Charity Envieth Not

by Barbara Cornthwaite

  “If you please, sir, there’s a servant downstairs with a message for you,” she said.

  Knightley rose and followed her downstairs to where his footman was waiting in the hall.

  “Yes, Thomas?”

  “Mr. Baxter wishes to inform you, sir, that Constable Burton is waiting to see you at Donwell Abbey. He has two men with him, sir. Mr. Baxter thought you would wish to be informed.”

  “Yes, thank you, Thomas. I will come directly.” Knightley dismissed the servant with a courteous nod and climbed back up the stairs to Dr. Hughes’ room.

  “I must go, sir. The duties of a magistrate await me in my own drawing room. It must be somewhat important—whoever it is did not care to wait until my usual day at the Crown.”

  “Goodbye, then, Mr. Knightley. Come again soon.” It was not spoken out of mere politeness, and Knightley knew it.

  It was only a short walk back to the Abbey—hardly long enough to wonder who might want him so urgently. It was someone from Highbury, obviously, as Burton was the constable for that parish, and if there were two men with him it was probably the victim of a crime and its suspected perpetrator. He hoped it would not be something very serious.

  Baxter met him at the door. “I have shown them into the drawing room, sir.”

  “Thank you, Baxter.”

  The three men rose as Knightley entered the room. There was Burton, of course, a farmer called Mitchell, and a young man whom Knightley recognized by sight but could not immediately put a name to. He greeted them as they bowed and then asked how he might be of service.

  “Well, now, Mr. Knightley,” said Mitchell. “I want William here committed and tried at the petty sessions. He’s committed a felony, he has, and he must pay for it.”

  Knightley looked at the young man. Ah yes, William Plover, that was his name. A character rather notorious for petty pilfering and small damages to property. William looked back at Knightley with impudent eyes.

  “What exactly was the felony?” said Knightley.

  “Stealing eggs,” said Mitchell. “It mayn’t sound like much, but it’s an indictable offence, and I want him taken for it. He’s stolen a quantity of small things from all the farms hereabouts, and this time I caught him red-handed. He was in my poultry house—and that’s trespass, too—and he was filling this here sack that Mr. Burton is holding with my eggs. And I said, ‘Now then, you thief, you’re caught this time, anyway,” and I had my lad run for the constable and he came and took him in hand and we’ve come straight to you for justice.” Mitchell paused here, out of breath with the speed of his narrative and with the energy of his indignation.

  “Is this so?” Knightley questioned William.

  William shrugged.

  “I take it that you admit your guilt,” Knightley said sternly. “All right. Mr. Burton, would you be so good as to take William into the hall and wait with him there until I ask you to return? Thank you.”

  The men were silent until the door was shut again.

  “Will you commit him?” asked Mitchell. “You know he is a troublemaker and must be stopped. No amount of warnings and threats have had any effect on his behaviour thus far. He doesn’t believe he will ever be prosecuted.”

  “I know,” said Knightley. “Does he work at all?”

  “A little,” Mitchell sniffed. “Odd jobs for a few farmers.”

  “He has a mother, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes. A poor woman with a bad foot who deserves a better son.”

  “You realize, of course, that if he is committed the support of his mother will fall upon the parish? And the rates will have to be raised if any more people are given parish help.”

  Mitchell paused. “I had not thought of that,” he said. “Nevertheless, there ought to be some kind of justice done.”

  “Indeed there ought. I could commit him to the petty sessions, but I must tell you that I think it unlikely that he would be imprisoned for such a crime. I could fine him, but then there will be even less money in his mother’s house. And I have no doubt she would suffer more from it than he would.”

  “True enough,” said Mitchell, whose zeal had noticeably flagged.

  “However, there is one thing which may be sufficient to check his criminal activities. I think it is the best solution for now.”

  He walked to the door, opened it, and asked the men to return to the room.

  “William Plover,” said Knightley, “I am inclined to have the judges at the petty sessions hear this case.”

  William looked unconcernedly at the magistrate, not believing that Mr. Knightley was really inclined to do any such thing. He knew he was unlikely to be imprisoned for stealing eggs. It was only another empty threat, and threats did not bother him.

  “There is a particular need just now for more men in His Majesty’s Navy. Napoleon is not yet defeated. The penalty given for your sort of theft is often conscription into the army or navy. You could send home a little money to your mother, you know, that way, and the experience may teach you a few things you are lacking.”

  William’s eyes lost their contemptuous look as the meaning of Knightley’s words sank in. This was not an empty threat, it was rather a real and sinister one. He would have no one to witness to his character if he were brought to court, and as he would not be able to pay a large fine, the justices might very well think he ought to be entered in the lists of soldiers or sailors as his punishment. He began to look actually worried.

  “Please, sir,” he said, speaking for the first time, “don’t send me on. I’ll make satisfaction, truly I will.”

  “Will you pay Mr. Mitchell the worth of the eggs you stole?”

  “That would be sixpence,” put in Mitchell.

  “I will, sir.”

  “I think there ought to be something more,” mused Knightley. “Have you a job, Mitchell, that young William might labour at for a day or so?”

  “I do, Mr. Knightley. I have a wall that wants repairing, and I know he can do it.”

  “Very well. William Plover, I find you guilty of theft. Your punishment is to pay Mr. Mitchell sixpence and to mend his fence in a manner that satisfies him.”

  “Yes, sir,” said William.

  “Thank you, Mr. Knightley,” said Mitchell.

  The men bowed and left. Knightley could see them walking away through the drawing room window. He hoped he had done enough. William’s widowed mother ought not to suffer any more for her son’s sake. He hoped she was doing well enough now. He would ask Emma about her; Emma would know.

  6

  11th November

  Wellyn House

  Brunswick-square

  Dear George,

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

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

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

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

  Isabella sends all her kind wishes, as usual, and I remain,

  Your favourite brother,

  John

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “No, of course I will not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Coming to see me?”

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

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