“And how did she appear to you?” persisted Mrs. Cole. “Is there a great alteration in her?”
“She did not look as well as she did at Weymouth,” said Churchill, “although I have no doubt that the air of Highbury and the care of her relatives will restore her completely.”
“That is just what I think,” said Mrs. Cole. “And Miss Woodhouse thinks the same. At least, that is what Miss Bates told me.”
“Miss Woodhouse is generally correct,” said Weston. “Is that not right, my dear?”
“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Weston. “She visits the sick in Highbury very often, you know,” she added, turning to Churchill, “and she is usually right when she thinks Mr. Perry ought to be called in or when she perceives some improvement in the ill person.”
“Yes, Miss Woodhouse is very good about visiting,” said Weston. “She is not one of those fine young ladies that give themselves airs and think they are above visiting the poor and sick of Highbury. I dare say she gives the poor as much relief as the parish does.”
What Weston said was perfectly true, but it irritated Knightley nonetheless. It seemed to him that Weston was trying to advertise Emma to his son, as if she were Atkinson’s Original Curling Fluid. Miss Emma Woodhouse, he thought sardonically, is eminently calculated to be far superior to any other Woman ever invented. This Female is reputed to be in demand in the Highest Circles, and will never fail in beauty, vigour, and gloss. Well, perhaps “gloss” was out of place. In any case, Emma needed no panegyrics to recommend her to anyone, especially to Churchill.
It occurred to Knightley that he was not contributing much to the talk this evening; he hoped the Westons would not be offended at his taking so little effort to converse with Churchill. He thought it was better if he did not affect comradeship with the young man: he could observe his behaviour much more effectually from a distance.
“I am anxious to see your new pianoforté,” Mrs. Weston was saying to Mrs. Cole.
“And I am anxious to hear you play it,” replied Mrs. Cole. “It has not yet been done justice to and I am hoping that at our dinner we may persuade several of the ladies to try it.”
“Excellent!” said Weston. “I do hope that Miss Woodhouse will be there—I believe she has a very good style of playing.”
“And Miss Fairfax, too,” said Mrs. Cole, “It has been a long time since I have heard her play.”
Knightley seized on this—it would keep Weston from going on about Emma.
“I greatly look forward to hearing Miss Fairfax play again,” he said. “She is a very superior musician. And I hope she may be persuaded to sing a little as well.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed Mrs. Weston. “I do hope she may sing.”
“It will be a pleasure for her also, I think,” pursued Knightley, “as she has no instrument to play at the Bates’. It is quite a pity that she does not; it would be a delightful occupation for her and give great enjoyment to her family.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Weston. “It is a shame that she doesn’t have a pianoforté of her own. However, I know she plays whenever she comes to Hartfield—Miss Woodhouse insists on it, you know—such a kind-hearted woman.”
“The young ladies are two of a kind,” said Knightley hastily. “Miss Fairfax is extremely benevolent and thoughtful—something not often seen in women as elegant as she.” He had no definite examples of Jane Fairfax’s compassionate nature to offer, and he hoped no one would press him about it; he was only hoping to keep Weston quiet.
“She’s a handsome young lady, as well,” said Cole. “It’s rather surprising that she hasn’t caught the eye of any worthy young man while living with the Campbells.”
“Certainly,” said Knightley, “And—”
But Weston was too quick for him.
“Quite right—a very handsome young lady, indeed. Though I think perhaps Miss Woodhouse is considered the greater beauty. They are both very fair and agreeable, however, and it will be very pleasant to be in company with them again. We are full of anticipation for your dinner, Mrs. Cole. Aren’t we, Frank?”
20
“May I venture to hope, sir, that you will be at Donwell on St. Valentine’s Day as usual?” said Knightley to Dr. Hughes. He had called on the rector and found Spencer there, and the three men were sitting comfortably in the rectory drawing room.
“I fear not,” said the elder gentleman. “Mr. Perry says that I ought not to go anywhere for two more weeks at the least—I asked him particularly. But perhaps Mr. Spencer will come in my place.”
“Oh yes,” said Knightley, turning to Spencer, “I hope you will. It has always been the custom at Donwell—at least since my grandfather’s time—to give small gifts of money to the children of the parish on St. Valentine’s Day.”
“A very commendable tradition,” said Spencer.
“Dr. Hughes has always come up to the Abbey on the day because he says he ought to help with the arduous task of giving out the money—a very thin excuse, I must say.”
Dr. Hughes chuckled. “You don’t expect me to tell everyone that I only come because I dote on the children of the parish and like to see the joy on their faces when given a gift, do you? Whatever would become of my reputation as a curmudgeon of the first order?”
“I’m afraid that reputation is in tatters, and has been ever since you started slipping your own pennies into the hands of the children as they leave the Abby—I’ve seen you do it every fourteenth of February for the past five years.”
Dr. Hughes glanced at the curate with a guilty smile. “Found out! And I thought I was being so clever. I hope you do not mind, Mr. Knightley?”
“Not in the least. ‘In charity there is no excess.’”
“That has always been my own view,” agreed Dr. Hughes. “Well, Spencer, if you will kindly take my place at the Abbey, I will give you a small sack of pennies to distribute on my behalf.”
“Certainly. And perhaps I could even—”
“No, no. You must not think of it. I know what your income is, remember.” There was a twinkle in the rector’s eye as he added, “‘Obey them that have the rule over you’, you know.”
“I fear there is no argument against that,” said Spencer. “But you will not stop me giving them what I can—a smile, a friendly word, and a place in my prayers.”
“This fellow,” said Dr. Hughes to Knightley, “is far more pert than he seems on first acquaintance, isn’t he? You must keep a watch over your lips, Spencer—your obstinacy may get you something you don’t expect. Like a bishopric. Very well, you go and hand out my pennies and give them what is far more valuable from yourself. Now then, you might take it upon yourself to inform any new people in the parish of this little benefaction. That is, if there are any recent arrivals with children…”
The rector looked unnaturally blank for a moment, but Spencer said immediately, “Mrs. Catherwood and her son are at the Foote farm.”
“Ah, yes, quite right,” said the rector. “You must be sure they know.” His amusement was thinly veiled, and Knightley wondered at Spencer’s not noticing it, but the curate looked as earnest as usual when he assured Dr. Hughes that he would take care to do so.
“I would tell them immediately, but I must meet with the verger in Highbury soon—in fact, I must be going or I will be late. However, I will visit the Foote farm on my return.”
“Perhaps I might walk with you,” said Knightley. “I have business with William Cox.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Mr. Elton’s absence has given me the opportunity for plenty of exercise,” said Spencer as they walked companionably toward Highbury. “I think it has been good for my health.”
“I suppose that is some compensation for the demanding nature of the last few weeks.”
“Yes. To be truthful, after the first week or two I didn’t mind so much. But my duties being reduced now will enable me to pursue…other things.”
Knightley was tempted to ask Spencer if marriage with Mrs. Catherwood
was one of those things, but he forbore. It seemed unlikely that Spencer had spoken of it to anyone—if he had, Dr. Hughes’ gentle teasing would surely have been met with a blush. Dr. Hughes had no doubt deduced the state of things for himself from Spencer’s chance comments, the same way Knightley had. Poor Spencer! To be so transparent and evidently unconscious of it! Knightley would hate to think that someone else could read his heart without his being aware of it. It seemed a weakness, somehow.
The men parted at the church, and Knightley went to see William Cox with a question about the leases for the new cottages. He left Cox’s office a half hour later with his mind full of terms and percentages, and rather anxious that he get back to Donwell in time to talk to Larkins about the leases before he drew them up. He wondered if Emma was right after all: perhaps he ought to keep a saddle horse for occasions like this.
And then, with a start, he recognized just who was walking ahead of him: it was Churchill, with Emma on one side and Mrs. Weston on the other. They were perhaps ten yards away—too far for him to hear what they were saying, but close enough that he heard Emma laugh. What were they speaking of? He was tempted to creep up behind them and listen, but knew it would be less than honourable. More than that, it would be nearly impossible to do without someone noticing.
Their progress down the street was slow, and in spite of the haste he had been in only moments before, Knightley kept well behind. Emma seemed very much interested in what Churchill was saying. One could only hope he was not making up stories for her benefit. Knightley wondered who had proposed the walk through Highbury. Would Emma have suggested it? No, no, of course not, and nor would Mrs. Weston have done so. It must have been Churchill. He was the sort to want to parade himself around the village and give the appearance of intimacy with Emma.
The trio turned in to the church, and Knightley, after wavering for a moment, went on to Donwell. There was nothing to be gained by following the little group through the town, and he did not feel equal to making himself a fourth to their party. After he had finished with William Larkins there would be time to reflect on this state of affairs and determine what could be done about it.
Perhaps he was putting too much weight on this little incident. After all, Churchill’s faults were heavy and numerous, were they not? He had neglected his father and failed to show Mrs. Weston the honour due her, for one thing. And for another, he…he had…well, he must have done something else worthy of censure. Oh yes, he had frivoled his time away at Weymouth. And Emma knew that; she would not let herself fall in love with such a fellow. He was not worth worrying over.
He assured himself of that fact often throughout the long evening and more than once as he lay in his bed. But when he found himself picking at his breakfast, wondering again if Churchill would visit Hartfield that morning, he decided that action was necessary. He would go and prove to himself that Churchill was not at Hartfield—or that even if he was, there was nothing to worry about. But he would not go immediately. To hasten to Hartfield so early in the morning merely to reassure himself of something that was not really a threat would be ridiculous. No, he would look over those leases again first; he had been distracted the day before when he drew them up, and he ought to examine them again before they were signed.
He dealt with the leases, and then, just to show that he could, waited an extra half-hour before setting off for Hartfield. He even kept his pace moderate and stopped to talk to John Page for a few minutes when he met him on the road.
In spite of his laborious nonchalance, it was a relief to find that Churchill was not at Hartfield after all. Mr. Woodhouse and Emma were sitting together just as they usually did in the mornings, Emma working at her embroidery and Mr. Woodhouse seated by the fire, ready to chat or to doze as the desire took him. All was comfortable and familiar. Knightley dropped into a chair and picked up a newspaper to look over during the companionable silence that would follow Mr. Woodhouse’s enquiries as to his health and well-being. But after these questions were answered, Mr. Woodhouse had another communication to make.
“I suppose you know, Mr. Knightley, that Emma is going to dine at the Coles’.”
Knightley could not help the smile that flickered over his face.
“No, I did not know it, sir,” he said, “but I am glad to hear it.”
“I wish the Coles had rather chosen to take their tea with us here some afternoon instead of requiring people go out in the evening to dine. I consider it a very ill-advised scheme. But they are so anxious to have dear Emma come, and of course the Westons will be there, and yourself—Emma will be well taken care of, you know—and I suppose it is as well that she goes.”
“I own that I am delighted that she will be one of the party.”
“It seems a very large party,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “The Gilberts and some of the Coxes are to be there with the Westons and you and Emma.”
“And Mr. Churchill,” put in Emma.
It meant nothing, of course. She was merely supplying a name that her father had forgotten. Knightley forced himself to be unconcerned. He opened the newspaper and began to scan its contents.
“My dear, you forget,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “He cannot be there. He has gone to London.”
“It is only for the day, Papa,” said Emma. “You remember, he wanted to get his hair cut.”
“Ah, yes, I had forgotten,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “Mrs. Weston said that as he was eating his breakfast this morning he said he must have his hair cut and that no place would answer for it but London. It was a long way to go for such an errand, I think.”
Gone to London to have his hair cut? “Hmph! Just the trifling, silly fellow I took him for.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized he was saying them aloud. The triumph he felt at having his opinion of Churchill vindicated was tempered by anxiety that Emma would take issue with his words. What an idiot he was to have voiced them! He did not want to be drawn into another argument with her about Frank Churchill. She said nothing to him, however, and gradually his fear subsided.
14 February
Donwell Abbey
Dear John,
Yes, the annual distribution of coins to the children of Donwell is going forward in a few hours in spite of the fact that Dr. Hughes is not well enough to come to the Abbey this year. Spencer is coming in his place, much to the apprehension of Larkins. He is afraid that Spencer will be unwary enough to give money to someone who is ineligible for it—a tragedy without equal in Larkins’ mind. To be sure, Peter Ross has been ‘fourteen’ for the last two years and will certainly try his luck again, but I think Spencer will be equal to the challenge. Of course, Larkins is also worried about damage to the gardens—the day is fine and we will hold the great event out of doors, as we did several years ago. As the children arrive, they will be brought to me and Spencer and then allowed to roam the gardens until three o’clock. Larkins has taken it upon himself to see that all gardeners and under-gardeners will be posted in various places around the gardens to help keep watch. I cannot think what his anxiety would be if anything was actually flowering or producing fruit! The garden is a poor place in February. But the children will no doubt enjoy the fountain and the fish-ponds.
If it were All Fool’s Day instead of the Feast of St. Valentine, I would tell you that I am about to be wed to either the Martins’ dairymaid or a beautiful heiress—I don’t know which you would find harder to believe. As it is, I will answer your most impertinent inquiry by saying that I believe there are romantic attachments forming in Donwell, but none of them have anything to do with
your long-suffering brother,
George
“Oh, Mr. Knightley, how very kind of you to call!” said Miss Bates, beaming. “We were only this moment talking of you, and saying that we would be sure to see you this evening, when I spied you coming across the street. ‘Oh, look!’ said I, ‘Here is Mr. Knightley come to see us—or perhaps not’—because you know, Mr. Knightley, you may have been going somewhere else—
but indeed you came straight to us. How do you do?”
Miss Bates bustled about, taking care of his hat and coat and ushering him toward the preferred seat in their little parlour. They advanced only a little way, however, before Knightley spied a small but very handsome piano-forte against the wall where there had been empty space before.
“What a very fine-looking instrument!” he exclaimed.
“I quite agree, Mr. Knightley, and you are no more astonished than we were yesterday when it arrived—only yesterday—and such a magnificent thing! You can imagine how surprised we all were, and Jane especially, for she says she had not the least notion—and indeed, how could she have guessed anything of the sort? But it was directed to “Miss Fairfax”, so we know there was no mistake—only whoever sent it did not include their own name, and we are quite in the dark about the giver.”
“How very mysterious! I am extremely gratified that Miss Fairfax should have such an instrument; it is exactly what all her friends must have wished for. A Broadwood, too! Most satisfactory. The manner of giving is very strange, though, isn’t it? Perhaps Col. Campbell might—”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley, that is just what we think—it could only be from the Campbells—so generous and thoughtful as they are! And they think so highly of Jane—excuse my saying so to you, Mr. Knightley—I hope you do not think it unbecoming in an aunt to boast a little about her niece—but they are very fond of dear Jane and nothing could be more natural than their sending a gift—although indeed they have never done so before, but—however, we are quite sure that it must have come from the Campbells.”
“A very generous gift.”
“Ah, you may say so, Mr. Knightley, you who are so generous yourself—the most liberal benefactor in three parishes, I am sure. Mrs. Hughes came this morning—such an old friend! So delightful!—and she told us how sorry Dr. Hughes was to miss the St. Valentine’s tradition—so very sad that he is not yet mended enough to have come! But Mrs. Hughes said that Mr. Spencer came in his place—such a fine young man—so kind—I do hope he got on well?”
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