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Chapter Ten

It was the following evening that Knightley, trying to amuse himself with Tristram Shandy, was surprised by Baxter entering the library and announcing Mr. Martin. Knightley put down his book with very little regret and greeted his tenant with something of relief in his manner. An intelligent, friendly conversation was a much better prospect than another evening alone.

“I am not disturbing you, Mr. Knightley?”

“No, Martin, not at all. I had thought to occupy myself with a favourite book this evening—I was trying to counter the dull winter weather with something humorous, but it is not as entertaining as I remembered it. You have saved me from several hours of tedious solitude. Do please be seated.”

“Thank you, Mr. Knightley. I have often thought that bachelors are the least comfortable people in the country during long winter evenings.”

“You cannot be too miserable,” said Knightley. “You have a kind mother and charming sisters to keep you company. I’ll not forget the very pleasant evening I spent at your house last winter; nothing could have been cosier.”

“It is kind of you to say so, Mr. Knightley. But there are times when even such an agreeable domestic circle cannot answer all a man’s hopes.”

“Oh?”

“To speak plainly, Mr. Knightley, I had some thought of getting married.”

And then Knightley remembered what Dr. Hughes had said about Robert Martin; he had been right, as usual.

“And who is the lady?”

“A Miss Smith—Miss Harriet Smith.”

“The same Miss Smith who has been so much at Hartfield lately?”

“Yes, the very same. She knew my sisters at Mrs. Goddard’s school, and she made a visit of some weeks to us last summer. I confess, Mr. Knightley,”—he flushed a little but went on in his straightforward way—“I have not been the same man since. I had not meant to settle quite so early in life, but as I cannot seem to do any of my work properly for thinking of her, I thought perhaps I ought to end my own misery and get married.”

“And have you spoken to Miss Smith?”

“No, Mr. Knightley. I wanted your advice first. Still, I think she would have me if I asked her. She appeared to enjoy my company very much…and there was a look in her eyes sometimes…I don’t know how to explain it. But, what is more to the purpose, my sisters and my mother believe she would not refuse my suit.”

Knightley smiled. So here was the end of all Emma’s matchmaking!

“It seems an agreeable thing for all concerned,” he said. “Miss Smith is a beautiful and sweet-tempered young lady and you are a fine, prosperous young man; that is enough for most people. But you said you wanted my advice about it.”

“Yes, I had some matters that I wanted your opinion on. If you tell me I am unwise to take this step, then I will try to reconsider my plans…though I do not know if I really could bring myself to let her go.” He paused a moment and looked into the fire with a more sober expression than Knightley had ever seen on his face.

“What are your concerns?” prompted Knightley after a few moments of silence.

“First, whether I ought to be thinking of marriage at all—is it prudent? Am I too young? Can I afford it?”

“I think your age has very little to do with your maturity. You are a good farmer and have a fine head for business as well. And you have an uncanny knack for getting good farm help—your shepherd is worth his weight in…well, silver, at least. Yours is easily the most prosperous farm of all the tenants in Donwell. To be truthful, I often forget what your age is. When people speak of a man marrying too young, they usually mean that he has the vices of youth—irresponsibility, impulsiveness, and general foolishness—and you are free of these. Or they may mean that he has not yet the ability to provide for a wife with no dowry—I am assuming Miss Smith will have none—but that does not apply to you, either. You make a clear profit every year, do you not?”

“I do. Last year there was a profit of four hundred pounds, and this year is likely to be a bit more than that.”

“No worries on that score, then. I suppose the only other matter that might merit consideration would be the arrangement of your household—would you and Miss Smith live in the house with your mother and sisters? All the ladies who bear the name of Martin are, to my knowledge, most amiable and kind, and Miss Smith is affability itself. However, I have heard that women who must suddenly share a house sometimes find it difficult to maintain perfect harmony.”

“I have heard the same thing, Mr. Knightley, and what is more, so has my mother. We have all talked about it, and decided that if Miss Smith and I should marry, she and I would live in the empty cottage a stone’s throw from the main house. My mother and sisters proposed their moving there, but I thought they should not have to leave the home they have known for so long. I suggested that Har- that Miss Smith and I should live there until we have children. By then, one of my sisters may have married and Miss Smith might be more accustomed to household duties and would not find being mistress of the main house so daunting.”

“You are proposing not to have any housemaids at the cottage?”

“One of the maids will come at times during the day to help.”

“That sounds very reasonable. I see you have thought it over very carefully. Had you any other worries?”

“Yes, Mr. Knightley. I know that you have seen Miss Smith at Hartfield, and I wondered—do you think she is too young to marry? Ought I to wait until she is older?”

“For what purpose?”

“I don’t know, really. I overheard someone the other day talking about a bride who was seventeen, and their companion said, ‘She is so very young to be getting married!’ I suppose it is rather a young age for matrimony. Miss Smith has not much experience of the wide world, Mr. Knightley, but I must say that I prefer her just as she is. There is something…sweet… about her innocence, and she is nothing like the artificial young ladies whose affected airs drive me to distraction.”

Knightley knew just what Martin meant. Hadn’t he felt exactly the same about Emma after his evening of conversation with Mrs. Whitney? Although there was something in Martin’s concern that was valid: Harriet was not an intelligent girl, and there would be no companionship of the mind in that marriage. There was always a tendency to dissatisfaction when one partner was much more intelligent than the other; he saw something of that kind almost daily with Emma and her father.

“Do you think,” said Knightley cautiously, “that you might tire of Miss Smith’s company after a time if she did not fully share your interests in reading and commerce and so on?”

“Tire of her company?” said Martin. Clearly such a thing was inconceivable to him. “I think she does share my interests, sir. She was very happy to listen when I read aloud, and was always interested in what I had to tell her about the farm and so on.”

Knightley could not argue the point with him without being rather insulting to Harriet, and he felt sure that a good relationship with his best tenant would be destroyed if he called the girl dim-witted to his face. She was not the sort of girl he would have picked for Robert Martin. She would bring nothing to the marriage—no money, no connections worth having, no skills, no cleverness. On the other hand, there was no harm in her, either. She was not vicious, shrewish, selfish, or deceitful. She had a simple goodness, and would likely make an adoring wife and doting mother. And she was very pretty, too. A man might do far worse.

“I do not think waiting for Miss Smith to be older will materially change anything,” said Knightley. “In my opinion you have no reason to wait.”

Martin grinned—he could not help it—and said, “It is a very great relief, sir, to hear you say that. That was my own opinion, but of course I am biased by my own wishes. Miss Smith seems perfectly suited to me…that is,”—his face darkened a bit with doubt again—“she was last summer when she stayed with us. She moves in rather different circles now than she did then. I have begun to wonder if perhaps I am not worthy of her—in regard to her place in society, I mean. I am only a farmer, when all is said and done, while she receives invitations to dine with the first families of the neighbourhood. I would not wish to bring her down to a level beneath her deserts by marrying me.”

Knightley chuckled. “Put away your fears, Martin. You will be raising her to your level by marrying her. She may dine at Hartfield, but that does not essentially elevate her station. You are not beneath her in any way. I predict a very happy union between you. As I said before, she is the very soul of amiability, and she is very beautiful. Furthermore, she is the sort of girl who will have eyes for no one but her husband. I think you a very lucky man.”

There might have been something a little wistful in Knightley’s tone, for Martin smiled and said, “Perhaps you ought to think of matrimony for yourself, Mr. Knightley.”

Knightley groaned. “Not you matchmaking as well! If you tell me that you know a lovely young widow for me, I will--”

“Oh no, Mr. Knightley,” protested Martin. “I would never presume such a thing.”

“I am glad to hear it. I only wish everyone had your delicacy. At least I am safe in your company. Let us hope your felicity in marriage will occupy your mind so entirely that you have no leisure for arranging the happiness of anyone else.”

“If I knew Miss Smith would accept me, I think I would be so happy that I could not think of anything else. But I have such fears sometimes. When I think of the way we talked and laughed together, nothing seems more certain than our marriage. And yet—what if she should refuse? How could I bear to meet her on the road and merely lift my hat to her and say, ‘Good day, Miss Smith’ and keep walking?”

“Nonsense, Martin. Miss Smith will be very pleased to give you her hand in marriage, I am sure. I look forward to calling on you both at your new cottage in about two months’ time.”

Knightley went to bed that evening feeling that a heavy burden had been lifted. Robert Martin’s proposal to Harriet would solve all the problems he had been fretting about for the last two months. He was quite sure that Harriet, with her pliable will and her fond regard for Martin, would be very happy to become Mrs. Martin. Emma, of course, would miss her friend, but would not mind letting her companion go when she realized what a good match Harriet was going to make. The friendship would gradually drop and its bad effects on both of them would cease. Possibly Emma might find another companion that would be more suitable. And with Harriet gone, Emma would stop unconsciously encouraging Elton. It might embarrass both Emma and Elton to find how far they had misunderstood each other, but it was better than an outright proposal and rejection. Perhaps the salutary humiliation they both needed might not have to be so explicit. All in all, he could not have asked for a neater solution to the entire problem.

The next day brought more good news: Larkins announced that Mefford had signed the document, giving up his lease.

“At first Mefford refused to sign it, Mr. Knightley, which I had rather expected. So I said, ‘Very wise of you, I’m sure. You’ll never be able to get another lease if you give up this one.’

“’What do you mean?’ he said.

“And I said, ‘Landlords have a way of enquiring how prospective tenants managed their last farms. And I must say that as you have done so poorly with the farm here, no landlord would be likely to offer you another lease.’

“Then he said a rude word, Mr. Knightley, and told me that it was a rotten farm to begin with and that no one could have done anything with it, that the rent was unreasonable for such a place, and that any landlord with half a mind would understand that. So I told him that if he could believe such a thing, then it was well for him that he was not going to give up the lease and test his assumption. I believe that stung his pride, Mr. Knightley, for he snatched the document out of my hand and signed it and said, ‘We’ll see about that.’ So you are free of a bad tenant, Mr. Knightley, and without any real unpleasantness.”

“You look uncommonly pleased, Mr. Knightley,” said Baxter the next morning.

Knightley smiled. “I suppose I do, Baxter.” He had been thinking of Robert Martin’s face, illuminated with joy, as he had said goodnight the other evening. He could pardon Emma for feeling that she had a hand in the Westons’ match, for he felt the same now about Martin and Harriet. He wondered how long it would take him to propose. Not long, he guessed. Perhaps in a day or two Emma would be confiding to him that Harriet would not be single much longer.

Suddenly, he wanted to be the one confiding the secret to her. He had to share the news with someone, and as it concerned Emma’s protégé, it would surely do no harm for her to know what was coming. If he left now, he could probably be there when Mr. Woodhouse took his morning walk and he could have a word with Emma alone. Ah, no, Harriet would probably be there. He hesitated, but the chance that he would find a way to talk to Emma anyway proved irresistible and he yielded to his first impulse.

He called at Hartfield, and by some miracle stroke, Harriet was not there. He sat down with Mr. Woodhouse and Emma and helped to talk away Mr. Woodhouse’s fears on the subject of Miss Smith’s health—“she ate pickled onions when she was here for dinner yesterday. I tried to dissuade her from it, and I am sure she was very quiet all the evening. And now she is gone to Mrs. Goddard’s again, and I fear it is due to ill-health, though she would not own it.”

“But Papa, Harriet is only gone to fetch a few of her things, and she is coming back directly to spend several days with us. And she has eaten pickled onions all her life, and it has never disagreed with her before.”

“If she had a good breakfast this morning,” said Knightley, “then I think her health must be well enough. Do you not agree, sir?”

“I suppose so, Mr. Knightley. And she did eat a good breakfast, I think, did she not, Emma?”

“Yes, indeed, Papa.”

“Well, it must be as you say, Mr. Knightley. But all the same, I do not think she ought to have eaten the onions.”

Having restored Miss Smith’s health, they talked over other small items of news until Knightley was sure that Mr. Woodhouse had given up the idea of having a walk at all that day. But at last Emma mentioned that perhaps he ought to take his walk now, and after making his usual lengthy apologies and explanations, Mr. Woodhouse agreed and allowed Knightley to get him his great coat and open the garden door for him.

At last Knightley was alone with Emma, and he opened the subject immediately by praising Harriet’s beauty and good nature, and then giving Emma the compliment she wanted: “You have improved her. You have cured her of her school-girl's giggle,” he said. “She really does you credit."

"Thank you,” said Emma. “I should be mortified indeed if I did not believe I had been of some use; but it is not every body who will bestow praise where they may. You do not often overpower me with it."

No, thought Knightley. I know better than to give you even more flattery than you are currently receiving! However, he said merely, “You are expecting her again, you say, this morning?"

"Almost every moment. She has been gone longer already than she intended."

Aha! thought Knightley.

"Something has happened to delay her,” he said. “Some visitors perhaps." One visitor in particular…

"Highbury gossips! Tiresome wretches!"

"Harriet may not consider everybody tiresome that you would,” said Knightley, and Emma conceded the point by looking away.

"I do not pretend to fix on times or places,” Knightley went on, “but I must tell you that I have good reason to believe your little friend will soon hear of something to her advantage."

"Indeed! How so? Of what sort?"

"A very serious sort, I assure you,” said Knightley, smiling.

"Very serious! I can think of but one thing—who is in love with her? Who makes you their confidant?"

“I have reason to think,” he replied, “that Harriet Smith will soon have an offer of marriage, and from a most unexceptionable quarter: Robert Martin is the man. Her visit to Abbey-Mill, this summer, seems to have done his business. He is desperately in love and means to marry her.”

“He is very obliging,” said Emma, “but is he sure that Harriet means to marry him?”

“Well, well, means to make her an offer then. Will that do?” said Knightley, and went on to tell of Robert Martin’s visit two days before, giving Martin all the praise he was due. It was a good sign, he thought, that Emma smiled through this explanation. In spite of the fact that she would lose her companion, she could already see that this marriage was a good thing.

“Now,” he concluded, “as we may fairly suppose, he would not allow much time to pass before he spoke to the lady, and as he does not appear to have spoken yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be at Mrs. Goddard's to day; and she may be detained by a visitor, without thinking him at all a tiresome wretch."

"Pray, Mr. Knightley," said Emma, "how do you know that Mr. Martin did not speak yesterday?"

"Certainly, I do not absolutely know it; but it may be inferred. Was not she the whole day with you?" His heart sank a little; was he not going to be the bearer of news after all?

"Come," said Emma, "I will tell you something, in return for what you have told me. He did speak yesterday—that is, he wrote, and was refused."

“What?”

“He wrote, and she refused him.”

Refused him? Impossible! He could see Robert Martin’s earnest face in his mind’s eye and he began to feel a knot growing inside him. Could the girl not see what she was rejecting?

"Then she is a greater simpleton than I ever believed her,” he said, standing up and feeling his face grow red with indignation. “What is the foolish girl about?" He took a couple strides away from her.

"Oh, to be sure,” said Emma, “it is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman should ever refuse an offer of marriage. A man always imagines a woman to be ready for anybody who asks her."

Knightley did not know which was more absurd: her ridiculous assertion or the fact that she thought she knew anything at all about men!

"Nonsense!” he said, beginning to pace the floor, “A man does not imagine any such thing. But what is the meaning of this? Harriet Smith refuse Robert Martin? Madness, if it is so, but I hope you are mistaken.” He could imagine Martin’s despair if it was really true. It must be a mistake. It must be! Martin had left the Abbey so expectant and happy...

"I saw her answer, nothing could be clearer."

"You saw her answer!” What strange creatures women were. To write a refusal letter and then show it to a friend…Rubbish! Harriet would have done no such thing! The thought of Harriet Smith composing her own letter was preposterous. He turned and faced Emma.

“You wrote her answer, too.”

The quick downward cast of her eyes confirmed it.

“Emma, this is your doing. You persuaded her to refuse him.”

“And if I did,” retorted Emma, “which, however, I am far from allowing—I should not feel that I had done wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man, but I cannot admit him to be Harriet's equal; and am rather surprised indeed that he should have ventured to address her. By your account, he does seem to have had some scruples. It is a pity that they were ever got over."

"Not Harriet's equal!" The words came out louder than he had meant them to, but he could hardly believe what he was hearing. He had hardly thought Emma could be so deluded about Harriet as that! Perhaps if he reasoned with her she might reconsider—she did respect his judgement. He could tell Martin to try again, and Emma could encourage Harriet to accept him this time. He took a deep breath, sat down, and then said in what he hoped was a reasonable tone, "No, he is not her equal indeed, for he is as much her superior in sense as in situation.”

He explained as clearly as he could that Harriet had no claims to any high connection, and that she was unlikely to receive a better offer than Robert Martin’s; indeed, she would probably never get another one anywhere near as good. He even appealed to Emma’s good sense, saying that he had been quite sure that she would see the match favourably.

But it was all in vain. Emma was certain that Harriet was the natural daughter of a gentleman, and that this made her eligible for a match with a man of what Emma called “good society.”

“Whoever might be her parents,” said Knightley patiently, “whoever may have had the charge of her, it does not appear to have been any part of their plan to introduce her into what you would call good society. After receiving a very indifferent education she is left in Mrs. Goddard's hands to shift as she can—to move, in short, in Mrs. Goddard's line, to have Mrs. Goddard's acquaintance. Her friends evidently thought this good enough for her; and it was good enough. She desired nothing better herself. Till you chose to turn her into a friend, her mind had no distaste for her own set, nor any ambition beyond it. She was as happy as possible with the Martins in the summer. She had no sense of superiority then. If she has it now, you have given it. You have been no friend to Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would never have proceeded so far, if he had not felt persuaded of her not being disinclined to him. I know him well. He has too much real feeling to address any woman on the haphazard of selfish passion. And as to conceit, he is the farthest from it of any man I know. Depend upon it he had encouragement.”

There. Perhaps the thought of breaking the heart of an honest man would change Emma’s mind.

She paused before she spoke again, and he began to hope. But when she did speak, it was only to reiterate the commendations of Harriet that Knightley had given—that she was pretty and good-tempered—and argue that these alone were enough to make Harriet admired and sought after by many men of the sort Emma approved of.

“I am very much mistaken,” she said, “if your sex in general would not think such beauty, and such temper, the highest claims a woman could possess.”

“Upon my word, Emma,” he said quietly, “to hear you abusing the reason you have is almost enough to make me think so too. Better be without sense, than misapply it as you do.”

It cost him something to say those words; he was more disappointed in her than he could express, and he was more earnest in this reproof than he had ever been before.

It grated on him all the more, then, when she said in a teasing tone, “To be sure! I know that is the feeling of you all. I know that such a girl as Harriet is exactly what every man delights in—what at once bewitches his senses and satisfies his judgment. Oh! Harriet may pick and choose. Were you, yourself, ever to marry, she is the very woman for you.”

This ludicrous statement almost made him laugh—almost.

“And is she, at seventeen, just entering into life, just beginning to be known, to be wondered at because she does not accept the first offer she receives? No—pray let her have time to look about her.”

She would have plenty of time, Knightley knew. She would likely have an entire lifetime to wait for an offer of marriage from a gentleman. He told Emma this. Why would she not listen to him? She knew nothing about men! He tried to explain to her that it was very unlikely that a gentleman would wish to ally himself with a girl in Harriet’s position, no matter how beautiful she was; that a man of sense would not choose a silly wife; and that Harriet was being puffed up by Emma to expect something that had no likelihood of coming to pass.

“Let her marry Robert Martin,” he concluded, “and she is safe, respectable, and happy for ever; but if you encourage her to expect to marry greatly, and teach her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of consequence and large fortune, she may be a parlour-boarder at Mrs. Goddard's all the rest of her life—or, at least, (for Harriet Smith is a girl who will marry somebody or other), till she grow desperate, and is glad to catch at the old writing master's son.”

Emma refused to reply directly to this, saying that there was no use arguing over something about which they thought so differently. There was a note of triumph in her voice as she declared that Robert Martin had been repulsed so definitely that there was no chance of him renewing his suit, and though she might have influenced Harriet a little in her decision, his manner, appearance, and education were so bad that Harriet would not be disposed to think much of him now that she knew what real gentlemen were.

“Nonsense, errant nonsense, as ever was talked!” said Knightley, getting angry again. Emma knew nothing of Martin, nothing at all, and it exasperated him to hear her abusing him. "Robert Martin's manners have sense, sincerity, and good-humour to recommend them; and his mind has more true gentility than Harriet Smith could understand.”

Emma looked away again; she had nothing to say to that, of course.

Knightley sat for a few moments in silence, confounded, irritated, despondent, and feeling wretchedly guilty for having encouraged Martin to expect a positive answer to his proposal. What on earth could he say to the man? He had no doubt that Martin could find a better wife in time, but he would suffer much in the meantime.

Emma fidgeted uncomfortably. “The weather is certainly good for December, is it not?” she said.

He ignored her. Only an hour ago he had been so thankful for the way Harriet’s marriage was going to do away with the problem of Elton, Emma, and Harriet, and now that infuriating circumstance was going to go on and on.

Stay, why should he not say something about that? Things had gone so far now, at least he might induce her to give up the attempt to match Harriet with Elton.

“Robert Martin has no great loss,” he began, “if he can but think so, and I hope it will not be long before he does. Your views for Harriet are best known to yourself, but as you make no secret of your love of match-making, it is fair to suppose that views, and plans, and projects you have—and as a friend I shall just hint to you that if Elton is the man, I think it will be all labour in vain.”

Emma laughed—a rather brittle laugh—and said, “Oh, no, Mr. Knightley, I have no plans in that direction.”

He ignored this blatant falsehood and went on, “Depend upon it, Elton will not do. Elton is a very good sort of man, and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but not at all likely to make an imprudent match. He knows the value of a good income as well as anybody. Elton may talk sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is as well acquainted with his own claims as you can be with Harriet's. He knows that he is a very handsome young man, and a great favourite wherever he goes; and from his general way of talking in unreserved moments, when there are only men present, I am convinced that he does not mean to throw himself away. I have heard him speak with great animation of a large family of young ladies that his sisters are intimate with, who have all twenty thousand apiece.” There, if that would not convince her, nothing would.

Emma gave another false laugh and said, “I am very much obliged to you. If I had set my heart on Mr. Elton's marrying Harriet, it would have been very kind to open my eyes; but at present I only want to keep Harriet to myself. I have done with match-making, indeed. I could never hope to equal my own doings at Randalls. I shall leave off while I am well.”

Enough! He could no longer torture himself by listening to such obvious lies and observing such a perfect example of self-delusion.

He rose abruptly and said, “Good morning to you.” Without waiting for an answer, he left the room, resisting with great difficulty the temptation to slam the door shut behind him.

Chapter Eleven

The parish committee met at The Crown, as usual, the next Wednesday. After an hour in conference they had nearly got through all the items slated for deliberation. They had discussed the distressing fact that the newly repaired bridge already showed a crack in its north side and debated whether the fault lay with the workmen, the architect, or Random Mischance. Knightley said he would undertake to speak to the Surveyor of Highways about it and see what ought to be done. Parish rates had been analysed: was the help given sufficient? Could any more poor be added to the rolls without rates being raised again? Elton referred often to the papers he had brought to support his opinions, which were, on the whole, reasonable, though he did seem to rely overmuch on the generosity of Hartfield for the support of the poor. And finally they embarked on the topic of the farmer Freeman’s draining a boggy field.

“Of course there’s no quarrel with Freeman reclaiming that land,” said Cole, “but it’s the harm it’s doing the river that’s the trouble.”

“The river?” said Elton, stifling a yawn.

“Yes,” said Knightley. “The field had three or four feet of peat on top of good soil. Freeman is taking the peat off so that he may use that field for crops. There’s no harm in that, but he is getting rid of the peat by throwing it into the river, which runs through his property.”

“Yes,” put in Weston, “And the river’s getting blocked up a little downstream and fish are dying and so on.”

Elton nodded a little absently and let the men argue the matter without any contribution from him. Weston thought that no lasting harm would be done, and Cole thought there might be. Weston said that as the river flowed through Freeman’s land, there wasn’t much that could be done about it. He had already spoken to Freeman and found him unwilling to stop putting the peat in the river. Cole thought that there must be some remedy for the situation and appealed to Knightley. As Knightley began speaking, Elton took out his pencil and, uncharacteristically, began making notes on a blank sheet of paper. Surprised but pleased at Elton’s diligence, Knightley gave his opinion that William Cox ought to be applied to. He might know of a law that would strengthen their hand.

“Is there not a law about disrupting the course of a river?” said Cole, “Or one about fouling a water supply?”

Weston’s view was that the mere threat of the law might be enough to deter Freeman, and the talk drifted into stories about miscreants who were warned off bad behaviour by well-worded threats. Elton appeared to find these fascinating, for he jotted down more notes as the talk went on.

“Well then,” said Knightley finally. “Cole will speak to William Cox about this matter and we can decide what to do on this subject next week. I think that closes our business today. And our timing is perfect—it appears the rain has stopped.”

“Has it?” said Cole. “But only for a moment, I’ll wager. Dash it all, I meant to talk to Mrs. Stokes when I came in about changing the whist-club night to Thursdays. I’ll do it now before I forget.” He went out, leaving the door open.

Weston went to the window, and as was his habit, threw up the sash and stuck his head out. The draught caused by the open door and window caught Elton’s papers which were stacked on the table in front of him. They flew up in confusion and then fluttered gracefully to the floor.

Unheeding, Weston gave his report. “Yes, no rain at present, though there are more dark clouds coming and the wind is still howling. Brrrrr…” He brought his head back inside and shut the window. Elton glowered but said nothing as he bent down to pick up the scattered pages. Knightley handed him the two which had come to rest nearest his foot, and Elton grunted his thanks.

The men left the room together, Knightley pausing before going outside to ask John Ostler, whom he met in the passageway, about his father’s health.

“Not so bad, Mr. Knightley, I thank you, but then not so good, either,” said John.

“You’ll let me know how he gets on, will you?” said Knightley.

“I will, sir, and thank you.”

Knightley turned to go, but was stopped by Mrs. Stokes’ saying, “Mr. Knightley, I think you’ve left one of your papers behind. It was in the little parlour, on the floor.”

Knightley took the page from her outstretched hand. It looked like one of Elton’s sheets of paper, but the words on it had nothing to do with parish business.

My first must show the treasures the riches and display of rulers kings
Lords of the land earth, their wealth and ease

cheese
trees
fleas fleas
Please

It was Elton’s writing. Well, that explained why Elton had looked so studious during the meeting; he must fancy himself a poet whose first duty was to the Muse that inspired him at inopportune moments. Looking at it again, he saw that it appeared to be a charade. My first must show…

Then Knightley became aware that Mrs. Stokes was still waiting for him to speak.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stokes. I’ll see that this is returned to its owner.”

He had no wish to give the charade back to its owner personally and see Elton’s embarrassment (at least he ought to be embarrassed to be caught writing riddles during parish meetings) and hear his excuses. Instead, he went to the vicarage and gave it to the housemaid that opened the door. Then, reluctantly, he walked to Hartfield. It had been nearly a week since he had been there, and he must go and call on Mr. Woodhouse. He hoped that Emma might be out during his visit; he did not want to see her yet. He had met Robert Martin on the road that morning on his way to the meeting at the Crown, and though nothing was said about Martin’s disappointment, the grief on his face was almost enough to make Knightley fall to his knees and beg forgiveness for having given him so much encouragement.

He had often been annoyed by Emma’s faults, but this time he was really angry. How dare she! was the refrain that had been playing itself over in his mind during the last week. And his resentment was not toward Emma alone: Mrs. Weston, for example—why could she not have used a firmer hand with Emma when she was governess? That would have warded off this trouble. And Harriet—why must Harriet flatter Emma so much? It was the excess of Harriet’s adoration that had given Emma such an exalted view of her own powers. And then there was Elton. Elton’s admiration for Emma was supposed by her to be disinterested, as she thought he was pursuing Harriet. Emma no doubt took all his gallantries as literal truth, which only puffed her up more. He was also angry with himself. He ought to have said something sooner, or talked more seriously to her when she was younger and more impressionable …

He had not finished reproaching himself when he arrived at Hartfield.

To his chagrin, both Emma and Harriet were there. Emma gave him a tentative smile of greeting, which faded when he gave her a civil, formal salutation and sat down near Mr. Woodhouse. He had intended to talk exclusively with Mr. Woodhouse, but that elderly gentleman drew Emma into the conversation almost at once.

“My dear Emma, we must ask Mr. Knightley if he has anything for Miss Smith’s book. Mr. Knightley is so very clever, I am sure he knows a score of riddles.”

“This is the book of riddles and charades that Harriet is collecting, Mr. Knightley,” Emma said, taking a thin book from a side table. “Perhaps you may like to see it.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Knightley politely. This must have some connection with the charade that Elton had written. Presumably Mr. Woodhouse had also importuned him for a contribution, and Elton was obliging by writing one himself. The first few pages of Harriet’s book had several riddles and charades already copied neatly onto them, and they were ornamented very tastefully with little ciphers and trophies—Emma’s work, Knightley could tell. Most of the conundrums were well known to him, but one he had never heard before caught his eye:

When my first is a task to a young girl of spirit,
And my second confines her to finish the piece,
How hard is her fate! but how great is her merit
If by taking my whole she effects her release! *

He contemplated the hints for a moment, and then smiled briefly as understanding came. Hemlock, of course.

“I have tried to remember the riddles I knew when I was young,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “but my memory is not what it was. It is very strange that I cannot remember any of them except ‘Kitty, a fair but frozen maid,’ and then only a part of it. But Mr. Knightley, I dare say, knows several.”

“I have no doubt that Mr. Knightley does know a number of charades,” said Emma. “They are all very likely highly instructive and exceptionally moral, and will improve everyone who reads them.” She spoke as if she were teasing him, but she was not really teasing. There was no humour in her eyes. “The collection would not be complete without a contribution from Mr. Knightley.”

Very well, then, he would contribute something that ought to instruct Emma—and Elton, who was sure to read the book as well—if only they had ears to hear.

“If you insist,” said Knightley, “I do happen to know a charade which is very much to the purpose. Quite instructive, as you have said. It is not too difficult. I will write it out for you, if you will give me a moment.” He crossed to the little table in the corner, where a pencil and paper were to be found, and quickly wrote:

My first denotes a muted song
With which the jaw can never tire
The next is a beast with horns quite long
And proves to be the new calf’s sire.

The whole’s a virtue that some despise
But makes one exalted in Heaven’s eyes.

“There,” he said, coming over to Emma and giving her the paper. “Can you tell the answer?”

Emma read the whole aloud, and then applied herself to deciphering its meaning.

“Hmmm…” she said. “’A muted song with which the jaw can never tire.’ Well, I suppose a jaw would never tire if it didn’t move, but then how could you have a song if you didn’t move your jaw? Well, leave that for the present. A beast with long horns…the calf’s sire…that would be a bull. Something-bull. ‘The whole’s a virtue…makes one exalted…’ A virtue? You were quite serious about this being an edifying riddle!”

Knightley’s grave eyes met hers, and she looked back at the paper.

“I’m sure I must be mistaken,” said Harriet timidly, “but the part about being exalted in heaven’s eyes reminds me of the text Mr. Elton read out on Sunday, from St. Luke: ‘He that humbleth himself shall be exalted.’ But of course ‘humbleth’ is too many syllables.”

“Humble…the muted song…hum…bull…yes, of course! Harriet, you have found it out!” Emma’s face beamed at Harriet with delight; Like a proud mother, thought Knightley.

“Have I?” said Harriet. “I do not believe I have ever found out the answer to a riddle before.”

“Well, Miss Smith, it is to your credit that it was your familiarity with Holy Writ that gave you the clue,” said Knightley civilly.

“As to that, sir, it was only that Mr. Elton had read it out recently, else I might not have remembered it so quickly.”

“Never mind, Harriet,” said Emma. “It is a worthy addition to your collection, and one that particularly belongs to you—not only because you discovered the answer but because it is a virtue that you display to perfection. There are few who would tax you with arrogance, whoever else might be accused of it”—this said with a slight glance in his direction.

“I am glad the charade has your approval,” said Knightley drily. “I hope it may prove useful to those who read Miss Smith’s collection.”

“Excuse me, sir, but here’s Mr. Knightley for you.”

Dr. Hughes looked up from his book at the housemaid’s announcement and his eyes brightened.

“And how are you, Mr. Knightley?”

“Well in body, though rather agitated in mind. I was hoping that conversation with you might give me a more tranquil spirit.”

“Then I am afraid you will be disappointed, I am not in the best of tempers myself.”

“I am very sorry—and greatly surprised—to hear that, sir. I do not think I have ever seen you otherwise than uncomplaining and patient. What has troubled you?”

“Oh, everything. The pain in my leg has subsided a great deal, but it still hurts and I am tired of lying in this bed, tired of reading, and tired of every visitor beginning the conversation by asking if my leg is improving.”

Knightley grinned sheepishly; he had entered the room ready to enquire after that very thing.

“Of course,” Dr. Hughes went on, “it is very reasonable for them to ask; it is what I should ask if I were visiting an invalid. But you have no idea how annoying it is to answer the same question time and time again.”

“I shall go away and come another time if you prefer,” said Knightley.

“Not at all; you have improved my ill-humour by coming. Sit down. And I had something I wanted to say to you.”

“What is that?”

“You know, of course, that Mefford has given up his lease and will be moving.”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Mefford came to see me yesterday, asking if there was something that could be done for her son, Harry. He is nearly twenty, you know, and has never really taken to farming. And she fears that her husband will not be able to lease another farm elsewhere. She wondered if he might go into service somewhere, and if I knew of an open position hereabouts.”

“Were you hoping there was a place at Donwell?”

“I know there is a place at Donwell. Betty, our housemaid, told Mrs. Hughes this morning that one of your footmen has given notice. His older brother has died and he is needed at home—I think his father is a corset-maker.”

“William Larkins called at the vicarage this morning, did he?” smiled Knightley.

“Yes, I’ve no doubt the information came through him. You did not know it?”

“No. Baxter had not yet mentioned it to me.”

“Well, will you ask Baxter if young Harry could take Thomas’s place?

“He’s certainly tall enough for a footman, but—forgive me—my impression of him is that he is better fitted for feeding poultry than serving it at table.”

Dr. Hughes chuckled. “No doubt. But he may learn.” Seeing that Knightley still hesitated, he added, “I can well believe that he is not an ideal choice for the position from your point of view, but from his point of view, nothing could be better.”

“I am not likely to suffer as much from his inexperience as Baxter is,” said Knightley. “I will ask Baxter if he is willing to train him. Heretofore I have had nothing to do with the hiring of under-servants.”

“No, I imagine not. If you give it good consideration, I will be content.”

“Very well, I will think on it.”

“Thank you. That is one burden less. Now, if you could only find a balm for broken hearts you would remove another cause of my troubled state.”

“If you mean Robert Martin, I heartily wish I had a cure. Healing his heart would remove my aggravation as well.”

“How so?”

Knightley hesitated. As angry as he was with Emma, it pained him to think of others censuring her too. She was wrong—she was very wrong—but there was still a great deal of goodness in her. People would be apt to forget that. Of course, the rector was the very last person who would spread tales about others; telling him about Emma’s folly would not be making it public. But then he didn’t really want to discuss Emma’s misdeeds even with Dr. Hughes; he wanted him to think well of Emma.

“I don’t think I can explain it fully to you, sir. But I do feel most sincerely for Robert Martin.”

“Anyone must. I confess I had rather it happened to almost anyone else.”

“Will he confide in Spencer, do you think? He is about his own age.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Dr. Hughes with a touch of impatience. “He very well might.” He looked away from Knightley and out the window with a rather cross expression, which was such a contrast to his usually cheerful countenance that Knightley wondered if perhaps he really ought to go. But before he could move, Dr. Hughes sighed and said, “Forgive me. You see now another reason for my peevishness. When Spencer first came, I was distressed that he was not more generally liked by the parish. I knew his worth and was unhappy that his merit was unseen by most. Now, however, his kindness and humility have earned him the respect he is worthy of. I should be pleased and yet…and yet I fear now that the parish will come to prefer him to me. Is that not a disgraceful confession? That I should be envious of my curate! I may say that I had no idea of the state of my heart until I realized that my vanity was wounded at the thought of ‘my flock’ preferring another.”

“An entirely reasonable and natural feeling, I should think,” said Knightley. “I am sure I would feel the same. But you have nothing at all to fear, sir; your flock will never favour another over you. They have loved you too well and too long to give your curate the preference.”

“That may be true. And also true, as you have said, that it is natural for me to feel as I do. But there is a higher Law, which I have violated. ‘Charity envieth not,’ you know, and therefore I know that I am lacking in charity. It is a frightful admission.”

“’O! beware, my lord, of jealousy’,” murmured Knightley.

“Indeed. The Bard knew what he was about when he wrote that.” Dr. Hughes looked out the window again, but now he looked contemplative instead of annoyed. After a moment he sighed again and then looked at Knightley once again. “Your brother and sister arrive soon, do they not?”

“On Saturday. I will be very glad to see them again.”

“You will ask them to visit me, will you not? Tell Mrs. Knightley that I want to see all the children.”

“My dear sir,” said Knightley, rising to go, “You could not evade seeing them if you wanted to. Nothing would induce my sister to leave her children behind when she calls on old friends. And they will be at the Abbey frequently—you know they always visit Donwell every day. They can be so much noisier there than at Hartfield where their Grandpapa likes tranquillity.”

“Good. I am glad the Abbey will have children’s voices echoing down its halls, however briefly. It needs a little life in it; you are too much alone there.”

Knightley opened his mouth to protest, and then closed it. It was not worth arguing over. He bowed and bid the rector good day.

Chapter Twelve

Knightley was glad there was nothing to take him to Hartfield in the days leading up to Saturday. Almost against his will, his anger at Emma was beginning to ebb away. She had been wrong—very, very wrong—and she would not admit it; he hoped that his steady disapproval might in a sober moment make her reconsider her actions. But he was tired of being at odds with her. He kept thinking of things he wanted to tell her or ask her, only to remember that he was supposed to be preserving a dignified reserve toward her. He was afraid that the more he was in her company, the more impossible it would be to maintain an adequate show of displeasure.

For this reason, he did not come to Hartfield until Saturday evening, to ensure that his brother’s family arrived first. In a room full of people—Mr. Woodhouse, Emma, John, Isabella, the five children and, with any luck, two nursery maids—he hoped there would be no reason to talk much to Emma. He could be grave and civil from a distance.

He was unlucky. When he arrived at Hartfield, he found the drawing room much emptier than he wished it. Mr. Woodhouse was sitting by the fire with Isabella, and Emma was standing near them, holding the baby. Of John and the children there was no sign.

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Woodhouse, rising with Isabella to greet him, “how are you on this dreadfully cold night? I hope you have not caught a chill.”

“I am very well indeed. And Isabella, it is good to see you again in Surrey.”

Isabella’s smile was full of warmth and satisfaction. “Thank you, George. We are very pleased to be here again. John is upstairs, but I expect he will join us very shortly. And the children, too.”

“They tolerated the journey well, I hope?”

“Oh yes. They enjoyed the ride in the carriage immensely, and have been resting since we arrived.”

“My dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse, seating himself again, “you ought to have rested, too. It is a frightfully long journey.”

“I could not rest, Papa, when I was longing so to talk to you and Emma,” said Isabella, taking her seat as well.

“Well, that may be so, but I fear you will suffer for it. But you said something about Mr. Wingfield a moment ago. Do tell me what it was he was saying to you.”

Knightley’s eyes drifted over to Emma. He thought she had never looked so lovely.“If to her share some female errors fall, look on her face and you’ll forget ‘em all,” he quoted to himself, the aptness of the couplet making him want to chuckle. But no, he must remain steady to his resolution of formality with Emma. He had not greeted her at all yet, and he must do so. And, of course, he did want to see the baby. Mr. Woodhouse and Isabella were deep in conversation and did not mark him as he came over to Emma.

“Good evening,” he said. He hoped there was not too much warmth in his tone.

“Good evening, Mr. Knightley.” She said it without either archness or apprehension; there was only sincerity in her manner.

“Do you think her looking well?” he said, shifting his gaze from Emma’s hazel eyes to those of the baby.

“Oh yes. Does it seem to you that she is eight months old? I remember her birth as being only a few weeks ago. But then, you have seen her more recently than I have. Has she grown much?”

“Yes, very much.”

“I was surprised to see how the other children have changed and grown since I saw them last, though I know that children do grow rapidly and the only astonishing thing is that I was surprised . They are acutely anxious to see you, Mr. Knightley. Bella has whispered to me that she has a very particular gift for you. You must remember to be all enthusiasm for whatever it is, or you will crush her tender feelings.”

“Of course.” He was tempted to add a teasing remark about knowing the consideration due a niece, having been an uncle nearly as long she had had been an aunt, but he remembered in time and restrained himself.

The baby had been looking at him with wide eyes all this time, but now she turned back to her aunt and gently patted her face. Emma smiled and kissed her, which prompted a laugh from the baby and another little caress for her aunt.

“She’s an affectionate little thing, rather like Bella, isn’t she?” said Knightley without thinking, “Little George was always more interested in observing things than playing with his relatives.”

“Yes, I remember. You thought it was unpardonable in a namesake not to show more interest in you.”

He smiled at the memory and said, “It was disgraceful. He sat on my lap for a whole half hour with his attention fixed on my watch fob.”

Baby Emma turned to him and smiled, and without even making a conscious decision to do so, he took the baby into his arms.

“You remember Uncle Knightley, don’t you?” said Emma to the baby. “I am certain you do.”

And then Knightley remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be smiling and talking in this friendly way with Emma. For half a moment he contemplated reverting back to his former demeanour and perhaps making some excuse and walking away with the baby. No, it was impossible. He could hardly go back now without open rudeness, and anyway, the longing to be friends again was irresistible. He gave up the struggle.

“You are a clever child, aren’t you?” he said to the infant. “Of course you remember me. I was the one who kept telling you how beautiful you are.”

“I thought you despised flattery, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma with a raised left eyebrow.

“So I do. It was not flattery to tell the baby she is beautiful—I meant every word.”

“What a comfort it is,” said Emma, “that we think alike about our nephews and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree.”

“If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with them as you are where these children are concerned, we might always think alike.”

“To be sure—our discordancies must always arise from my being in the wrong.” She said it a little petulantly, but her eyes held a smile.

“Yes, and reason good. I was sixteen years old when you were born.”

“A material difference then,” she replied, “and no doubt you were much my superior in judgment at that period of our lives. But does not the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal nearer?”

“Yes—a good deal nearer.”

“But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we think differently.” There was just a hint of a challenge in her tone.

“I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years' experience, and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child,” he began, and then stopped. He was not ready for another verbal battle with her. “Come, my dear Emma,” he said, “let us be friends and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.”

“That's true,” said Emma heartily, "very true. Little Emma, grow up a better woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited.”

Her words lifted his spirits. Was it possible that she had she taken some of his rebuke to heart?

“Now, Mr. Knightley,” continued Emma, “a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good intentions went, we were both right, and I must say that no effects on my side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.”

The image of Robert Martin’s dejected face came immediately before his eyes.

“A man cannot be more so,” was all he could say.

“Ah! Indeed I am very sorry. Come, shake hands with me.”

She looked as if she meant it, and he could not refuse her. It was a relief, after the strain of the last two weeks, to be done with the discord between the two of them, not to mention the discord between his resolution and his inclination.

He was almost disappointed when John chose that moment to come into the room; now that harmony was restored he might have had a satisfying talk with Emma.

“The children’s supper has already been sent to the nursery,” said John after greeting his brother. “It took all the force of my authority to make them stay there and eat instead of rushing down to the drawing room to see you. But they will be down the moment we finish our dinner and send for them, you can be sure. And here is the nurse come for baby Emma.”

Knightley reluctantly gave the baby to her nurse, and, dinner being announced, took Emma in to the dining room.

“And how is the new vicar, Mr. Elton, getting on?” asked Isabella over the dessert.

“He is not so new, Isabella,” said Emma, with a smile. “He has been here well over a year.”

“Yes, I suppose that must be so,” said Isabella. “I have only seen him once, last Christmas. He seemed a very good sort of man.”

Knightley kept his face perfectly serious.

“He is attentive,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “Most attentive. He calls nearly every day, whatever the weather. He is always welcome, of course, and he greatly enjoys the society at Hartfield.”

John’s eyebrows raised in surprise at this statement, and he looked at Knightley. Knightley shook his head slightly at his brother. Explanations would have to wait.

“He met with a sad accident today,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “He cut himself—actually cut himself—with Emma’s new penknife. I advised him to go home and rest, but he would not do it.”

“But Papa, he was able to use the court plaister to bind it up and it did not pain him at all, he said.”

“Ah, yes, I remember now. You will see him Sunday, my dear Isabella.”
The gentlemen lingered only a very little while behind the ladies, but the children were in the drawing room, waiting for them, when they entered.

“Uncle Knightley!” said the three older children in unison, rushing upon him like so many bedlamites. Little George, who had just reached the age of two, followed his siblings at a slower pace. Knightley glanced at Emma; her face beamed as she watched the scene.

“Mama,” said Henry, after the tumult of the initial greetings was over, “May we show Uncle Knightley how well we can drive our hoops?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Now?”

“No, not now. It is not a game you may play indoors and it is dark outside.”

“Yes, Mama,” said the boy sadly.

“You will come and visit the Abbey tomorrow,” said Knightley to Henry. “You may show me then how well you can roll your hoop down the length of the lime walk.”

The little boy’s face brightened and he nodded vigorously.

Young Bella now claimed his attention. “Uncle Knightley, I have brought you a gift for Christmas.”

“Have you? I can hardly wait to see what it is.”

“It is Madam Duvall.”

“Madam Duvall?” He could not immediately work out what she meant.

“Yes, Madam Duvall, my cat.”

“Your cat!” He looked at her blankly for a moment. “But, Bella, that is your cat. I know you love her very much. Why do you want to give her to me?” The very last thing he wanted was a French cat!

“She makes little George ill. If she comes near him he sneezes and becomes all over red with bumps and Nurse says there’s no keeping her away from him. And Papa said that Madame Duvall had better come to you.”

He shot a glare at John, who grinned and walked to the other side of the room.
“But should you not like to give her to Aunt Emma instead? I am sure Aunt Emma would like another lady about the house.”

“But you have no lady at all in your house.” Bella’s eyes were very serious, and she spoke softly. “Papa says every house should have a lady in it.”

“Does he, indeed?” said Knightley. He looked over at his brother, whose back was turned to him but whose shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Madam Duvall wishes to come to you, too,” said Bella solemnly. “I asked her if she would rather go to Aunt Emma or to Uncle Knightley, and she said she wanted to go to the Abbey.”

There was nothing to do but acknowledge defeat. “Thank you, Bella. I am honoured that your cat has chosen to live with me.”

“You will be kind her, Uncle? And write in every letter to Papa how she is doing?”

“Yes, I will. I promise.”

Satisfied, Bella wrapped her arms around him then and ran off to play with her brothers, who were busy about the box of letters that Aunt Emma had purchased for them.

Little George remained, having stared at his uncle through the greater part of the conversation, and he now raised his arms and said, “Up, peese.”

Knightley lifted up the little boy and went to talk to John.

“Shall I call you Captain Mirvan?” said John with a smirk.

“You cannot. You heard me promise to be kind to the creature. Though I may occasionally call her ‘Madam Frog’ as the worthy captain did when the lady annoyed him. I do wonder at you, John. Do you lie awake at night thinking of ways to provoke me?”

“Yes,” said John. “It takes a great deal of contemplation.”

Knightley chuckled. Little George squirmed and Knightley put him down and watched him run to his mother.

“You know I am right.”

“Right?”

“Yes. Every house needs a lady in it.”

“John—”

“I know, I know. Never mind. Let us be seated. What is this about Mefford giving up his lease?”

“Perfectly true.” He told John how William Larkins had effected this miracle.

“So! Mefford will be gone this day week, and new tenants will come. Have you any ready to take over the place?”

“Larkins has had an application from a man who he says seems to be a good prospect. He is making enquiries now.”

“Larkins is a treasure. To have a bailiff whose judgement one can trust so completely in these matters is a blessing. Graham hopes his new bailiff will be as reliable as I tell him Larkins is. He is indebted to you, by the way, for mentioning Lord Carrick’s man. He has hired him—his name is MacIntyre, I think—sight unseen for that estate he inherited. He wanted to meet him before hiring him, but of course, Scotland is a bit far for such an errand and Graham is very busy.”

In the slight pause that followed this statement, both brothers heard Mr. Woodhouse mention “Mr. John Knightley.”

“What is the matter, sir? Did you speak to me?” said John, turning to Mr. Woodhouse.

“I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking well,” said Isabella. “But I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home.”

“My dear Isabella,” said John quickly and with a shade of annoyance, “pray do not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I choose.”

Knightley stifled a sigh. John would let little things perturb him, especially if he was already slightly irritated. John would never have owned it, but he was as fond of his own fireside as Mr. Woodhouse was of his, and travelling never improved his temper. Emma knew this as well as he, and she came to the rescue this time.

“I do not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother, she interjected, “about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after his new estate. But will it answer? Will not the old prejudice be too strong?”

“No, I think he will be all right,” said John. “He is a lowland Scot, and has spent some time in England. Apart from his name, there is not much that is Scottish about him at all.”

Knightley smiled at Emma to thank her, and her eyes sparkled back at him. It was very, very good to be at peace with her again.

The rest of the evening passed off well enough, save for the incident brought about by Mr. Woodhouse, who injudiciously represented Mr. Perry as being highly critical of the Knightleys’ sojourn in South End. Thus attacked (so it seemed) by Mr. Perry, John burst out in a spirited censure of the medical gentleman. The eruption did not last long, however. As soon as he had finished speaking, Knightley turned the conversation back to the Langham path which they had been discussing a moment before, and Emma was able to soothe her father back to equanimity.

Knightley took his leave as the children were shepherded off to bed. There would have been tears from Bella as she said goodbye to her cat had not Knightley reminded her that she could come to the Abbey the next day and see her. The cat was put into a cunning little basket that had a lid that could be fastened, and Knightley held it as carefully as Bella desired him to as he said his farewells.

Madam Duvall meowed piteously throughout the walk to Donwell. After five minutes, Knightley was thoroughly exasperated with the animal and would have willingly opened the basket and let her run free if it had not been for his promise to Bella. What on earth was he to do with a cat? And such a cat. Long, pure white fur that needed to be combed daily, Bella said. One could hardly imagine she would be any good at catching mice—she would probably sit on a cushion all day, growing fat. And who would be given the task of combing her daily? Mrs. Hodges? The thought of what Mrs. Hodges’ expression would be if she were required to comb a cat made him laugh aloud. Well then, Baxter? Or the new footman, Harry? Perhaps one of the housemaids would like the chore.

Baxter greeted his master as usual and helped him to remove his greatcoat. He nodded at the basket.

“A gift, sir?”

“Yes.”

At that moment, Madam Duvall meowed again. Baxter’s busy hands paused at the sound and he stared at the basket.

Knightley cleared his throat. “My niece, Bella, has given me her cat.”

Baxter recovered himself. “Very good, Mr. Knightley.”

“It was an unexpected gift, and not entirely welcome, but it seems duty requires me to keep the cat. It has been a long walk home, Baxter, and I find that I require a glass of your excellent punch. I will be in the library—with the cat.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Knightley, but have you made any arrangements for the cat’s…er…calls of nature?”

“Ah, yes. My brother tells me that a shallow box filled with fresh earth will be satisfactory.”

“In the library, sir?”

“Well, no. In the scullery, perhaps.”

“Very good, sir.”

Knightley carried the basket into the library and set it on the floor in front of his favourite chair. He sat down and then reached down and unfastened the lid of the basket, opened it, and picked up the cat.

“Meeeow,” said Madam Duvall.

“Hmph,” said Knightley, resting the creature on his lap. “I daresay you would rather be with Bella, and I wish with all my heart that you were. However, here we are together and we must make the best of it, I suppose.”

To his great surprise, the cat curled up on his lap and began to purr. Absently, Knightley stroked the soft fur as he mused on the evening. He had gone to Hartfield with only one goal, that of remaining aloof from Emma. In that he had been completely unsuccessful. And yet it was one of the best evenings he’d had all winter. It was always good to see John, and Isabella and the children, of course, too. He was glad to have John in Surrey to talk to about plans for the home farm, and about moving that path…and about Emma and Elton. John might know what to do. And though he hadn’t been able to talk much to Emma after amity had been restored, it had been almost enough to be able to smile at her again and know that there would be plenty of time for talking later.

The library door opened and Baxter entered with the punch. Madam Duvall jumped off Knightley’s lap and disappeared under his chair. Knightley took the drink and sipped it, rather wishing that the cat had stayed on his lap—it had kept his legs warm. He looked down at his breeches and then sighed; they were covered with long, white cat hairs.

Chapter Thirteen

“Watch me, Uncle Knightley! Watch me!”

It was the third day of John and Isabella’s stay in Surrey, and therefore the third time that Henry and John had rolled their hoops down the lime walk at Donwell Abbey. Uncle Knightley had been present each time, but the thrill of having him as an audience had not yet faded.

“Yes, I see you, Henry. Well done!” said Knightley. He and John were pacing sedately down the walk as the little boys raced ahead of them.

“And how is Hartfield today?” said Knightley.

“Much as usual. Mr. Woodhouse wanted us to give up the walk to Donwell, as it appeared to him to be very likely to rain. Emma talked away his fears, of course. Oh, and Elton appeared again this morning.” John gave his brother a sidelong glance. “Very good of him to give up so much of his time to visiting Mr. Woodhouse.”

“Yes.”

“And how very agreeable Emma can be to the vicar.”

“Indeed.”

John waited for an explanation, but none came. He gave an exasperated sigh.

“George, what is all this? Elton behaves as if he is about to offer for Emma, and Emma responds as if he could not do so fast enough. I cannot understand it—she has too much sense to be in love with him, and I can think of no other reason for her to conduct herself in such a manner.”

“Emma,” said Knightley, “thinks that Elton is in love with her friend Harriet—Miss Smith.”

“What? The Miss Smith I met at Hartfield yesterday, who thought prima facie was a city in Italy?”

“The very same.”

“Hmph! I do not know Elton well, but anyone with half an eye could see that he would set his sights a good deal higher.”

“Quite. But Emma’s eyesight in regard to matchmaking is very poor.”

“Could you not have said something?”

“I did. That is, I told her that Elton was not likely to marry a girl like Harriet Smith.”

“And she did not believe you?”

“No.”

“Well, perhaps if you told her that Elton obviously sees her as the future mistress of the parsonage—preposterous as that would be—she would give more weight to your opinion.”

Knightley’s conscience pricked him; he had thought the same. Still, he had no inclination for discussing suitors with Emma.

“I don’t know,” he hedged.

“It is rather a brother’s place to do so. Although,” John continued thoughtfully, “perhaps you are more like an uncle to her.”

Knightley bristled. “An uncle! Certainly not!”

“You are eighteen years her senior.”

“Only sixteen!”

“Well, sixteen then, but still nearly a generation older. I can imagine she might see you in that light, and therefore consider your assistance in such a matter as elderly interference.”

“Nonsense!” said Knightley warmly. “She may not always listen to me, but my age has nothing to do with it. You know there is very little that she allows to influence her opinions, and there is no one whose judgement she relies upon so much as her own.”

“True enough. –Henry! John! The hoops must stay on the path! I must say, it’s a pity Elton is not more eligible. It would be good for Emma to be married—to the right man, of course. Can you not think of anyone who might be suitable?”

“No,” said Knightley shortly.

“Ah,” said John. “I’ve put you into a bad humour. No doubt your approaching the years of senility has made you sensitive to remarks about your age.”

“And I suppose you lay awake all last night thinking up a new subject to provoke me with?”

“No need. Bella made me promise to ask how Madam Duvall is faring at the Abbey. I knew that would be aggravation enough.”

Knightley groaned. “That cat has thrown my well-ordered house into complete confusion. I told you about the first night, did I not?”

“You did. As I recall, you gave her freedom of the house as you had always done with Homer, and she ignored the box of earth in the scullery and left a surprise for Mrs. Hodges in the dining room.”

“Yes. She also scratched and screeched at my bedroom door for an hour until I got out of bed and let her in. Then she leapt onto the bed and insisted on lying next to me. I woke with her wrapped around my head.”

John chuckled. “Who has the task of combing her? One of the housemaids?”

Knightley shook his head and remained silent.

John looked at his brother for a long moment before giving a shout of laughter. “You’re doing it yourself?”

Knightley scowled. “I had no choice. It isn’t just the door and the furniture that cat scratches—it’s all the servants, too. I didn’t dare ask Mrs. Hodges to do it after the incident in the dining room, but Baxter tried and the housemaid tried and even the new footman made an attempt. It was no good; she scratched every last one of them.”

“But not you.”

Knightley gave a despairing little shrug. “I don’t know why. She follows me around. If I sit down, she tries to jump into my lap. She is giving Baxter fits as he tries to keep my clothes free of cat hairs. And contrary to my expectations, she has managed to catch a mouse.”

“Is that not some consolation? At least she is being useful.”

“She left it on my bed.”

John chortled again, but the laughter died away when his brother did not join in. The two men walked together in silence for a few moments, and then John shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, George. If I had known it would be this much bother, I would have told Bella to give the cat to someone else. Even now, I suppose I might…”

“No, no. Tempting as it is, I made a promise to Bella. It is a point of honour now.”

“Ever the soul of honour, George. I hope you will be rewarded, and that Madam Duvall will be a prop and comfort to you in your old age.”

“Well, she has been the impetus for something rather remarkable already.”

“And that is…?”

“You apologized to me. It must be fully ten years since you last did that.”

“Yes, it must be. I am so rarely in the wrong, you see.”

On the twenty-third of December, Knightley sat in his library going over his accounts and waiting for William Larkins. On his foot, fast asleep, was Madam Duvall. John had advised him that cats adored warmth, and that the surest way to keep the cat from following him around was to put a soft cushion near a warm fire. Accordingly, a tremendous fire had been built in the library, and an array of cushions and blankets had been placed around the hearth, but the cat ignored these arrangements and, as usual, jumped into Knightley’s lap as soon as he sat down. He put her down on the floor three times in quick succession, and finally she conceded the point and curled up on his shoe, purring loudly. Knightley could not imagine her position being very comfortable, but he really had not the heart to kick her off.

“William Larkins, sir,” announced Baxter.

Knightley stood to greet his bailiff, and the cat, offended, retreated beneath his chair in high dudgeon.

“Good afternoon, Larkins. You are in very good time.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley. Yes, I walked quickly—the weather is very brisk, very brisk indeed, sir. I did not realize just how chilly it was until I came into this room. It feels much warmer than usual—the contrast with the cold outside, I suppose. Now, I have here the information about the possible new tenant—Foote is his name—if you would care to see it before I prepare the lease.”

Knightley took the paper Larkins held out to him and glanced over it. “And you think he will not disappoint?”

“I think we may have reasonable expectations of him. He grew up on a farm near Ewell; a fine, prosperous place. His elder brother is the leaseholder there now, and evidently Foote has always wanted a farm of his own. He came into some little money and started looking for a small place that would suit his means.”

“Will he improve the place, do you think?”

“I do. His brother’s farm is considerably improved these last twenty years and he is eager to do the same. He will buy Mefford’s stock from him and add to it.”

“And has he a family?”

“A wife, but no children. His widowed sister lives with them, and I think he said she had a young child.”

“Well, if you are satisfied, Larkins, I see no reason he should not have it.”

“Very good, Mr. Knightley; I will draw up the lease. I should think he will take possession next week.”

“Thank you, Larkins. I hope this business with the lease will not delay your travels—I think I heard you say that you will be spending Christmas with your sister’s family?”

Larkins heaved a deep sigh. “Yes, Mr. Knightley.”

“It does not seem a matter of joy to you.”

“To be completely candid, Mr. Knightley, my sister has seven children and a small home, and there is nothing of quiet or solitude to be had there. I confess I much prefer the order and silence of my own little house, and of the Abbey.”

“You have my sincere sympathy, Larkins. At any rate, I need not worry about you returning to your duties at the proper time.”

“No, indeed, Mr. Knightley. And now, if we could look at the accounts—there was an item I particularly wanted to draw to your attention.”

For the next half-hour the two men devoted themselves to the examination of the account-books, and they had only just finished when Baxter entered and said, “Mr. Elton for you, sir. Shall I ask him to wait until you have completed your business?”

“No, send him in, Baxter.”

Elton was sent in accordingly.

“Good afternoon, Knightley. And how do you do, Mr. Larkins?” said Elton, bowing slightly. “I trust I do not interrupt your business.”

“Not at all, sir,” said Larkins with a stiff bow in return. “Our conference is at an end, and I must be off now.”

“Well then, permit me to wish you a happy Christmas.”

“Thank you, Mr. Elton. I will endeavour to endure it with patience. Good afternoon, Mr. Elton. Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley.”

“Now then, Elton,” said Knightley when Larkins had quitted the room, “How may I be of service?”

“I came to ask what the Surveyor of Highways said about that bridge. You were to meet with him yesterday, were you not?”

“I was, but he sent a note saying he was ill. I’m afraid I will not be able to speak with him until the new year now.”

Elton frowned. “That is very unfortunate. Several people in Highbury have said that the crack in the bridge is worse and they wanted my opinion as to its safety. I know nothing about these things and was hoping the surveyor might have an opinion.”

“Well, I do not know that my judgement on such matters is worth very much, but I will go tomorrow and look at it and give you my opinion. You will be at the Westons’ dinner tomorrow evening, I think?”

“Yes, indeed!” Elton’s face brightened immediately. “It is sure to be a delightful evening!”

“I only hope the weather will hold; Mr. Woodhouse will be extremely uneasy if it is very stormy.”

“Ah, yes. Poor man. One almost wishes he might stay at home. Miss Woodhouse is always so busy ensuring his comfort—it must be a relief to her to leave him at Hartfield when she goes out.”

Knightley could scarcely conceal the irritation in his voice as he said, “I assure you that Miss Woodhouse is never tired of her father’s company, or happy to leave him behind.”

“Well, perhaps. Certainly she never complains. But it must be a burden nonetheless. And there will come a day—not too long hence, I trust—when she will leave Hartfield for her own home, and I think she will discover then that she has been relieved of a great encumbrance.”

Knightley did not trust himself to speak. He turned and walked to the hearth, picked up the poker, and made several vicious little stabs at the burning logs. The fire blazed up fiercely. Arrogant, selfish, ignorant...wussock! The thought that Elton was a clergyman was no check on his thoughts this time; it only increased his outrage.

“I suppose a substantial fire is an excellent thing in a library,” said Elton conversationally. “Keeps the books from getting damp, I presume. I must remember that. One never knows when one might acquire a house with a library.”

Knightley still had the poker in his hand, and the urge to use it on the vicar was almost overpowering. Reason mastered emotion, however, and he dropped the poker with a clatter, making Elton start and Madam Duvall slink out from under the chair.

“Oh, you have a cat!” said Elton, coming close to her. “And a very fine specimen, too. I have heard that many aristocratic ladies keep them, and are very fond of them. Perhaps I ought to see if I can acquire one…Here puss, puss…”

Madam Duvall looked with utter distain at the hand stretched out toward her.

“Does it have a name?” said Elton.

“Madam Duvall,” said Knightley.

“Indeed!” said Elton. He looked at the cat with respect. “Of a noble lineage, then, is she? Here, puss. Here, Madam.”

The cat made no movement at all.

“Come here, puss.” Elton moved to pick her up. Instantly the cat batted her paw and left Elton with four long, deep scratches on the back of his hand.

“Aaahh!” he cried, jumping back and flapping his hand as if he could shake off the smart.

Knightley had a great desire to laugh, but kept his face sober as he held out a handkerchief and Elton wrapped it around the injury.

“Rather wicked, isn’t she?” said Elton.

“Oh yes,” Knightley said. “These aristocratic cats are all very temperamental, you know. Ah, blood seeping through there, I see. Yes, very nasty scratch. Quite unfortunate. You ought to go home and get a proper dressing on it. If it has good treatment now there will be no need for you to wear a bandage tomorrow night to the Westons’ dinner.”

“Yes, very true. I ought to go and see to it—nothing worse than eating with a bandage on one’s hand. I will see you tomorrow evening, then, Knightley. Good day.”

The door shut behind him and Knightley dropped into his chair, his feelings divided between amusement and indignation. How presumptuous, how conceited the man was! He did not deserve to be in the same room with Emma, let alone marry her! Who could possibly think that Emma enjoyed getting away from her father, or that Mr. Woodhouse was a burden to be discarded? Absolutely insufferable! And, it appeared, Elton was determined to ask Emma for her hand—and soon, by the sound of it. Well, good. He could hardly wait for Elton to realize his own folly.

A meow at his feet told him that the cat was about to jump onto his lap, and he let her.

“I must say, Madam, that you are an excellent judge of character,” he told her. “I beg your pardon for underestimating your usefulness. And I forgive you the mouse on my bed.”

The weather was so threatening on Christmas Eve that Knightley ordered horses from the Crown so that he could go to the Weston’s dinner in his carriage. He was the first to arrive, and so was the sole auditor to the effusions of Weston, who, with all the enthusiasm of a newlywed, drew his attention to the greenery and ribbons his wife had so skilfully arranged around the drawing room for the festive season. It was not long, however, before Mr. Woodhouse and Isabella came and offered a diversion. Knightley helped Mr. Woodhouse to the seat nearest the fire.

“Thank you, my dear Mr. Knightley. Oh yes, my dear Miss Tay--Mrs. Weston, I am very well. But have you heard about Miss Smith? Such a melancholy thing! A bad cold and a sore throat. She became ill yesterday, in the evening, and I wanted her to stay the night at Hartfield. But she did so want to have Mrs. Goddard nurse her that she would go back to the school. And now she is miserably feverish and unwell. So Isabella and I came in the carriage without her (for she was to have gone in our carriage), and Mr. John Knightley and Emma are to follow—and I believe they are to bring Mr. Elton with them. If he had not come we would have needed but one carriage, for we would be only four together. You may be sure, Mr. Knightley, I would not like to have put James and the horses to so much trouble on such a night as this if it could be avoided. But as it is, James can see his daughter, as he does whenever he comes here, you know, as his daughter is housemaid.”

There was a little bustle at the door and Mrs. Weston turned from Mr. Woodhouse to greet the newcomers. It was a curious thing, thought Knightley, that he had never noticed before how Emma could brighten a room simply by entering it. He watched as she greeted Mrs. Weston with genuine affection, and the sheer happiness on her face was a lovely sight. There was a kind of radiance about her that had nothing to do with mere beauty or fine clothes—Isabella was a handsome woman and her gown was more elaborate than Emma’s, but she had not the same quality of brilliance as her younger sister. Elton plainly had eyes for no one else. He paid his respects to his host and hostess, and then attached himself to Emma. Knightley presumed that he was hovering near her until they should all be seated so that he could claim the chair nearest hers. Knightley noticed that his cuffs were as long as they could be, and one could hardly perceive that the back of his hand was faintly yellow—tinted with the salve he must be using instead of a court plaister.

John finished greeting the Westons and came over to his brother.

“Of all the exuberant companions I have ever known, Elton is unsurpassed.”

“He does seem to be in rather lively spirits this evening.”

“Oh, he has great hopes of us all being snowed up here at Randalls—for a week, I think he said. How Emma listens to him with any degree of composure is beyond my understanding. By the bye, I gave Emma a hint today about Elton’s designs.”

“And what did she say?”

“She assured me that I was quite mistaken, and that she and Elton were only very good friends.”

“Naturally.”

“I even told her that I thought her manner toward him was encouraging.”

“And she did not welcome your advice?”

“No. Truth be told, she looked rather annoyed.”

“Well, don’t be cast down. Better men than you have tried and failed to persuade Emma that her judgement is fallible.”

John chuckled. “I will not take it too much to heart. Elton will speak for himself before long, I wager, and then she will be undeceived.”

“And humbled.”

“That too.” John looked at Emma and the expression on his face softened. “Poor girl,” he said softly.

Weston’s voice could be heard now, urging everyone to be seated, and the company obeyed. Elton attained his object: he sat down at Emma’s side and talked to her continuously, effectively dividing her from the rest of the party.

“I do hope you have been enjoying your time in Surrey, Mrs. Knightley,” said Weston.

“Oh, indeed I have,” said Isabella. “It is delightful to be at Hartfield with Papa and Emma, of course, and such a pleasure to see all my old friends and acquaintances and hear all their news.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Weston. “What would meeting old friends be if they had no news? As it happens, I have a fresh piece of news for you about my son, Frank.”

“I do hope he is well,” said Isabella.

“He is exceedingly well, I thank you. I received a letter from him this very morning, announcing that he is coming at last. He proposes to be here about the second week of January—less than a fortnight from now. My son has never been able to come to Highbury, you know, though he has often wished to.”

“What a wonderful occasion that will be!” said Isabella. “What a pity he could not come for Christmas.”

“Yes, that would have been a great thing. However, it will not be long now until he is here.”

John murmured an appropriate sentiment, and Knightley managed a polite nod, but could not feel any real eagerness. His suspicion that the Westons thought of Frank Churchill as a match for Emma had never been challenged by contradictory evidence, and he was tired of thinking about suitors for Emma. He looked over at Elton; he was talking to Emma with great energy and without any intermission. She was listening to him with every appearance of courtesy, but Knightley could see that her patience was being tested.

He was relieved for her sake when dinner was announced, and glad to see that Elton was seated near Mrs. Weston, at the other end of the table from Emma, who sat beside Mr. Weston. Knightley was across the table from Emma—not directly in front of her, but near enough to see and hear her. On one side of him was Mr. Woodhouse and on the other was Isabella, and between answering the questions of the one, reassuring all the anxieties of the other, and trying to follow the conversation of the pair across the table, he hardly had leisure to eat his excellent roast mutton.

“I am entirely of your opinion,” Emma was saying. “If only Miss Smith and Mr. Frank Churchill were here, our party would be quite complete.”

“He has been wanting to come to us ever since September,” said Weston. “Every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who—between ourselves—are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices. But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in January.”

Weston was an eternal optimist, thought Knightley. He had been in no doubt of seeing his son “very shortly” ever since the end of September. Knightley wanted to catch Emma’s eye and share his amusement with her, but she was too interested in the subject to notice him.

“What a very great pleasure it will be to you!” said Emma, her eyes sparkling. “And Mrs. Weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him that she must be almost as happy as yourself.”

“George,” said Isabella at his elbow, “How does William Larkins do? Is his health as good as ever?”

Knightley answered briefly, but was immediately importuned with another question, this time about Mrs. Hodges. When he could again listen to the conversation across the table, Emma was saying, “I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case, but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he will come, I shall think so too, for you know Enscombe.”

Knightley was a little puzzled. Was Emma sincere in her declaration or was she merely being polite? She ought to know better than to depend on Weston’s predictions of anything! The expression on her face showed nothing but genuine interest as she listened to Weston’s explanation of the whims of Mrs. Churchill which kept dear Frank away from Highbury. But that expression must be due to good manners. She could not really be delighted over the visit of a dissipated young man who could not be bothered to visit his father—could she?

“Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “What is your opinion of the caper sauce on the mutton? Do you not think it indigestible?” And by the time that issue had been settled, Emma and Weston had begun talking about the improvements planned for the gardens at Randalls.

When the ladies had withdrawn after dinner, John and Elton moved from the further end of the table to join the other men.

“I looked at that bridge today, Elton,” said Knightley when the port had been distributed. “And I concur with the good people of Highbury: the crack in the bridge is worse.”

Elton sighed. “Is it unsafe, then?”

“Not yet. But if will be soon if the crack continues to grow.”

Elton made a wry face. “Then I shall have to prepare myself for another onslaught of complaints from everyone in the parish about the incompetence of workmen and the inconvenience of having to take the other road through Aston. As if I didn’t hear enough grumbling about the river that Freeman is blocking up with his peat.”

“Has William Cox been able to find out anything about laws preventing the fouling of rivers?” asked Knightley.

“I don’t believe he has,” said Weston, “But perhaps Mr. John Knightley could give us his opinion.”

“My dear Mr. Weston,” interjected Mr. Woodhouse, “You will not take it amiss, I hope, if I excuse myself to join the ladies?”

“By no means,” said Mr. Weston. “The fire in the drawing room is much warmer, and the chairs are without doubt more comfortable.”

“Thank you, Mr. Weston. I believe I had better have my cup of tea now—late hours do not agree with me. No, I thank you, Mr. Knightley, you need not accompany me—I would not take you away from your friends.”

Mr. Woodhouse bowed and made his way out of the dining room, leaving the men to talk about parish business for another quarter of an hour, until Weston observed that this was not a meeting at the Crown, but a dinner party—and moreover it was Christmas Eve. “We ought to be able to put aside these matters for a few hours, at least,” he said. “And Mr. John Knightley must find it all extremely dull.”

“Not at all, sir,” said John. “I have a keen interest in everything that relates to Donwell and Highbury. But as we have changed the topic, I may observe that wedlock seems to suit you very well. I don’t know when I’ve seen you look so flourishing.”

“Yes indeed, matrimony is splendid physic! Never felt better in my life.”

“I am surprised,” John went on, “that with such an example before them our two bachelors here have not been convinced to change their state as well.”

Knightley scowled at John, who grinned impudently back at him.

“Oh, everyone knows that Knightley will be a bachelor to the end of time,” said Elton dismissively. “On the other hand, I would like nothing better than to try marriage for myself.”

“Ha!” said Weston. “Got a lady in mind already, I’ll warrant. Well, what I say is, don’t hesitate if your mind is made up. A fine, well-set-up young man like yourself need have no reason for delay. You’ll amaze us all next week, I daresay, with an announcement. That would be a surprise for Highbury, now, wouldn’t it?”

John nudged Knightley and murmured, “Nothing would surprise me more.”

“What’s that you say?” said Weston, turning his gaze from Elton’s flushed and happy face to query John.

“I was merely agreeing with you, sir, that it would be a surprise,” said John. “A great and lasting one, if I am any judge.”

“Well, what do you say to rejoining the ladies?” said Weston, downing the last of his wine.

The men moved out of the dining room into the hall, and were about to enter the drawing room when John paused outside the door.

“I believe I will step outside for a moment and look at the weather,” said John.

“By all means,” said Weston, and followed Elton into the drawing room.

“How very droll Weston is,” said John to Knightley, who had stayed behind in the hall with him. “He wants Elton to marry Emma, then?”

“No, I am quite sure he does not. His perception in the matter of other people’s tender feelings is about the same as Emma’s.”

“Oh, that acute, is he? So he has no idea that Elton…Hmph. He merely wants everyone to be married—on principle, as it were. Well, he ought to have held his tongue.”

“You introduced the subject.”

“I don’t think everyone ought to get married. Only you.”

Knightley’s patience gave out. The topic of matrimony had become intolerable, and he refused to banter with John about it any more.

“Enough,” he said coldly and walked into the drawing room. The scene that met his eyes there was hardly likely to improve his temper: Elton was sitting on a sofa between Emma and Mrs. Weston, talking earnestly to Emma again. This time, however, there was no look of affable politeness—actual or assumed—on Emma’s face. She looked nothing but astonished. Knightley turned away; once he would have been amused by the scene, but now it was merely painful. He moved to the table in the corner where coffee was being served, and accepted a steaming cup from the servant. His eyes wandered back to the group on the sofa; he could only see the back of Emma from where he was, but her posture was rigid and tense. Perhaps he ought to intervene. But would it really do any good to forestall the inevitable?

All at once, Emma got up from the sofa and walked over to the empty chair beside Isabella. It could mean only one thing: Emma meant to give Elton a set-down. But Elton looked perplexed, not dejected; Emma’s reproof was quite lost on him. She was talking to Isabella now with an intensity that matched Elton’s—a sign that she meant to ignore him for the rest of the evening. Knightley had little hope that such a hint would be understood by Elton, but at least now Emma’s eyes were opened.

John came in then and said in a voice that all could hear, “Well! The ground is covered in snow, there is more snow falling fast, and the wind is blowing hard. This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir,” he said, turning to Mr. Woodhouse, “—something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow.”

There was a moment of silence and then a volley of exclamations. Mr. Woodhouse’s face showed his complete alarm, and Knightley muttered an imprecation against John for being so unfeeling. There was only one thing for it—check the weather himself. Otherwise there would be no hope of calming Mr. Woodhouse or anyone else.

He walked out, relieved to be alone and feeling that the cold air would clear his head. It took only a moment to discover that John had been exaggerating. The snow was not in the least deep, barely covering the ground in most places. He walked all the way out to the Highbury road and a little distance along it, and it was the same all the way along. There were a few flakes of snow drifting down from the sky, but he could see some stars between the clouds, and it was evident that there would be no more snow falling that night. The wind was blowing, but not strongly, and there was certainly nothing to fear in travelling home.

John could be the most exasperating man! It was one thing to needle his brother about marriage, but quite another to intentionally stir up the fears of his father-in-law, and Isabella, too. He suspected that his own bad humour had contributed to John’s, but that did not excuse him. Altogether it had been a most aggravating evening and he would be very pleased to get home again.

To further allay any fears on the score of safety, he found the coachmen and asked them if they thought there was any cause for worry about the journey home. None at all, they said. He walked back into the drawing room—how very hot the room was!—and gave his report to the company. The relief on Isabella’s face repaid him for his exertions, and the agitation of Mr. Woodhouse was greatly reduced. It did not vanish, however, and he asked Knightley several times if he was quite sure that there was not more snow piling up on the roads at that very moment. Knightley assured him that there was not, and Emma did her best to pacify her father, but Knightley knew that nothing would make him really tranquil as long as he remained at Randalls. He took a few steps behind Mr. Woodhouse’s chair and beckoned Emma with a small movement of his head.

She came over to him, and he said quietly, “Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?”

She nodded and matched his quiet tone as she said, “I am ready, if the others are.”

“Shall I ring the bell?”

“Yes, do.”

It was the shortest conversation he had had all evening, but it soothed his irritated feelings remarkably. For a moment it was as if he and Emma were the only adults present—the only ones with sense and compassion, who knew what ought to be done and were able to do it without hesitation. The others were like children, who lacked either the wit or the confidence to do what they ought.

It was only a few moments until the carriages came, and Knightley and Weston escorted Mr. Woodhouse to his.

“Oh, there is indeed snow!” exclaimed Mr. Woodhouse. “And the night is fearfully dark! I am afraid we shall have a very bad drive. Poor Isabella will not like it. And poor Emma will be in the carriage behind. I do not know what we had best do—we must keep as much together as we can. Where is the coachman? James! Ah, James, you must go very slow and wait for the other carriage. Very slow. And wait for the other carriage. Yes. Thank you, Mr. Weston. Yes, the blanket is here; thank you, Mr. Knightley.”

John had conducted Isabella to the carriage, and when she was safely inside, John got in after her and the door was shut. Knightley and Weston were going back into the house when they passed Elton escorting Emma to her carriage. It took a few seconds for Knightley to realize what had happened. John ought not to be with Isabella and Mr. Woodhouse; he ought to be with Emma and Elton.

Oh mercy, thought Knightley. Emma and Elton shut up together all the way back to the vicarage. Elton will probably think this is the perfect opportunity…He sighed. Poor Emma.

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