Knightley smiled. It had been most amusing to watch Spencer the previous day as he was exceedingly distracted from his task of distributing Dr. Hughes’ pennies. His eyes constantly scanned the gardens for Mrs. Catherwood and her little son as he absently doled out a penny to each child that approached him. Even more amusing was the sudden “Oh!” that he had uttered when he saw the Catherwoods, and the way he had hurried to greet them and then wandered the garden paths with them until he remembered the little purse of coins in his hand and reluctantly went back to his post.
“Yes,” said Knightley, “I believe Mr. Spencer did get on very well.”
“I am so happy to hear it—though of course he is such a favourite with all the children, and with their parents, too, I am sure. Mrs. Hughes speaks so very highly of him! Working so hard—at both parishes, too—missing dear Mr. Elton—such a pity he has been gone so long! But then, of course, when he returns, he will bring a mistress for the vicarage! So many new people in the parish—with Mr. Churchill, of course. Such a congenial young man! And so very handsome! I’m sure I’ve never seen a finer—excepting yourself, of course, Mr. Knightley—but then he is such a young man that there ought to be no comparison—”
Knightley cleared his throat.
“I understand from Mr. Cole that you and Miss Fairfax will come to the Coles’ this evening to take tea with the assembled party.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Knightley! So thoughtful—so kind of Mrs. Cole to invite us! Able to see so many friends at once! ”
“May I entreat you to let my carriage convey you there and home again?”
“Oh, Mr. Knightley, there is no need for any such attention, I assure you! We are well able to walk.”
“Indeed you are, but we must be careful for the health of Miss Fairfax, you know. She is looking stronger, I think, and we ought to take care that nothing hinders her full recovery.”
“That is very true, Mr. Knightley, and I don’t know but that I ought to let you take Jane, at least.”
“Oh, I do think you ought to share the carriage with her, Miss Bates—otherwise she may be unwilling to let you walk alone and refuse the carriage altogether.”
“Quite true, Mr. Knightley, I had not thought of it. Perhaps we had better both ride in your carriage then—we would be most grateful.”
21
Knightley dressed with particular care for the dinner party. Baxter was surprised to hear his master express a preference for the striped waistcoat rather than the green, and at his unwonted interest in the way his neckcloth was tied. Miss Bates’ words about the congenial and handsome Frank Churchill had rankled a bit, and Knightley was determined not to look drab and middle-aged in his company. When Baxter had done his best and gone out, Knightley looked at himself in the mirror. Nothing remarkable there; he looked, as always, like a conventional country gentleman of the dependable sort. No one could ever have mistaken him for a man of fashion and intrigue, and for an instant he rather regretted it. He turned from the mirror impatiently.
Until last week, he had been looking forward to this evening. To see Emma enjoying herself at the Coles’ would be very satisfying—a triumph of good sense over silly prejudice. Now, with the addition of Churchill to the party, all was changed. Uppermost in his mind was the worry that Emma would unconsciously encourage Churchill. An image from yesterday’s encounter in Highbury was imprinted on his mind: that of Emma smiling up at Churchill and laughing at his nonsense. That was the sort of thing that might very well make Churchill think there was more to her amiability than mere politeness. And consider what that might lead to! Churchill might have enough encouragement that he would actually offer for her, as any man would if he had the smallest hope of succeeding. And Emma just might take pity on him—she was that compassionate—and accept him in spite of everything. That would be a disaster. He felt sick at the thought of it.
“Well,” he said to Madam Duval, who had watched him dress with a gravity that rivalled his own, “I fear it will be a very disagreeable evening, but there is really nothing for it but to go on and hope for the best. No, you may not brush up against my leg; I want no cat hairs on my clothing tonight!” He sidestepped the cat and went downstairs to the waiting carriage.
When he arrived at the Coles’, Emma’s carriage was found to be just behind his own, and he was glad for the opportunity—all too rare—of handing her out himself.
She smiled when she saw him, and said, “This is coming as you should do—like a gentleman. I am quite glad to see you.”
“Thank you,” he said, and bowed with mock formality. “How lucky that we should arrive at the same moment! For if we had met first in the drawing-room, I doubt whether you would have discerned me to be more of a gentleman than usual. You might not have distinguished how I came, by my look or manner.”
It was reassuring to see her left eyebrow lift quite in the old way as she said “Yes, I should, I am sure I should. There is always a look of consciousness or bustle when people come in a way which they know to be beneath them. You think you carry it off very well, I dare say, but with you it is a sort of bravado, an air of affected unconcern; I always observe it whenever I meet you under those circumstances. Now you have nothing to try for. You are not afraid of being supposed ashamed. You are not striving to look taller than anybody else. Now I shall really be very happy to walk into the same room with you.”
No one but Emma would have said such a thing to him, and he revelled in it as proof that she had not changed. The attention of one conceited young man was not enough to alter his Emma. He smiled and told her that she was nonsensical—as she was, of course—and took her into the house.
Knightley and Emma were the first to arrive, and he could see that she was gratified by the deference paid to her by the Coles. More than that, Mrs. Cole asked after Mr. Woodhouse almost before the first greetings were over. Emma’s smile at this was most genuine, and Knightley reflected that Mrs. Cole might now make quite a number of ungenteel blunders before Emma would feel any disdain for her.
Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert and their son Edmund were the next to arrive, and while the Coles greeted them, Emma said, “I suppose the children of Donwell are very happy today—they always are on the fifteenth of February.”
“I hope so. We opened the gardens to them this year.”
“And William Larkins approved?”
“Well, I don’t say that. But they were all very quiet and well-behaved, and no accidents beyond little James Wenham’s falling into a fish-pond.”
“Not seriously injured, I hope?”
“Not at all—unless you take a serious view of the fact that he was still dripping while being thoroughly scolded by his mother; he was trying to touch a fish despite having been forbidden to do so a moment before.”
Emma laughed. “He sounds rather like our nephew John. I wish I had been there to see him.”
“I wish you had, too.” He wondered suddenly why he had never before invited Emma to be present. It was exactly the sort of thing she enjoyed—the giving of charity, the antics of children—she ought to have been a part of it.
“Come next year,” he said impulsively. “You can be the one to distribute the coins.”
She looked at him, surprised at his earnest tone; but before she could answer, a new group of guests claimed her attention.
“Oh look! The Westons and Mr. Churchill have come,” she said, and walked off precipitately to greet them, leaving him standing alone. He watched her meet the Westons with all the warmth and affection that she ought to have for such friends. Nothing could be more proper or more endearing. But she ought not to look so delighted with the very obvious admiration of Churchill, who not only approached her the instant propriety would allow, but also stayed at her side without seeming to notice anyone else in the room. Even when the Mr. Coxes arrived, he merely bowed to them from his place near Emma and continued his conversation with her. Knightley could not insert himself into their discussion, but he wished he knew what they were sa
ying. He did not feel himself in a humour to talk to anyone, really, and found himself skulking around the edges of the party.
He was glad to see, when dinner was announced, that Weston was the one escorting Emma to the dining room. But as they were all seating themselves around the table, Churchill murmured a few words in the ear of his father, who nodded at him and then said, smiling, “Here, Frank—this is your seat, next to Miss Woodhouse.” Knightley was not surprised to see that Emma looked pleased.
It was a most aggravating dinner. Knightley was seated far enough away from Churchill and Emma that he could not hear anything they were saying. The only clues he might have had about their subject matter would have come from watching their lips, and he could not very well do that and still be civil to Mrs. Gilbert, who was seated beside him. She was new to the story of Mr. Elton’s sudden engagement, and pressed him for details about the length of their courtship and the antecedents of Miss Hawkins. From time to time he stole glances at Emma and Churchill; they seemed wholly absorbed in their conversation. To be sure, they did listen to Mrs. Cole when she spoke of Miss Fairfax’s new pianoforte—Emma must not have heard of it yet—but when Mrs. Cole had finished her tale, they resumed their conversation and talked only to each other.
After dessert, the Coles’ children were ushered by their caregivers into the dining room, and Knightley hoped that the presence of the little ones would awaken Emma’s interest in something besides her neighbour. It seemed to. She smiled at the cherubs and even engaged the oldest daughter in a few minutes’ conversation, which gratified Mrs. Cole immensely. For nearly fifteen minutes Churchill and Emma behaved in such a way that an impartial observer might think there was no particular interest between them. But when at length the ladies excused themselves, Knightley saw Emma look back at Churchill as she left the room.
“Well, I suppose we ought to join the others,” said Cole.
“Indeed,” said Knightley with feeling. The annoyance he had felt during dinner was nothing to what he had suffered while the gentlemen lingered over the port. Churchill had left the dining room for the company of the ladies before much time had passed, and Knightley would have followed him if he could. But Cole and Weston had got on to the topic of poor rates, and the issue was such that Knightley could not leave in the middle of the discussion. He tried to keep his mind on the plight of the young widow Rigsby, but the thought that Churchill had very likely been seated next to Emma for the last twenty minutes kept recurring. Why had she looked back at Churchill when she left the room? Did she not know that it could only give him encouragement? If they were tête-à-tête again now—well, he could not answer for the consequences.
And in point of fact, when Knightley drifted with the remaining gentlemen into the drawing room, the two of them were seated next to each other, and evidently having a lively conversation. They were interrupted by Cole, who engaged Emma in some banter, leaving Churchill to contemplate something on the far side of the room. Knightley wondered briefly if he ought to go and talk to Churchill himself and distract his attention away from Emma, but the thought of trying to keep all Frank Churchill’s conversation to himself for an entire evening was more than he could endure.
It came to him that he ought not to stand here alone, staring, like this—he ought to find someone to talk to. He looked around to see who was disengaged. Miss Bates and her niece had arrived for the tea and music, along with a few other females, but none of them looked neglected. Edmund Gilbert caught his eye; the youth was sitting alone and looked as if he found the evening very tedious. He was only eighteen, and Knightley had never before seen him at a dinner party given by any but his parents. He was to have begun university this year, but a serious illness just before the term began had delayed his education. He had always seemed like a pleasant enough fellow, though Knightley had the feeling that he had a tendency to strain at the parental leading-strings.
“Well, Edmund,” he began, taking the empty seat next to the young man, “I fear this not so amusing an evening as you would wish.”
Edmund grinned. “Is my boredom that apparent, sir?”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“I ought to hide it better, then. I believe I was invited on the assumption that the other younger guests would extend the hand of friendship to one so callow as I.” His eyes drifted toward Emma and Churchill, who were, Knightley noticed, talking again. Edmund was right: Churchill ought to be the one talking to him. Emma would have done so, he was sure, if only Churchill had not distracted her so entirely. There was no end to the mischief that fellow was doing!
“I suppose the evening has not been even half as long as it has seemed,” said Edmund. “I have only been here for…” Edmund paused and seemed to feel for a watch; finding nothing, he glanced down and then looked sheepishly at Knightley. “I keep forgetting that my watch is gone.”
“Broken, is it?”
“N-no…I…lost it.”
“Bad luck,” said Knightley.
“It is, rather. I’ll get another, of course, but this one was a gift from my grandfather. I don’t think I fully appreciated it until it was gone.”
“That seems to be usual with lost things. Someone once stole a walking stick of mine, and though I never thought much of it while I had it, I have regretted its loss a hundred times since.”
“Yes. Mother says, ‘The most precious jewel is always the one that was lost.’”
“It must be a celebrated maternal aphorism…I recall my own mother saying the same.”
Knightley’s eyes turned toward Emma again. She was now talking to Mrs. Weston and Churchill was across the room, conversing with Miss Fairfax.
“I hope your evening may improve,” said Knightley, feeling that his evening had just improved a great deal. “I have it on good authority that there will be music before long.”
“Yes, I have heard that Miss Fairfax is expected to play and sing. It was said with great anticipation, so I presume she performs very well.”
“She does. And she rarely has opportunity to display her skills in Highbury—though I suppose she will have more occasion now that she has been given a pianoforte.”
“Yes, I heard Mrs. Cole mention it at dinner. It was a generous gift, but rather an odd method of giving it. But perhaps it is the Colonel’s usual way.”
“I don’t think it is,” said Knightley, “At least I never heard of him doing such a thing before. He has always seemed to me to be a very sensible man—too sensible for such a scheme. Elaborate surprises have a tendency to turn awkward.”
“Oh yes,” said Edmund, smiling. “I know of a fellow who wanted to give a gift to his sweetheart—a necklace, I think. He thought he would surprise her with it and tried to get it into her room during her evening out. But he got into the wrong room by mistake and surprised the—well, someone else. He was taken up as a housebreaker, and only just managed to get off by getting a dozen testimonials as to his character.”
Knightley stared at Edmund. He knew the story well; he had, in fact, been the presiding magistrate in the case several years past. The farm labourer (a young man with no foresight at all) had thought he was climbing through a window into a housemaid’s room, but found himself instead in one of the family bedrooms. But how did Edmund come to know of it? Could Larkins possibly…? No, he was quite sure Larkins would not carry tales about such things. Local quarrels and romances were fair game for Larkins’ tongue, but he was too loyal to Donwell to gossip about legal proceedings. Who, then?
“Most amusing,” said Knightley, pleasantly. “I fancy I have heard the story before somewhere. Where did you hear it?”
Edmund paused and then said quietly, “Oh, playing at cards with some of the lads.”
“The lads?”
“In the village.” He looked up at Knightley. “Don’t tell my father, if you please. He wouldn’t approve.”
“You have nothing to fear from me; I have no wish to interfere. All the same, I do hope that in keeping that sort of com
pany you will not get into a scrape.”
“Oh, no. It’s only—there’s nothing to do at home. A fellow must have some amusement.”
Knightley was fairly certain that it was this particular amusement that had lost Edmund his watch. “A very natural sentiment,” was all he said, however.
Ah, there was Cole coming up to Emma again; likely he would be asking her to play for them. And Churchill was not far behind him, ready to flatter away any unwillingness on her part. In a very few moments, it was apparent that the men had been successful. Emma stood and moved toward the pianoforte, while Cole and Churchill brought several chairs closer to the instrument. Knightley noticed that Churchill seemed to be deliberately placing one chair in a spot where the performer would clearly see the face of its occupant. No doubt Churchill meant to sit there so that Emma would see his eager face whenever she lifted her eyes from the keys or the music. That would be a very bad thing. Without any compunction at all, Knightley crossed the room and sat in the chair himself.
Emma seated herself at the instrument, and the other guests arranged themselves to listen, some near to the pianoforte and some further away, where they could converse in low tones without disturbing the musician. Knightley was glad that Churchill was not sitting in his chair; it afforded him a perfect view of Emma. She was wearing the green print gown, and he thought she had never looked more beautiful. Everything in her appearance and demeanour—her eyes, her smile, her delicate colouring, the graceful way she fingered the keys—could only bewitch a man. Her voice, though not as polished as Jane Fairfax’s, was delightful, and perfectly suited to the song, which was one of his favourites.
Charity Envieth Not Page 24