manager and a resourceful housewife. But all she would learn from Emma would be how to sit in polite society without reproach, how to dress with taste and elegance, and how to play backgammon. Much good that would do her!

Knightley rose from the table and walked over to the window to look at the sky. It was grey, but not threatening. A solitary robin perched in the tree just outside. Knightley watched it as it hopped along the branch and then flew away.

Emma and Harriet…It was a sorry business for both of them. The only thing to be done was to enlist help. If those Emma respected most—the Westons or the London Knightleys—united with him in discouraging the friendship, Emma might gradually let the acquaintance drop. He ought to return that book of plans for cottages to Weston; he would bring it back that afternoon and speak to the Westons about Harriet at the same time.

He had almost reached Randalls when he met Weston on the road.

“Coming to see me?”

“I was returning your book to the library at Randalls, and thought I might spend a congenial hour in the drawing room with you and your lady. But I see you are off somewhere.”

“I have some business with William Cox. I ought to have been there a half hour ago, otherwise I would go back to Randalls with you and help to enliven that congenial hour.”

“Perhaps I ought to call tomorrow instead.”

“Not at all, not at all. Do go and call on Mrs. Weston; she will be glad to see you.”

So Knightley went on and fifteen minutes later he was seated in the drawing room, embarking on the subject of Emma and Harriet.

"I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston,” he began, “of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad thing."

"A bad thing!” Mrs. Weston was truly surprised. “Do you really think it a bad thing? Why so?"

Knightley’s heart sank. She had not seen anything amiss, then. Bother! He would have to convince her. "I think they will neither of them do the other any good."

"You surprise me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by supplying her with a new object of interest, Harriet may be said to do Emma good. I have been seeing their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very differently we feel! Not think they will do each other any good! This will certainly be the beginning of one of our quarrels about Emma, Mr. Knightley."

Knightley grinned at that. They had “quarrelled” over Emma several times in the past—always good-naturedly—but Knightley, at least, had been serious about trying to correct the faults in Emma’s education.

"Perhaps you think I am come on purpose to quarrel with you, knowing Weston to be out, and that you must still fight your own battle."

Mrs. Weston protested that it made not the slightest difference, for she knew Mr. Weston to be entirely on her side of the question. They both agreed that it was fortunate for Emma to have secured a female companion after she had been used to it all her life.

“Mr. Knightley,” she continued, “I shall not allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so much used to live alone that you do not know the value of a companion; and perhaps no man can be a good judge of the comfort a woman feels in the society of one of her own sex, after being used to it all her life.”

I do not know the value of a companion? thought Knightley. But Mrs. Weston was still speaking.

“I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman which Emma's friend ought to be. But on the other hand, as Emma wants to see her better informed, it will be an inducement to her to read more herself. They will read together. She means it, I know.”

Well, at least Mrs. Weston saw something less than ideal in the friendship. Perhaps he could build on this. He reminded her that Emma had always had great plans for improving reading, but had never actually read the books, in spite of Miss Taylor’s urging. He knew he was on firm ground by saying that anything requiring industry and patience would never be mastered by Emma. Mrs. Weston, however, seemed to be reluctant to grant him that point, and so he elaborated.

"Emma is spoiled,” said he, “by being the cleverest of her family. At ten years old she had the misfortune of being able to answer questions which puzzled her sister at seventeen. She was always quick and assured: Isabella slow and diffident. And ever since she was twelve, Emma has been mistress of the house and of you all. In her mother she lost the only person able to cope with her. She inherits her mother's talents, and must have been under subjection to her."

"I should have been sorry, Mr. Knightley,” laughed Mrs. Weston, “to be dependent on your recommendation, had I quitted Mr. Woodhouse's family and wanted another situation; I do not think you would have spoken a good word for me to any body. I am sure you always thought me unfit for the office I held."

“Yes, said he, smiling. “You are better placed here; very fit for a wife, but not at all for a governess. But you were preparing yourself to be an excellent wife all the time you were at Hartfield. You might not give Emma such a complete education as your powers would seem to promise; but you were receiving a very good education from her, on the very material matrimonial point of submitting your own will, and doing as you were bid; and if Weston had asked me to recommend him a wife, I should certainly have named Miss Taylor.”

"Thank you,” said Mrs. Weston, acknowledging his humour with a graceful incline of her head. “There will be very little merit in making a good wife to such a man as Mr. Weston."

"Why, to own the truth, I am afraid you are rather thrown away, and that with every disposition to bear, there will be nothing to be borne. We will not despair, however. Weston may grow cross from the wantonness of comfort, or his son may plague him."

"I hope not that. It is not likely. No, Mr. Knightley, do not foretell vexation from that quarter."

"Not I, indeed. I only name possibilities. I do not pretend to Emma's genius for foretelling and guessing. I hope, with all my heart, the young man may be a Weston in merit, and a Churchill in fortune.” However unlikely that appears to be at the moment, he added silently.

“But Harriet Smith,” he continued, “I have not half done about Harriet Smith. I think her the very worst sort of companion that Emma could possibly have. She knows nothing herself, and looks upon Emma as knowing everything. She is a flatterer in all her ways; and so much the worse, because undesigned. Her ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine she has any thing to learn herself, while Harriet is presenting such a delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet, I will venture to say that she cannot gain by the acquaintance. Hartfield will only put her out of conceit with all the other places she belongs to. She will grow just refined enough to be uncomfortable with those among whom birth and circumstances have placed her home. I am much mistaken if Emma's doctrines give any strength of mind, or tend at all to make a girl adapt herself rationally to the varieties of her situation in life. They only give a little polish.”

“I either depend more upon Emma's good sense than you do, or am more anxious for her present comfort; for I cannot lament the acquaintance. How well she looked last night!”

“Oh! you would rather talk of her person than her mind, would you? Very well; I shall not attempt to deny Emma's being pretty.”

“Pretty! say beautiful rather. Can you imagine any thing nearer perfect beauty than Emma altogether—face and figure?”

A sudden vision of how Emma had looked the night before came into his mind. Yes, she was beautiful. She was very beautiful.

“I do not know what I could imagine,” he said after trying for a moment to improve on the vision and failing, “but I confess that I have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers. But I am a partial old friend.”

“Such an eye! the true hazel eye—and so brilliant! regular features, open countenance, with a complexion! oh! what a bloom of full health, and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure. There is health, not merely in her bloom, but in her air, her head, her glance. One hears sometimes of a child being ‛the picture of health;’ now Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of grown-up health. She is loveliness itself. Mr. Knightley, is not she?”

“I have not a fault to find with her person,” he replied. “I think her all you describe. I love to look at her;” (even now he was strangely reluctant to put the picture of her out of his mind) “and I will add this praise, that I do not think her personally vain. Considering how very handsome she is, she appears to be little occupied with it; her vanity lies another way. Mrs. Weston, I am not to be talked out of my dislike of her intimacy with Harriet Smith, or my dread of its doing them both harm.”

“And I, Mr. Knightley, am equally stout in my confidence of its not doing them any harm. With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an excellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times."

It was useless; he could see that. The Westons would not aid him in separating the two young ladies. He gave way amiably, therefore, and said that he would not plague her about it any more, but would instead wait for the Christmas visit of John and Isabella, who would be sure to think as he did.

Mrs. Weston, however, dissuaded him from even that plan of action, saying that she did not think that Emma would listen to John and Isabella even were they to disapprove of her friendship with Harriet, as Mr. Woodhouse completely endorsed it. Furthermore, Isabella was easily worried and might fret over her sister.

This was all very true, and Knightley realized that there was nothing for it but to sit silently by and let Emma do as she pleased. He promised to keep quiet. It vexed him very much to leave her to her fate; his impulse was to protect her even from her own folly.

“I have a very sincere interest in Emma,” he said, explaining his wish to intervene as much to himself as to Mrs. Weston. “Isabella does not seem more my sister; has never excited a greater interest; perhaps hardly so great. There is an anxiety, a curiosity in what one feels for Emma. I wonder what will become of her.”

“So do I,” said Mrs. Weston gently; “very much.”

“She always declares she will never marry, which, of course, means just nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has yet ever seen a man she cared for.” That was a thought; what would Emma be like if she had seen such a man? Perhaps she would undergo the same transformation John had when he had fallen in love with Isabella: apprehension and uncertainty would make her humble. “It would not be a bad thing for her to be very much in love with a proper object,” he said, thinking aloud. “I should like to see Emma in love, and in some doubt of a return; it would do her good. But there is nobody hereabouts to attach her; and she goes so seldom from home.”

“There does, indeed, seem as little to tempt her to break her resolution, at present," said Mrs. Weston, "as can well be; and while she is so happy at Hartfield, I cannot wish her to be forming any attachment which would be creating such difficulties on poor Mr. Woodhouse's account. I do not recommend matrimony at present to Emma, though I mean no slight to the state I assure you."

Mrs. Weston managed to say it very naturally, but Knightley knew from the way that she looked at her hands as she said it that she had other thoughts she was not expressing. He had been too closely acquainted with Hartfield for too many years not to be able to read the expressions and mannerisms of its inmates. It did not take him many moments to surmise what she was not saying; she likely had some young man in mind that would tempt Emma to break her resolution of remaining single, and he would be very much surprised if the young man was not Frank Churchill.

However, there was nothing he could say about that if Mrs.Weston said nothing, and although he himself had started the topic of Emma being in love, for some reason the thought of Emma marrying was one he was disinclined to dwell on. For the second time in two days he felt he ought to change the course of the conversation.

“What does Weston think of the weather?” was the first thing that came into his head. “Shall we have rain?”

Knightley stayed another quarter of an hour before excusing himself. He had plenty of time on the walk home to review the frustrating conversation. Oddly enough, the words that most needled him were “You are so much used to live alone that you do not know the value of a companion.” But I do, he argued with the ghost of Mrs. Weston. I do know the value of a companion. I may live alone but I have not yet retreated entirely from the world and become a hermit! Not know the value of a companion, indeed! One would think that to live alone condemns a man to be insensible to all human feeling and friendship! Ridiculous! There is nothing wrong with living alone.

“It is not good that the man should be alone.” The words darted into his mind, startling him and halting his steps for an instant. He was not prepared to do battle with that quotation. Very deliberately he pushed the whole subject out of his mind and strode on toward Donwell.

Chapter Seven

The day was dawning sullenly, rain dribbling down the windows of the dressing room.

“I dine with the Gilberts this evening, Baxter,” said Knightley as the butler helped him on with his waistcoat.

“Yes, sir. Mrs. Hodges informed me this morning of the circumstance.”

Knightley’s lips quirked in amusement. He had only received an invitation the day before and had not spoken of it to anyone, but somehow he was not surprised that Baxter knew. Where his staff got their information was anyone’s guess, although he suspected that William Larkins was usually responsible. It was a wonder that Larkins had time to do any work at all, so much of his time being spent spreading intelligence of one kind or another.

“Well, Baxter, are you also knowledgeable about the guest list for this gathering?”

“Yes, Mr. Knightley.”

“And?” prompted Knightley.

“Young Mr. Gilbert, of course, the elder Mr. Gilbert’s sister Miss Gilbert and her companion, who is a widow, Mr. Spencer, Mrs. Hughes, and yourself.”

“Thank you. I presume that the widowed companion to Miss Gilbert was an unexpected addition to their party, thus necessitating my invitation in order to make an equal number of ladies and gentlemen.”

“I believe you are correct, sir,” said Baxter. “Would you prefer the grey coat? It is a trifle warmer than the black for such a day as this.”

“Yes, the grey. The rain is very heavy, and even if it lets up the roads will be muddy. Better send Thomas to get horses from the Crown for this evening. I will use the carriage and take Mr. Spencer and Mrs. Hughes with me. Would you send a message to Mrs. Hughes, saying that the carriage will be at her door at seven o’clock? I will visit Spencer myself when I return from the meeting at the Crown.”

“Very good, sir. Your coat, sir.”

Baxter assisted Knightley in putting on the coat and gave it a final brush as expertly as Richards had ever done. Emma had been horrified when he had told her, at his old valet Richards’ retirement, that he did not intend to hire another valet but instead have Baxter to perform those services.

“My dear Emma,” he had said, “I do not need a distinct servant to look after my attire. Baxter can manage it easily with his other duties. I can save…”

Her left eyebrow arched as she interrupted with “Oh, if it has to do with saving money on servants’ wages and the servant tax, then I can see there will be no dissuading you. Your living up to your position as landowner, magistrate, and head of the ancient Knightley family is nothing in comparison to the opportunity of economising.”

“No,” he said solemnly, “There is no hope of persuading me otherwise when I have occasion to save a guinea. And when Mrs. Hodges retires I shall have William Larkins take on her tasks as well as his own. He will scold the kitchen maids just as well as she, I dare say, and will learn to bake an apple tart that will rival even hers.”

Emma laughed in spite of herself to think of grim William Larkins fussing about the kitchen. “He could do the scolding bit very well, at least. And perhaps then you will have saved enough to purchase horses to ride and drive instead of always hiring them.”

“What?” he cried in mock horror. “Pay the tax for pleasure horses and hire another groom and lay out money to feed the beasts all so that I can put them to use once a fortnight? Emma, Emma, you know that putting the money into the estate yields better profits—”

“There! I knew you would not listen to the voice of reason, though I believe you protest loudly because you know I am right. You remind me of Shakespeare’s description of someone: “’e’en though vanquished he could argue still.’”

“I believe the author of that remark was Goldsmith, Emma. Though I can recall something Shakespeare did write that could be properly aimed at you.”

“And what might that be?”

“’Get thee to a nunnery.’”

Knightley smiled at the memory of that conversation. Emma was to this day unconvinced that he did right by not keeping his own riding horses. And, he owned, she did have a point. The rain was still coming down and the wind felt icy as he left the house. It would be easy to use one of the home farm horses for saddle, as less scrupulous men did—the tax for farm horses being less than those kept for pleasure. But his conscience was rather finely-tuned in matters of honesty, and he never seriously entertained the notion.

He was thoroughly chilled by the time he reached the Crown. He scraped the mud off his boots and went to the little parlour where the vestry council held their meetings. Thankfully, Mrs. Stokes had built a roaring fire and he warmed himself by it. Elton arrived shortly thereafter with a sheaf of papers, and Mrs. Stokes appeared with brandy. Knightley poured out two glasses and offered one to Elton, saying, “Terrible weather.”

“Yes, horrible. The mud just past the Mitchell farm was dreadful. I had to use the path that comes around by Mr. Cole’s stable.”

So Elton had come from Hartfield, had he? It was very early for a social call. Well, he might have been visiting the Mitchells. To put the matter beyond doubt, Knightley asked innocently, “And how is Mr. Woodhouse this morning?”

“Pretty well, although storms make him nervous. It is a pity that poor Miss Woodhouse must always stay so near to him when he is anxious. He is fretful so much of the time! It will be much better for her when…” He let his sentence trail off and busied himself arranging the papers he had brought.

When…what?? thought Knightley. When Mr. Woodhouse dies? When Miss Woodhouse marries? When she marries you? He took another sip of his brandy before replying as evenly as he could, “Miss Woodhouse would not wish to be anywhere else but with her father.”

“Yes, yes, of course, and very noble of her, I’m sure.”

Knightley was tempted out of sheer perversity to ask after the health of the misses Carson, of Bath, who had been the aspiration of Elton before Miss Woodhouse had attained the ascendancy. He wavered, but then Cole and Weston bustled in and the moment was gone. Drinks were poured, hands were warmed at the fire, small talk was bantered about, and then Knightley cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, shall we begin?”

He was thankful that the rain held off as he walked to Spencer’s cottage. Dr. Hughes had arranged a home for the curate to reside in and had installed an ancient, nearly deaf, but very competent maiden lady whom everyone called Old Maggie as housekeeper. Gratefully he stepped beneath the little ledge that projected over the door just as the heavens opened again. The door was opened by Maggie, of course, who gave a deep curtsey when she saw who it was and said in that loud voice peculiar to those who cannot hear much, “How d’ye do, Mr. Knightley, sir?”

Knightley raised his voice to match her volume. “Very well, Maggie, I thank you. And you?”

“’E’s in the parlour, sir. This way, if you please.”

Knightley followed her in and gave her his hat, coat, walking stick and umbrella before she opened the parlour door and bawled, “’Ere’s Mr. Knightly, sir.”

Spencer could be in no way surprised by Knightley’s entrance, having heard the shouted exchange at the door. He laid aside his book and rose to shake Knightley’s hand. Knightley was glad to see that though his manner could not be called easy, still he was not so timid and withdrawn as he had been at their first meeting. He motioned Knightley to a seat near the respectable fire.

“Would you like some refreshment, Mr. Knightley?”

“No, I thank you. My visit will be brief. May I enquire how you are settling in?”

“Well enough, I think.”

“You have a comfortable home here.”

“Yes, Dr. Hughes has been very kind to arrange it all for me, even to fitting out the cottage with furniture.”

Knightley looked with admiration at the sturdy, serviceable chairs and occasional tables and the bookcase crammed with books. Stacks of books were placed on the wooden crate next to the shelves; the crate, presumably, held more books.

“It seems you will need another bookcase or two. You’re something of a scholar, are you?”

“I do not think I consider myself a scholar, sir, but I do like to read.”

“A very good thing in a clergyman. Which are your favourites?”

“Well, when you came in I was reading the poetry of Mr. George Herbert.”

“Ah, that is one of Dr. Hughes’ treasured volumes. I can see why he approves of you so highly.”

“That is no good reason, sir. But Dr. Hughes has been most liberal and thoughtful. Not only did he organize the cottage and its furnishings, but he arranged for Maggie to be housekeeper.”

“I’ve heard she is an excellent cook.”

“Oh, indeed; and a wonder for scrubbing and polishing. And then her deafness makes for amusing conversations, as she always answers what she thinks I said rather than making any effort to really understand. Of course it makes it rather a loud household—passers-by must think we are perpetually quarrelling.” He smiled for the first time at Mr. Knightley.

Knightley laughed. “No, everyone hereabouts knows Old Maggie. And if I may say so, you seem like you would be the least inclined to heated exchanges of any man I ever met.”

“True, I am not really given to shouting or even loud bursts of feeling.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “I believe Mr. Whitfield would think my sermons very lacking in fervour.”

“You seemed more at ease in the pulpit last Sunday than you were in previous weeks.”

Spencer blushed, but answered readily enough. “I fear that I have an inordinate dread of strangers, Mr. Knightley, which was the reason for the inferior way I conducted the first services. But now I have called on most of the parishioners, they seem a little more like friends.”

“I am surprised that someone with a horror of strangers would so immediately and so thoroughly visit every house in Donwell.”

“Ah, well, sometimes I cannot help being afraid. But I have determined that it will not stop me from doing my duty.”

“I see. That is a worthy reason for Dr. Hughes to approve of you, and you have won my approval as well. But I did not come to embarrass you with flattery”—for another blush was creeping over Spencer’s face—“I came to see if you would like to share my carriage on the way to the Gilberts’ this evening.

“Oh, are you of the party?”

“I am. I thought that as the roads are muddy and Langham is two miles distant, you and Mrs. Hughes might consent to ride with me.”

“Yes, thank you. I am glad you will be one of the company. I have not met the Gilberts yet; I knew no one but Mrs. Hughes.”

“Oh, they are good people—not unreasonably fine or awe-inspiring.”

“I did hear a mention of a Miss Gilbert and her companion—and I dread elegant young ladies.”

“There is nothing to fear on that score. Miss Gilbert is the sister of the elder Mr. Gilbert, not his daughter. She must be over forty. She travels with an old widowed companion, who will, I’m sure, be a nice, motherly soul.”

“That relieves my mind somewhat. I never know what to say to ladies.”

“You might talk of books. If the lady has read the same books you have, then your way is clear. You may compare opinions for the rest of the evening.”

“And if the lady has not read anything?”

“Then you may expound at length on whatever book you have lately read.”

Spencer smiled. “Do you not think that a summary of Mr. Herbert’s poems will be construed as more of a sermon than a lecture on literature?”

“Well, if you frighten the lady away with a sermon, at least you will not be plagued with her for the rest of the evening.”

“That is so. Very well, I shall attack her with ‘The Window’ then.”

“Is that what you were reading when I came in?”

“Yes. ‘Lord, how can man preach thy eternal word? He is brittle, crazy glass’, and so on. I found it very fortifying.”

“Fortifying? That is a new commendation for a poet.”

Spencer smiled again. “I suppose it is. I was a bit of a fool this morning and I felt very like ‘brittle, crazy glass.’”

“A fool? How so?” Knightley had a feeling that Spencer often felt foolish over things he had no reason to be ashamed of.

“I was visiting one of the farms, and I said something silly. I mentioned that my mother died several years ago and the farmer’s wife asked what she had died of. I was still rather nervous, I suppose, and without thinking I said, “It wasn’t anything serious." And the farmer laughed said “Wussock” under his breath.”

“Wussock? What on earth is that?”

“It’s an old word from the Midlands—it means idiot. I learned it from one of the college servants. It was rather a funny thing for me to say, but his calling me wussock stung a bit.”

“It must have been Mefford—I can guess the name even though you will not gossip about him. He came from Cambridgeshire, and he’s rather a bad lot. Even so, I am surprised that he would insult you to your face.”

“Well, I daresay he didn’t know I would understand him.”

“That is no excuse for him. So instead of ‘rendering railing for railing’ you came back and read poetry?”

Spencer gave a wry smile. “I sound very virtuous, don’t I? But my first impulse was to say that he was wet as tripe and a tatchy barley-bump—he’d know what that meant if he knew the other.”

Knightley chuckled. “I wish you had said it. I’ve never seen him get back as good has he gave.”

“It would have been a satisfaction. But you remember what Chaucer said about the Parson: ‘If gold rust, what shall iron do?’”

“Hmmm, yes. I suppose it would be difficult to expect forbearance in your flock if you show none.” He stood up and offered Spencer his hand. “I must be off now, but I will see you this evening. The coach will be here at a little past seven.”

“Do please come again, Mr. Knightley,” Spencer said, just as Dr. Hughes always did. And with him they were not idle words, either.

Chapter Eight

The carriage containing the three guests from Donwell sloshed its way to Langham through heavy rain. It was a miserable night to be going anywhere, and no doubt the weather had contributed to the agitation of Spencer, who had reverted to his former manner; twisting at his glove buttons and playing with the brim of the hat on his lap. Mrs. Hughes spent the short journey talking brightly to Knightley about the annual distribution of Christmas boxes among the tenants of Donwell, either not seeing Spencer’s unease or kindly leaving him alone to gather his courage. When the carriage discharged its occupants and they were ushered into the drawing room of the Hall, determination was warring with panic on Spencer’s face. So busy was he watching the young man that Knightley only vaguely attended to Gilbert as he performed the introductions. The only person not previously known to him was an overdressed woman aged about thirty, who was introduced as “Mrs. Whitney.” Knightley made his bow, and then turned his eyes to the curate. Spencer’s comportment was the same as it had been on the day Knightley had met him; his eyes were on the floor and his face was flushed a dark red.

Mrs. Hughes was carried off immediately by Mrs. Gilbert to stand near the fire and talk. Young Mr. Thomas Gilbert, aged only eighteen, retired to a sofa to continue a conversation with his aunt, Miss Gilbert, which had evidently begun before the guests from Donwell had arrived. Knightley looked around for the elderly widow he had been expecting; she would be the one to bring Spencer back to equanimity. This other woman, Mrs. Whitney, was too close to being a fine young lady to do anything but increase the curate’s alarm. And where on earth was Mr. Whitney?

He realized his error in a moment. Mrs. Whitney was the widowed companion of Miss Gilbert. Blast, he thought. And here was Gilbert coming over to them with Mrs. Whitney on his arm. She was fluttering a painted fan, which was odd on such a cold and stormy night. Good fires were a matter of course at the Gilberts’, but the room was not so warm as made a fan necessary.

“Mr. Knightley,” began Gilbert, “I have discovered that Mrs. Whitney knows the John Knightleys.”

“Indeed?” said Knightley, trying to smile pleasantly at her. It was hardly her fault that she was the wrong age.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Whitney, simpering and fanning herself energetically. “I dined at their house two days ago. When I informed them that I was to come to the Gilberts’, Mr. John Knightley told me to be sure to give you his kind regards and a message…what was it?...something about hoping you are pleased with the first in his string. I am not certain I have remembered it correctly, but it was something very near that.”

Oh mercy, thought Knightley and very nearly rolled his eyes. On his last visit to London, John had railed him about still being a bachelor and threatened to send a string of impossible old maids his way until he chose someone—anyone—as his wife. Evidently a widow was close enough to an old maid to begin the parade.

“Mr. John Knightley is such a droll man,” Mrs. Whitney continued with a giggle. “There is no understanding half of what he says. I was seated beside him at dinner, and he talked very seriously about a houseguest of his for a long time, a Madam Duvall, who he said slept most of the day away, was fond of mice, and caused the baby to sneeze whenever she came near. I was quite amazed at his description of the old lady, only to discover that it was a cat he was talking about! It was so very diverting!” She giggled again as the fan waved rhythmically in front of her face. Knightley could not be certain, but the scene painted on it appeared to depict Marius among the ruins of Carthage. He had never been more inclined to feel sympathy with poor Marius than at that moment.

Knightley was not really surprised to find Mrs. Whitney seated next to him at dinner. He was grateful that at least Spencer was placed beside Mrs. Hughes, and was recovering his spirits enough to converse quietly with her. It was, alas, his only comfort during that meal.

“Your brother tells me that you are an improver,” said Mrs. Whitney as the fish course was being cleared. Her fan slid off her lap to the floor. “Oh, how provoking! I believe it is under my chair. Thank you, Mr. Knightley. As I was saying, your brother told me all about Donwell Abbey, and what an improver you are. You must have had Repton in, or that other man who is all the rage—Loudon, that is the name.”

“Not at all. I believe my brother meant that I work to improve the buildings on the estate and the land for farming. The gardens are laid out very much as they have been for centuries.”

“Oh.” Her face registered such disappointment that he felt he ought to soften the blow.

“Donwell Abbey is the sort of house that is best complemented by the old styles. The main part of the house is nearly unchanged from the days, centuries ago, when it really was an abbey.”

“But surely you must wish to see it brought into modern times. Have you any groves of trees? Yes, I thought you would. Those old groves are so unhealthy—they preserve dampness, you know—and they obstruct the views.”

“Well, I suppose I am old-fashioned enough to prefer that kind of obstruction.”

“I see that you—oh! I declare, my fan is gone again—under the table this time—I am so sorry to trouble you again—Can you see it? Thank you, Mr. Knightley, you are very good. Well, I see that as a bachelor you are loathe to change a familiar landscape. But the day may come, Mr. Knightley, when you cease to be single.” She dropped her eyes and allowed a faint blush to colour her cheeks. “There may someday be a mistress at Donwell Abbey who prefers the modern style and who persuades you at the last to pull down that grove.”

Never, thought Knightley. The lime walk was one of his favourite retreats when he had something to think over. He had been known to pace it for hours when an important decision had to be made. And Emma liked it.

“The French have it that an ordered garden reflects an ordered mind,” he said. “They have not yet given up their formal flower beds and shrubberies.”

“Ah, the French,” said Mrs. Whitney, nodding her head meditatively. “You have seen their gardens, I suppose, when you had a Tour on the Continent?”

“No, we were at war with France from the time I was seventeen until I was twenty-five, and by then my father’s health was failing. I regret that I have never travelled further than Scotland. Still, I have seen engravings and heard descriptions of French gardens by those who have traveled there.”

“Oh, if only you had been able to go abroad, as I have! Mr. Whitney took me to the Isle of Wight, and I assure you it was a revelation to me! I was never the same afterwards.”

A revelation of what? thought Knightley, but his curiosity did not remain unsatisfied for long.

“I learned,” said Mrs. Whitney, putting down her fork and bringing her fan into play again, “that travelling on one’s own does not give one the true sense of a place. The romance of a scene can only be appreciated when…” here she paused, looked away, and seemed to expect to be prompted. Knightley could not bring himself to do it.

“…When,” she said at last, “one is with one’s beloved.”

“I see,” was all the response she got.

“Of course, I have no heart for travel now,” she continued sorrowfully. “With Mr. Whitney gone, all the wellsprings of passion in me have dried up. I feel old before my time. I don’t suppose I will ever meet anyone who can call them forth again.” Her head drooped sadly, and Knightley wondered with some panic if she was about to cry. He saw her glance at him to judge his reaction, and he had a premonition that he was about to be asked if she could borrow his handkerchief. The sight of Spencer at the other end of the table gave him a sudden inspiration.

“Do you read at all, Mrs. Whitney?”

Her head came up again, her expression all eagerness for any subject he should introduce.

“Oh, my, yes. Widows have all too much time for reading. As do bachelors, I daresay.”

“Not as much as I would wish, I’m afraid. I was only thinking of a book in my library that I thought my be a help to you.”

“Really? And what book is that? I should adore to hear all about it! Please, do tell me!”

“It is a most edifying volume by that excellent divine, Jeremiah Burroughs, entitled The Rare Jewel of Christian Contentment. As you have so kindly expressed such an interest in the book, allow me to share with you the principle arguments of his thesis…”

He was saved.

The ladies withdrew before he had exhausted the subject, and he assured Mrs. Whitney that he could finish his recital of Burrough’s salient points for her when the whole company reassembled. She nodded, but he thought that he would be very surprised if she came anywhere near him for the rest of the evening. His advice to Spencer had been sound after all. Who would have guessed, when his clergyman tutor all those years ago had insisted he read the book very thoroughly and make a précis of its contents, that it would be so very useful at such a time!

“Well, Knightley,” said Gilbert who was seated near him, “On Saturday next there will be a small shooting party here to thin the population of pheasants on the estate. You would be most welcome to join us. I think you bagged more birds than anyone last year. And that dog of yours put all of our dogs to shame. You lost him, though, didn’t you?”

Knightley nodded.

“Have you got another dog yet? I mean, another one like that?”

“No, not yet.”

Homer, the best pointer he had ever had, had died the year before. Of course there were other dogs at Donwell, but none that had access to the house. It seemed even to himself a foolish thing that he could not bring himself to get another dog, but the empty spot on the library hearth seemed to belong only to Homer.

“If it is only a matter of finding a dog to suit, my spaniel had a litter of puppies last week. You’re welcome to any of them.”

“I thank you…but not yet.”

Gilbert nodded. “I had a dog like that once, too,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “Went with me everywhere, slept by my bed…my wife complained that I talked more to the hound than I did to her.”

Knightley smiled slightly. “I’m afraid I talked poor Homer’s ear off as well. The library is a much more silent place than it used to be.”

“Yes,” said Gilbert. “Funny how an animal can take the place of a confidant.” He picked up the decanter and offered it to Knightley, who shook his head.

“Well,” said Gilbert, pouring himself a little more, “if the silence becomes too oppressive, let me know. I’ll save a pup for you.”

That night the rumble of thunder awakened Knightley from his nightmare. Without lighting a candle he could not be sure of the time, but it seemed to him to be the very darkest part of the night. It had been an extraordinary dream, and had seemed so very real!

He had dreamed that it was morning, and that Baxter was waking him by telling him that the parish council had been persuaded by Elton to pull down the lime walk at Donwell. The workmen were already there, ready to begin felling the trees. All Knightley needed to do was to go quickly to the walk and tell them to stop. But everything conspired to prevent him. He could not get dressed because Baxter could find no shirt for him, and when Knightley impatiently looked for one himself, he could not find one, either. He pulled on an old coat instead of a shirt and left the bedroom. But Larkins was just outside the door, pleading with him to go over the accounts at just that moment, “for you know, Mr. Knightley, ‘business is the salt of life,’ as the old saying goes. Mrs. Hodges says that she has very little salt left.” For some reason, Knightley felt he had to take the time to explain that the salt in the old proverb was not literal salt. It took a little while to convince Larkins of that, and even longer to convince him that he would have to go over the accounts some other time. Finally Larkins left and Knightley got as far as the top of the stairs.

There was Dr. Hughes, with his leg still broken, proposing to descend the stairs by hopping gently down on his good leg. Of course, Knightley could only offer to help him, but their progress was agonizingly slow. As they reached the bottom, he was accosted by Mrs. Whitney who needed help finding her fan. She looked so distressed that Knightley made a cursory search around the ground floor rooms to see if it was anywhere about. She followed him as he hunted for it, talking all the time about her sad life as a widow and how she really ought to be mistress of an estate like Donwell. He felt acutely his lack of a shirt and pulled the coat as tightly around him as he could, but knew that she could tell that he was not fully dressed. At last Knightley managed to excuse himself and escaped out of the house. He tried to run to the lime walk, but kept tripping over stones and bushes that seemed to spring up out of the ground. At last he could see the trees and the workmen already hacking at a tree with their axes. Elton was there, looking on, fanning himself with Mrs. Whitney’s painted fan. Knightley tried to shout at the men to stop, but his voice made no sound. Before he could reach them, the trunk was severed and the tree crashed to the ground.

He woke up then, sweating and panting, and lay there for a moment wondering if any of it had really happened. A second rumble of thunder made him realize that the sound of the tree falling had been made by thunder. The lime walk must be safe, then, and Mrs. Whitney was not really waiting for him downstairs. The relief he felt was overwhelming. Still, it was over an hour before he fell back into an uneasy slumber.

By morning the rain had mellowed into a light drizzle, but the ground was still so muddy that Knightley rode one of the Crown horses over to Hartfield to give them the greetings Isabella had included in the letter he had received from John the day before. Knightley was amply repaid for his kindness by the heartfelt gratitude of Mr. Woodhouse, and by the refreshing sight of two beautiful and wholesome young women, Emma and Harriet, sitting together with their embroidery. The spectre of Mrs. Whitney with all her affected nonsense had been haunting him all morning—the share she had in his nightmare had been perhaps the most horrifying part of it.

When all the little items of news in John’s letter had been talked over, Mr. Woodhouse said, “And now, Emma, we must ask Mr. Knightley if he knows where the book is.”

Knightley turned an enquiring face to Emma.

“Papa is speaking of the book John and Isabella gave him last year, The Antiquities of England and Wales. Harriet is interested in seeing the engravings of Reading Abbey. The book ought to be in the library, but we could not find it.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “I fear my memory is not what it was—and then my eyes are not as good as they once were. But I thought that as you kindly arranged some of my books for me a month or two ago, I thought perhaps you might remember where we might find that particular book.”

“I believe I do, sir. If you will excuse me one moment, I will go to the library and look.”

It did not take Knightley long to find the book, though he could scarcely blame Emma or her father for not knowing where it was. He ought to have remembered that it was one of the few books that Mr. Woodhouse did peruse on occasion and put it in a more prominent place.

“Ah, you have found it,” said Mr. Woodhouse when Knightley reappeared with the book. “I am very grateful, Mr. Knightley. I do not know what I should do without you. And now, Miss Smith, if you will sit in the chair beside mine, I will show you the engravings we were speaking of.”

“You look very tired,” said Emma to Knightley as her father opened the book eagerly and read to Harriet the titles under each picture. “I’ve seen you twice stifle a yawn. Are you quite well?”

“Oh, yes. I am rather tired, I suppose—the storm woke me last night.” He did not want to tell her about the nightmare. She would appreciate the humour in it, but then she would tease him about Mrs. Whitney. John was bad enough about matchmaking; to have Emma harassing him about finding a wife was somehow even more dreadful.

“You ought to have rested this morning, then, instead of coming here. To ride out in the rain in order to get chilled and wet when you are already tired must make you ill.”

He smiled and shook his head at her. “Emma, Emma, I have people enough fussing over my health.” He glanced at Mr. Woodhouse. “Have the goodness to let me take care of myself.”

“Ah, but do you take care of yourself? You are always busy about parish business or the home farm or visiting tenants or helping Papa. If you fall prey to nervous exhaustion from too many parish meetings, who will scold you for taking too much upon yourself? William Larkins, I am sure, never thinks of such a thing. As long as you can go over the accounts with him he will think you are fit enough.”

Knightley remembered Larkins’ behaviour in his dream and laughed. “Never mind, Emma. If I ever do suffer from nervous exhaustion, I promise to come to Hartfield to be coddled by you and your father. Will that satisfy you?”

“I suppose it must,” she smiled back, though the concern in her face was not entirely gone. “But prevention is better than cure, and as Papa said, we could not do without you.”

He inclined his head in thanks, and was about to tell her that she, at least, looked very well, when Harriet broke in.

“Miss Woodhouse, was it St. George’s Chapel that Mr. Weston was telling us he had seen? Or was it another chapel of the same name?”

She turned to answer Harriet, and Knightley watched her as she conversed with her friend. Emma did indeed look very well. She was all that was graceful and poised, and another woman with such elegance might have been haughty and cold. But Emma’s affectionate nature for those she loved prevented this. Indeed, she seemed to be even improving in her solicitude for others. She had always been attentive to her father, of course, but now she was even careful for his own health. And he could see in the way that she looked at and spoke to Harriet that she was sincerely fond of the girl. It may have been a sort of maternal interest—he had seen that same look on Isabella’s face often enough as she spoke to her children—but there was plenty of benevolence in her attentions. However misguided Emma’s notions were, there was no doubt, as she had once protested, that she meant to do Harriet good.

The words she is loveliness itself came into his mind. Someone had said that about Emma recently…who was it? Mr. Woodhouse? No, not him. He frowned in concentration. It was the sort of thing that Elton would say, but Elton was not quite rash enough to say such a thing to Knightley—yet. Where had he been when he had heard those words? They were quite true. Her hazel eyes sparkled when she was being mischievous and shone when she looked at her father. And her voice was lovely, sweet without being affected and clear without being shrill. If it wasn’t Elton, then who…

“Mr. Knightley, if you will look so sternly you must at least tell us what it is about Mrs. Weston’s plan that you disapprove.”

Knightley came out of his reverie with a start. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma with a raised eyebrow, “What is it that offends you? Ought the pupils to have no celebration at all? Or is it only the particulars of the entertainment that you distain? I perceive the latter is the true reason for your censure.”

Knightley was completely at a loss. He had no idea what they had been talking about. Something about a celebration, evidently, but what on earth was he to say? He shrugged his shoulders and tried to smile as complacently as possible.

“Very well then,” Emma continued when he said nothing, “We shall apply to you to draw up a list of Christmas entertainments suitable for Mrs. Goddard’s pupils.”

“But pray, Mr. Knightley,” interjected Mr. Woodhouse, “do not recommend snap-dragon as one of the diversions. I tremble to think of the consequence if one of the young ladies were to burn herself! Whoever can have invented such an amusement? Plucking raisins from burning brandy! Such folly!”

“Have no fear, Mr. Woodhouse,” said Knightley. “I have no inclination to do any such thing—no inclination at all. Miss Smith would be a far better judge of what Mrs. Goddard’s pupils would enjoy, and I suggest that Emma should take the advice of her friend in such matters. She will not propose anything untoward.” He inclined his head with a smile to Harriet.

“Thank you, sir,” said Harriet, flushing with pleasure but without the usual giggle, as Knightley noted with approval. Emma’s lessons in manner were evidently having some effect.

“My dear Emma,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “perhaps Mr. Knightley would take tea and a little something to eat… perhaps a dish of gruel?”

“No, thank you, sir,” said Knightley, rising. “I would greatly enjoy a longer visit here, but I must get back to Donwell. I have a letter to write.”

6th December
Donwell Abbey

Dear John,

Where on earth did you scrape up an acquaintance with Mrs. Whitney? I cannot believe that you, who cherish sensible conversation, invited that woman to dine at Wellyn House. And if she is the first in a string of similar potential brides, I beg to inform you that I will quit Donwell Abbey immediately and retire to Northamptonshire where I will handle Graham’s estate business for him.

Speaking of Graham, tell him that Lord Carrick’s bailiff in Scotland wants a new situation in a warmer climate. As you know, many of the Scots have done wonders with their estates, and Lord Carrick in particular has a model system in place. Of course his bailiff will want a large salary, but I wouldn’t think Graham would mind that.

Mr. Woodhouse and Emma are very well, and both send all the usual wishes to you and yours. I was going to say more about this business of a “string of old maids” but must close this epistle now—someone needing my counsel as a magistrate has just been announced. If you dare to send another woman in this direction I will never write to you again.

Yours in brotherly friendship—for now,

George

8th December
Wellyn House
Brunswick Square

Dear George,

So Mrs. Whitney is not to your taste? I am very sorry to hear it. I thought that you would at least admire her fan. It will do you no good to run to Northamptonshire—Graham has a spinster sister who lives with him and is every bit as charming as Mrs. Whitney. I don’t suppose you know if Lord Carrick’s bailiff is a single man? If he is, Graham will probably hire him sight unseen, grasping at the opportunity to get his sister married. I suppose I ought not to have told you this—I ought to have let you go to Graham’s and discover his sister for yourself. I shall do better another time…

Yours in the eternal friendship of brotherhood,

John

Chapter Nine

“Mr. Woodhouse is taking the air in the garden, Mr. Knightley,” said the hall porter at Hartfield. “Will you join him there or wait for him indoors? Miss Woodhouse, Miss Smith and Mr. Elton are in the morning room.”

“I shall go and find him in the garden, thank you,” said Knightley. Perhaps Elton would leave before Mr. Woodhouse finished his exercise, although that seemed rather unlikely. Elton was now nearly part of the furniture at Hartfield. He wished that Elton would hurry up and offer for Emma so that he could be refused and spend his days elsewhere. There were rumours enough already about. Even Spencer had asked him if it was true that the vicar of Highbury was going to marry Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield—evidently William Larkins had paid Spencer a visit and unburdened himself of that speculation. It was a bad thing for a vicar to be the main subject of local gossip, and he hated Emma’s name being coupled with that…wussock.

No, no, he chided himself, with a sigh. Show respect for the office, if not for the man. He opened the garden door and stepped out onto the terrace. Mr. Woodhouse was slowly pacing the rose walk that led from the terrace to the shrubbery.

“Ah, Mr. Knightley!” said Mr. Woodhouse, as the younger man joined him. “You find me taking my winter walk. You ought to have waited for me indoors, by the fire. You have no doubt walked all the way from Donwell, and must be chilled.”

“Not at all, sir. The sky is wonderfully clear and there is no wind to speak of. I would rather walk with you, if you can tolerate my company.”

“That would give me great pleasure, Mr. Knightley, if only my slow pace of walking will not inconvenience you.”

“Not at all.” The slower, the better, as far as Knightley was concerned.

“I suppose you have come about the portrait?” said Mr. Woodhouse.

“What portrait is that?”

“Oh, have you not heard, then? Emma is drawing a portrait of Miss Smith. That is, she has nearly completed the drawing in pencil, and then she is to finish it in watercolours. Everyone who has seen it has admired it extremely. I was sure Mrs. Weston had mentioned it to you.”

“I’m certain she would have if I had seen her in these last few days, but I have not.”

“Dear Emma is so clever with her drawings and paintings! She has a natural talent, does she not, Mr. Knightley?”

“Indeed, yes,” said Knightley, and it was quite true. Emma had a great deal of natural talent, and a little teaching and practice would have made her an excellent artist. Her drawings showed promise, and he never saw them without being struck by the simplicity of line and form that yet conveyed so much. If only she had taken the time to really work at her drawing! She had not drawn much recently, and he would have been eager to go inside to see the latest endeavour if only he could be sure Elton had gone.

It was not long before Mr. Woodhouse was finished with his walk and ready to return to the house to see what had been done to Harriet’s portrait. The morning room had large windows that made the most of the winter sun, and Emma was seated at her low easel near one of them. A bright shaft of sunlight came through the window and illuminated her. Her cream-coloured gown glowed almost golden, and her hair was touched with radiance. That is a picture, thought Knightley. Harriet was sitting a few feet away in an obviously posed attitude, and Elton was, regrettably, seated near Emma. He had been reading aloud, but put the book aside and rose to his feet when Mr. Woodhouse and Knightley entered.

“Emma, my dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “Mr. Knightley would like to see the portrait. There it is, Mr. Knightley. What do you think?”

It was a beautiful picture. Emma had caught the sweetness and guileless-ness of Harriet’s countenance, though she had taken liberties with the details of her appearance, altering Harriet’s height and something about the face. It was an idealized picture of Harriet: Harriet as Emma would have made her. The real Harriet was very pretty; the Harriet of the portrait was perfection. A little too perfect, in Knightley’s opinion. A human creature, even with faults, was better than an ethereal ideal. A familiar sense of impatience welled up in him. Emma evidently intended to “improve” her friend in every possible way—manner, mind, connections must all enhanced. And what could not be changed in reality must be attempted at least in art.

“Well?” said Emma. “Is it a good likeness?”

“You have made her too tall, Emma,” said Knightley.

“No, indeed I have not! It represents her height completely.”

“Oh, no! certainly not too tall,” put in Elton warmly, “Not in the least too tall. Consider, she is sitting down—which naturally presents a different—” He paused, searching for words. “Which in short,” he went on, “gives exactly the idea—and the proportions must be preserved, you know. Proportions, fore-shortening.” He stopped again, somewhat confused, but returned to the material point with vigour. “Oh, no! it gives one exactly the idea of such a height as Miss Smith's. Exactly so indeed!"

Knightley mastered the laughter that threatened to burst out at the comical expression on Emma’s face. Though gratified to have her side of the debate championed, Emma obviously felt that Elton’s indignant defence of her drawing was less able than might be wished. The drawing should have an able defence; it should have the praise it deserved. Very well, then.

“You have caught Miss Smith’s air and expression admirably,” Knightley said. “And the composition is perfect. It really is very well done.”

Emma smiled her gratitude for this bit of commendation.

“Thank you, Mr. Knightley,” she said. “I think it will look better when I have finished it. It is to be a watercolour, you know.”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” put in Elton. “It looks very well now; it will be truly magnificent when it is completed! And watercolour is the perfect choice—much better than crayon for such a portrait!”

“What do you think of it, Miss Smith?” said Knightley, more to put a stop to Elton’s panegyric than because he had any real uncertainty as to how Harriet would view Miss Woodhouse’s work.

“I think it is very beautiful,” said Harriet. “I do not know anyone who can draw so well!”

“Quite right,” said Elton, “There is no one who draws as well as Miss Woodhouse!”

Knightley decided that a complete change of topic would be needed to stem the flow of Elton’s compliments.

“I’m sorry to intrude with business into such a scene of artistic inspiration, but Isabella included a note with John’s last letter, saying that she was sending a parcel of used baby linen for Christmas boxes, to be distributed evenly between Donwell and Highbury. Will you let me know when the parcel arrives?”

“Of course. That is just like Isabella…she never forgets those in need, even when she is so far away.”

“But it is the less surprising,” said Elton, “when one considers how renowned Hartfield is for generosity. The voices of all the poor in Highbury resound with the praises of Miss Woodhouse. And Mr. Woodhouse,” he added as a belated afterthought.

Knightley could bear it no longer. He wished them all good day and took his leave.

“You wished to see me, sir?” said Mrs. Hodges, dropping a perfunctory curtsey as she entered the breakfast room where Knightley was just finishing his morning meal. Mrs. Hodges had been housekeeper at Donwell Abbey for twenty-five years, and Knightley always thought of her as “the great and grim Mrs. Hodges”—his boyhood appellation for her. She was a little more grey and her figure was considerably fuller than it had been when she had first arrived, but her face seemed changeless. Her countenance now showed a mixture of emotions: the deference she owed to an employer, the proud loyalty she felt to the master of Donwell, and the irritation she suffered in being summoned out of the kitchen when she ought to be supervising the kitchen maid’s first attempt at pickling walnuts.

“Yes, I did,” said Knightley. “I wondered how the spruce beer is holding out. You know John and Mrs. Knightley come for Christmas, and it is a particular favourite of theirs. And I wanted some sent to Hartfield as well.”

“Well, sir, I wouldn’t say there is a great deal left. Christmas is near two weeks off…we’ll just have time to make more. Is there anything else, sir?”

“Nothing. Oh, I presume the Bates’ have received a bushel of apples?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Hodges in a melancholy tone. She did not like Donwell produce being given away as freely as it was, but it was not her place to say so.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hodges. That will be all.”

Mrs. Hodges curtseyed and left, nearly bumping into Baxter as he entered the room with a note on a small silver tray.

“This came just now from Hartfield, sir,” he said, “And William Larkins desires to see you as soon as may be. I have put him in the library.”

“Thank you, Baxter,” said Knightley. He took the note and opened it; it was from Emma, to say that Isabella’s baby linen had arrived. He put the note into his waistcoat pocket and got up from the table. The library was at the other end of the house, and as he walked the long hallway he could hear only the sound of his own footsteps. It was a lonely sound. For years, the click-click-click of Homer’s toenails on the polished floors had followed him as he walked around the house. Perhaps he ought to get a puppy from Gilbert after all.

Larkins was standing by the fire warming himself as Knightley entered the library.

“Good morning, Larkins. I did not expect to see you this morning.”

“Good morning, Mr. Knightley. I had not anticipated seeing you this morning, either, sir. However, it has come to my attention that the farmer Mefford has been very insulting indeed to the widow Hunt. I thought it only right that you should know.”

“In what way was he insulting?”

“She passed him on the road, and, being the kindly soul she is, she asked after his health. ‘Never better,’ said he, ‘And you?’

“’Well,’ she said, ‘I’m not as young as I once was, and this earthen vessel is beginning to crack here and there. Still, I forget how old I really am until I look in a mirror and see that I have a wrinkle for every year of my age.’

“She said it half in jest, Mr. Knightley, but Mefford said, ‘Ah, well, at least we know there’s nothing wrong with your eyes!’

“It really was most unkind, Mr. Knightley, for as you know, the widow Hunt is not very wrinkled at all. She went away crying bitterly.”

“You were there, then?” said Knightley.

“No, but the Shaw boy was. He heard it all. Something must be done, Mr. Knightley.”

“Yes. But I cannot evict him merely because he insulted Mrs. Hunt—or any number of other people, for that matter.”

“No, sir. But you know that he has not paid his rent in full for the last three quarters—in fact, he paid less than half last quarter. And I have it on good authority that he means to pay very little on Christmas Day when this quarter’s rent is due.”

“Good authority?”

“Mr. Sloan heard it from John Farnsworth at the ‘Dog and Duck’. His wife told me. I know there have been no evictions at Donwell for decades, but I truly think it is called for in this case.”

Knightley looked into the fire and sighed. He agreed with Larkins in theory, but the thought of putting Mrs. Mefford and young Harry Mefford out of their home right before Christmas made him reluctant. Could nothing else be done? And then he remembered something Gilbert had done with one of his tenants.

“There is one thing left to try,” said Knightley. “We shall draw up a document for Mefford to sign, saying that he intends to give up his lease at the next quarter day—that is, in two weeks—as he is unable to meet the rent. If he signs it, Donwell will be free of a bad tenant without having to evict him; even if he does not it may show that we are serious about collecting the rent due. He may give up the rest of what he owes. If he neither signs the document nor pays the rent, then I will have to evict him.”

“Mr. Knightley! So good of you to come!”

“I was just passing, Miss Bates, and thought I would enquire after your mother’s health. Is she completely recovered from―?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Knightley, I believe the cough has gone at last. I will just tell her what you said, for she is a little deaf, you know. Mother, Mr. Knightley has come to enquire after you, to see if your health has improved. To ask after your health. Isn’t it kind of him? Not but what you are always kind, Mr. Knightley, and Mr. Elton, too. Mr. Elton was here not a half-hour ago. Such kind friends! I am sorry you missed him—you must enjoy each other’s company so! Clever men always do enjoy talking with each other, I think. I am exceedingly sorry you missed him. However, you both call so frequently—you are so very good to us!—that I would not be surprised if you happened to meet each other here quite accidentally some day.”

Knightley coughed and asked if Miss Woodhouse had called recently. Miss Bates hesitated for a moment before answering.

“Miss Woodhouse called on us—not long ago. She calls whenever she is able—she has much to occupy her time, you know, Mr. Knightley. She is so careful for dear Mr. Woodhouse, and of course she cannot leave him often. And then she has been painting a portrait of Miss Smith—did you know? Mr. Elton says it is the finest thing he ever saw, which is not surprising at all, is it? Miss Woodhouse is so very skilled at taking portraits! I do quite long to see this one. Mr. Elton says that it is complete now—he saw the finished picture last evening. Mr. Knightley, I declare, you are still standing! You must come and sit down and take a little something.”

“No, Miss Bates. You are very kind, and there is nothing I should like better than to sit with you for a few moments, but I really must be getting on. I allowed myself to come and enquire after your mother because I have been anxious about her, and I am very glad to know she is well.”

Of course it took several more minutes for Knightley to actually depart, but at length he was descending the stairs and able to think. If Elton was in Highbury this morning, Knightley could put off his business with Cox and visit Hartfield without fear of having to listen to Elton flatter Emma. He would go now and see the finished portrait and bring back the baby linen to Donwell, assuming it was not too large and awkward a bundle. He felt ridiculously pleased with the idea of being alone with the occupants of Hartfield. Ah, no, Harriet would probably be there. Still, it would be rather comfortable than otherwise.

He had not gone far when a voice came from behind him: “Going to Hartfield?”

Knightley turned to see Elton catching him up.

“Yes, I am. And you?”

“Oh, I am bound for Hartfield as well,” said Elton cheerfully.

It was impossible for Knightley not to sigh, but he managed to do it quietly.

Miss Bates would have been a little surprised to see how silently the two clever men walked along together. Knightley was loathe to say anything at all, lest Elton turn it into yet another compliment to Miss Woodhouse. Elton was lost in his own thoughts—happy thoughts, if the look on his face signified anything. Knightley felt a sudden pang of pity for the man.

When the men were shown into the drawing room, Mr. Woodhouse was slumbering peacefully in his chair by the fire and Emma and Harriet were seated near him, talking. The finished portrait was on its easel, and after the first greetings—which woke Mr. Woodhouse—the men were invited to come and admire it. Elton, though he had seen it the night before, was just as fulsome in his admiration as if he were looking at it for the first time, but Knightley felt Emma’s eyes on him and knew that she was waiting for his verdict.

“Beautiful,” said Knightley, and was rewarded with her smile of relief. “It ought to be given pride of place. How will you frame it?”

“That is the difficulty,” said Emma. “Of course the frame must be got in London, but who is to get it for us is less certain.”

“Could not Isabella—“ began Knightley, but Emma shook her head, and Mr. Woodhouse added,

“My dear Mr. Knightley, you forget that Isabella has a delicate constitution, very delicate indeed. To ask her to stir outside her own home in the fogs of December would be most reckless. It must not be thought of.”

“I will be in London in January,” said Knightley, “though that is several weeks away and you may not think much of my taste in choosing a frame.”

“No sir,” said Emma with a smile and a lifted eyebrow, “I have no faith in your taste. Ever since the day you told me I ought to have one of those bonnets that were decorated with stuffed birds I have been certain that I can not trust your judgement on matters of that sort.”

“If I had known that my incautious remark would be thrown up in my face regularly for the next five years, I would certainly have kept my opinion to myself,” said Knightley, grinning back at her. “And in order that I might not make another blunder that I will be reminded of monthly—if not weekly—for years to come, I gladly withdraw my offer of assistance in getting the picture framed.”

"Might I be trusted with the commission?” said Elton. “What infinite pleasure I should have in executing it! I could ride to London at any time, you know. It is impossible to say how much I should be gratified by being employed on such an errand."

“Oh, Mr. Elton, you are too good! That is really very kind of you, but of course you have many duties and responsibilities that keep you here. I could not endure the thought of you giving up so much of your time for such a thing. And I well know that it is a tedious sort of task for a man; I would not give you such a troublesome office for the world!”

“Upon my honour, Miss Woodhouse, it is no trouble to me! I greatly enjoy a ride to London, and shopping is my delight!”

Knightley rose and moved off toward the window. He was afraid that the others would hear his teeth grinding if he stood next to them any longer. In a few moments all was settled: Elton would take the drawing to London, choose the frame, and give the directions. Emma had offered to pack it up that evening, and it would be ready for him the next morning. She assured Elton that the picture could be rolled and encased in such a way that it could be safely fixed to his saddle, and that he would hardly know he was carrying it. Elton was energetic in his assurances that it would not matter whether he had to carry it fixed to his saddle or held in his arms or clenched in his teeth—this last being a jest at which Emma and Harriet laughed appreciatively—it was enough that he should be allowed be of service in this small way.

Knightley turned away from the window and looked at Emma. Surely she must see this as it was meant: open flattery to herself. But no, Emma was looking at Harriet with a delighted, knowing expression that showed exactly who she thought the compliment was intended for. Harriet flushed with pleasure; she obviously shared Emma’s view. How easy it would be to set them all straight! A few plain words would do all that was needed: “Emma, Elton wants to marry you, not Harriet. Elton, Emma is planning for you to marry Harriet. Harriet, I’m afraid your hopes with regard to Elton have no foundation.” But of course he could not say such things. He would never be forgiven by any of them.

Rather abruptly he walked back to the group around the fire and said, “I received your note about the baby linen, Emma. Is it the sort of bundle I can bring back with me or will I need a horse and cart?”

“No, it is not so very large. You may carry it very well under your arm.”

“Or clenched in my teeth?”

Emma laughed. She could see Elton’s absurdity.

“Even that, I suppose, if you were very determined. Isabella would, however, be somewhat startled to learn that her charitable gifts were transported in such a manner.”

“Have you much preparation to make for John and Isabella’s visit?”

“Not really. They will occupy the rooms they always do. It is fortunate they stay here instead of at Donwell. I cannot think Mrs. Hodges would enjoy the addition of five children to the usually empty Abbey.”

“Empty?”

“Well, nearly empty. I suppose the children will visit you every day as they did before, but Mrs. Hodges will think that a lesser evil than having them resident. As it is she will have very little preparation to do.”

“Well, I did ask her to brew more spruce beer; it should be just ready when they arrive. I shall have some sent on here, too—I know how you like it.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Knightley. That will be delightful. Do you like spruce beer, Harriet?” asked Emma, suddenly aware that she and Mr. Knightley had excluded the others from their conversation.

“Oh, yes, very much. That is, I have not drunk it often. But I believe I like it.”

“And you, Mr. Elton?” prompted Emma.

“I regret to say that I have not tasted it above once. It did not seem to agree with me then, but I daresay I would like it if I tried it again. I drank it at a coaching inn; perhaps the quality was inferior to what is generally drunk.”

“Very likely,” put in Knightley. “I have never had tolerable spruce beer at an inn.”

“Perhaps I might have my housekeeper make me some. I should very much like to drink it again. Is it very difficult to brew?”

“Not at all. It is very like brewing ginger beer. It can be made with sugar or treacle—I much prefer it made with treacle. But be sure to tell your housekeeper to cut off the resinous part of the spruce before boiling it; that will prevent it being bitter.”

“I must put that down so that I remember it,” said Elton, taking out his pocket-book and drawing the pencil from its holder. “Let me see…oh, I must sharpen this.”

“There is a knife on the table there,” said Emma, and Elton went over to the table to sharpen his pencil. “No good,” he said after a few moments. “There is not enough lead left in it.”

“Never mind, Mr. Elton,” said Emma. “Here is another in my pocket that you may use.”

Elton left the old bit of pencil on the table and beamed as he took Emma’s, looking for all the world like a knight receiving a token from his lady just before a jousting match. The image of Elton seated on a charger in full armour—still with that silly smile on his face—was enough to keep Knightley in a good humour while he slowly repeated his brewing advice and Elton wrote down every word.

“Thank you,” said Elton when he had finished. “I am sure I will enjoy spruce beer that has been properly brewed. I will set my housekeeper to making some as soon as possible. I am afraid I must be going now, but I will return immediately after breakfast for the portrait. Miss Woodhouse, how may I thank you for the privilege of getting a frame for it?”

“That is very gallant of you, Mr. Elton, to turn your kind service to us into an occasion requiring your thanks! Miss Smith and I are both very sensible of the honour you show to my little portrait of her.”

Knightley watched Harriet as Elton took his leave. Her face was still glowing with happiness; she was sure of Elton’s regard for her. Oh Emma, he thought. You are doing your friend no favours at all. She will be badly hurt before all this is finished.

He was rather glad that the noise of Elton’s going woke Mr. Woodhouse from his doze, for he felt that he could not talk to Emma or Harriet just then without betraying some of his thoughts. Therefore he talked to Mr. Woodhouse exclusively and determinedly until he could use the approaching dinner hour as his excuse and go away.

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