Somehow, as time went on, his concern grew into a feeling of responsibility for her; he became a sort of self-appointed guardian. Did guardians ever fall in love with their charges when they grew up? For she had grown up. He wondered when he had first realized it. He seemed to remember one particular occasion ….yes, it was two or three years ago—the day he had overheard a stable-boy at the Crown Inn talking about Miss Woodhouse as “monstrous pretty and ripe for plucking”. Knightley had not made his presence known at the time—the temptation to commit some physical violence against the fellow was so powerful that he had not trusted himself to make any sort of confrontation. He had, however, warned Mrs. Stokes that the lad had an insolent mouth and ought to be watched, and was very gratified to learn, a week or two later, that the stable-boy had been dismissed. Knightley could recall dining at Hartfield that evening and seeing Emma’s lovely face and pleasing figure with new eyes, privately acknowledging for the first time that a grown man could be attracted to Emma. He remembered the thought making him uncomfortable.
Well, what was to be done now? Could Emma ever really fancy herself—no, no, better face up to the thing honestly; he had deluded himself long enough. Could Emma ever really be in love with Churchill? The thought was like the stab of a knife, but he had to own that it was possible that, in time, she could. Indeed, he was very much afraid that even now she seemed to prefer Churchill’s society to his, though no doubt she had a certain amount of affection for him—rather like a favourite uncle, as John had once said. And who could blame her for desiring the company of a fascinating young man over that of an uncle? Uncle, indeed! Yet it would be very natural for her to think of him in just that way: his behaviour to her would suggest nothing else. She must see him as a well-intentioned, lecturing old busybody who was always interfering in her affairs and meddling in all her concerns.
The library clock chimed twelve o‘clock. The fire was dying again and the coal scuttle was empty. Perhaps he ought to go to bed and try to sleep. With an effort he rose from his chair, blew out one candle and took up the other one. He paused at the window and looked out. The lawn was bathed in moonlight, which painted the cyprus trees silver and threw their long shadows across the gravel walk. Down the road a mile hence was Hartfield, where Emma was sleeping.
“Goodnight, sweet Emma,” he whispered. “May your slumber be restful and your dreams—” He stopped and smiled ruefully. Her dreams were likely to be of Frank Churchill. No matter. “Goodnight nonetheless, Emma. Goodnight…my love.”
It spite of a shortened night, Knightley opened his eyes before Baxter came to wake him. His first thought was to see Emma. He would dress and go to Hartfield and—and what? Sit with Emma and Mr. Woodhouse and talk over small items of news in the usual way, wondering all the while if Emma was thinking of Churchill? It would be maddening. No, he ought to stay away from Hartfield until he had pondered the situation a little more. He would go to the lime walk directly after breakfast and do his thinking there.
He found, however, that it was impossible to keep his mind from the subject while he dressed and ate. Questions crowded into his mind; difficult, unpleasant questions that had no intention of letting him perform his morning rituals in peace. Was it too late to try to win Emma? Was Churchill seriously pursuing her? If he was, would it be dishonourable to enter the lists and compete for her affection?
Just as he was finishing his breakfast, the footman came in with a note.
“Thank you, Harry,” he said as he put down his cup and took the note. It was written in a clear, feminine hand, and asked him if he would have the kindness to visit the cottage of John Page in the course of the morning, on urgent business.
He frowned. John Page was one of the under-gardeners; a hard worker and one on whom the head gardener depended greatly. Well, he should go immediately, of course; the lime walk must wait.
The day was bright and clear with little wind: good weather for the transplanting of the melons and cucumbers into new hot-beds. He saw the work going forward as he walked past the kitchen gardens. Seeing Rooker, the head gardener, he asked him if he knew what was wrong with John Page.
“I hear he’s quite ill, Mr. Knightley, but I don’t know that they’ll be ringing the bells for him yet.”
Page’s cottage was not far from the Abbey; it was one of the newer sort with two rooms on the ground floor. Knightley’s knock was answered by Page’s wife, Sarah, who said, “Oh, good morning, sir! Thank you ever so much for comin’!” and curtsied deeply before opening the door wide to let him in. The room seemed full of people, but a moment’s survey revealed the occupants to be Mrs. Catherwood, Granny Page, and three or four older children. There was also a little boy sitting in a chair against the wall; Knightley recognized him as Mrs. Catherwood’s son.
“Come, children!” said Sarah, “Show manners to Mr. Knightley.” The children bobbed or bowed and murmured, “Good morning, sir.” Mrs. Catherwood whispered to her son and held his hand while he stood up and made his bow.
“Now then, you children—Mags, Peter, Johnny—you go outside.” Sarah turned from her children to Mrs. Catherwood and said, “Will James be goin’ out with ‘em or will he stay here?”
“I think he would like to be near the other children. Perhaps I should go out with them and settle him someplace near the door. Granny—” She turned to the old woman. “I will return in a moment to help with the poultice.”
“May I bring the whistle, Mama?” said James, holding up a roughly-carved instrument. Mrs. Catherwood looked to Sarah.
“Of course he may, bless ‘im,” said Sarah.
“Poor thing,” she added to Knightley when the others were gone. “He’s a lovely little chap—sweet as a nut and never complains when he has to sit and wait for ‘is mother—which happens regular, as she’s such a good soul, always nursing the sick or helping those with troubles. And he always comes with ’er, as the missus at the farm can’t be bothered with the boy. Now then, sir, I’ll take you in to see John.”
She opened the door to the other room and ushered Knightley in before her. The sick man was lying in bed, very pale but still alert.
“Mr. Knightley, sir,” he wheezed. “I thank you for coming.”
“Of course.” Knightley waved the thanks aside. “I’m sorry to see you poorly, John.”
“Eh, I’m not so bad,” said the man, but broke off with a cough.
“It’s only talking makes it worse,” said his wife. “Shall I tell Mr. Knightley then, John?”
John nodded.
“Well then, sir, it’s this way. John’s brother lives in Kingston—he’s ostler at The Black Lion. He was here a fortnight since to visit us.”
“Yes. He came to church with you, didn’t he? I remember seeing you both with someone new in the churchyard.”
“That’s it, sir. Well, he sent us this letter here—it come yesterday while John was sleeping. I can’t read, so I set it aside, and it weren’t until this morning that we knew what it said.” She held out the letter to Knightley, who unfolded and read it.
Deer John, Mister Gibbens thinks he saw me steele two Bags o oates and a Gold Watch on the frist day o Febr. but as you know I was with you then. The Justis is holdin me over but ses he will not send me on if I can bring a Witness to my being out of Kinston on that day. You must come and tell him John.
Yr. brother Sam
“I see,” said Knightley. “But it ought to be easy enough to prove his innocence.”
“Aye, it would, sir,” said John faintly, “if I could get out of bed and go.” Once more his body was wracked by coughs.
“Here, John,” said his wife kindly. “Take a little water. There. I don’t think ‘e ought to go off, Mr. Knightley, sir, even if he could get around a little. Mrs. Catherwood says it’s like to be pleurisy. He might have got away with only a cold, only he would go and dig the asparagus beds in the rain last week, though Mr. Rooker said he might rest at home until his throat was better.” She looked at her husband with co
ncern and reproach mingled on her face.
John exerted himself again to say, “But I can’t let Sam—”
“I know you can’t, John,” said Sarah. “Mrs. Catherwood thought of sending for you, Mr. Knightley, in case you could do something.”
“Of course. I will send a letter to the magistrate—it must be Carver—and tell him—stay, I could ride there and back this afternoon and tell Carver myself that I know the man to be innocent as I saw him in my parish. I suppose I did not see him personally on the day in question, but I trust you, John, and I daresay your neighbours saw him here on the first of February?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” put in Sarah. “Ask any of ‘em that you like—they’ll all say the same. We ought not to put you to so much trouble, sir—”
“It is far less trouble than you think. I would welcome a long ride today, and I do believe this will be the quickest way of getting Sam free. I’ll take the letter, if I may, and talk to a few of your neighbours—must be able to tell Carver I interviewed witnesses personally, you know. Farewell, John. If I don’t see you this evening I’ll send a message to say that all is well. No, Mrs. Page, you needn’t bother to see me out; I can find my way.”
When he passed through the main room again, Mrs. Catherwood was alone, sitting at the table cutting squares of muslin. He paused for a moment, watching her. She was no more than twenty-four or so, and rather pretty. She would be an admirable wife for Spencer, and he wished he could say something to help the curate’s suit along; nothing occurred to him, however.
She looked up. “Did you wish to see Granny, sir? I can fetch her for you…”
“No, no. I only wanted to offer my thanks for the help you are giving here.”
Mrs. Catherwood smiled. “It is not much, sir.”
“I think they would not agree with you. It means a great deal to them.”
“I hope I can do a little. I was greatly helped by kind friends in my own times of difficulty; I am only too glad to do the same for others.”
Perfect, thought Knightley. Spencer could find no better wife in all of Surrey. He bid her good day and went to talk to those in the neighbouring cottages. In less than an hour he had got assurances from half a dozen people that John Page’s brother Sam had been in Donwell on the first of February. That was all right, then. He would go and get a horse from the Crown and ride to Kingston.
He passed Page’s cottage once again on the way to Highbury. Little James Catherwood was sitting in the sunshine outside the door on the stump of a tree, apparently contented. He was still turning the whistle over and over in his hands, feeling every hole and bump and running his fingers down its length. Perhaps the little chap would have an interest in music, as Spencer had suggested. Knightley smiled, and then frowned as he heard John Page cough inside the cottage. Poor fellow. Perhaps he would rest better with his mind at ease over his brother.
Rest was so often the best cure, Knightley mused as he walked on. It was because he had continued to work—and in the rain—when he already had a cold that Page’s illness had become serious. It was a shame he had not listened to the voice of his wife and stayed home that day. Those who were ill needed plenty of rest. Jane Fairfax, for example, needed to take care; perhaps she ought not to have gone to the Coles’. Her health was still fragile, and too much exertion was sure to lay her low. Of course, Churchill had been no help at all, pressing her to sing in spite of her discomfort. It was just like him, really. No thought for anyone but himself. At least Miss Fairfax had been able to travel in a carriage. When he returned from Kingston he would call on the Bates’ and enquire after her health.
The Crown obligingly supplied him with a light meal and a horse. His favourite mount was not available, and the one he was given was not very fast. He was glad for it, however; it meant that he would have nearly a whole hour alone to think before he reached Kingston. He had just left the stable when he heard Miss Bates’ voice.
“Mr. Knightley! How d'ye do? how d'ye do?” She had opened the window and was calling down to him as he passed her house.
“Quite, well, Miss Bates, thank you, and how are—”
“Very well, I thank you. So obliged to you for the carriage last night! We were just in time—my mother just ready for us. Pray come in—do come in. You will find some friends here.”
“How is your niece, Miss Bates? I want to inquire after you all, but particularly your niece. How is Miss Fairfax? I hope she caught no cold last night.”
“Last night! Indeed, it was such a lovely—”
“How is she today? Tell me how Miss Fairfax is.”
“Oh! She is very well, Mr. Knightley. She caught no cold at all. So obliged to you! So very much obliged to you for the carriage,” said Miss Bates.
“I am going to Kingston. Can I do any thing for you?”
“Oh! dear, Kingston—are you? Mrs. Cole was saying the other day she wanted something from Kingston.”
“Mrs. Cole has servants to send. Can I do any thing for you?”
“No, I thank you. But do come in. Who do you think is here? Miss Woodhouse and Miss Smith—”
Emma… He hardly heard what was said after that. He ought not to stop, of course, but the desire to see Emma was powerful enough to make him say, “Well, for five minutes, perhaps.”
“And here is Mrs. Weston and Mr. Frank Churchill too!” went on Miss Bates. “Quite delightful; so many friends!”
The desire vanished.
“No, not now, I thank you. I could not stay two minutes. I must get on to Kingston as fast as I can.”
“Oh! Do come in. They will be so very happy to see you.”
Knightley thought that unlikely.
“No, no,” he said, “your room is full enough. I will call another day, and hear the pianoforté.”
“Well, I am so sorry! Oh! Mr. Knightley, what a delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant. Did you ever see such dancing? Was not it delightful? Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill—I never saw any thing equal to it.”
Knightley could imagine the smirks on the faces of those inside the house as they overheard this description of themselves.
“Oh! Very delightful indeed. I can say nothing less, for I suppose Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Frank Churchill are hearing everything that passes.” Emma would be amused at his saying that. “And I do not see why Miss Fairfax should not be mentioned too,” he went on. “I think Miss Fairfax dances very well, and Mrs. Weston is the very best country-dance player, without exception, in England. Now, if your friends have any gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return, but I cannot stay to hear it.”
“Oh! Mr. Knightley, one moment more—something of consequence—so shocked! Jane and I are both so shocked about the apples!”
Apples?
“What is the matter now?” he asked.
“To think of your sending us all your store apples! You said you had a great many, and now you have not one left.”
Oh, that was all. She had thanked him three times already, but every time she was reminded of a past kindness she thanked the giver again. He waved his hand in farewell and gave the horse a nudge. Her chatter followed him as he moved away.
“We really are so shocked! Mrs. Hodges may well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You should not have done it, indeed you should not…”
No sooner had Miss Bates voice’ faded than he heard the sound of a horse behind him; he turned to see Cole riding up and grinning at him.
“How do you do, Cole?”
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Knightley. I would ask you the same, but I have already heard you announce your good health to Miss Bates.”
“Ah. Well then, I shall be spared answering questions about where I am going and what I thought of the dancing last evening and whatever other information I inadvertently bellowed to the residents of Highbury. I only wanted to know that Miss Fairfax was none the worse for being out last night.”
“Very good of you to be so concern
ed for her health.”
“Not at all. But where are you going? Out of Highbury, at least.”
“Yes, I am bearing you company to Kingston, if you have no objection.”
It seemed he was destined to have no time alone to think at all today.
“Of course not,” said Knightley courteously. “You have business there?”
“Well, I am acting as envoy for Mrs. Cole: she is commissioning another fire screen to match the one we lately acquired. I have no notion why fire screens in different rooms must look alike, but there you have it. Having rooms new-furnished is an expensive business, I can tell you, Mr. Knightley. I give you fair warning.”
“Warning?”
“Well, you may be buying new furnishings at no distant period. When the new mistress comes to Donwell she may very likely wish to change a few things—if she is like most other women, that is.”
Knightley looked at him in bewilderment.
“Are you not thinking of bringing home a wife to Donwell?” said Cole.
Knightley felt the blood drain from his face. Was his love for Emma so very obvious? Had everyone known it except himself? And what could he possibly say to Cole? But Cole did not wait for an answer.
“As I said a day or two ago, I am surprised that Miss Fairfax has not caught the eye of any worthy young man these last few years. Perhaps it is because she was destined for you.”
“Oh!” Relief flowed through him; he had not been so obvious after all. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Cole, but I have never thought of Miss Fairfax in that way.”
“Indeed? Then I beg your pardon, Mr. Knightley; I should not have spoken.”
“No need to be sorry, Cole; a mistake anyone might make.” Knightley supposed he had shown a good deal of attention to Miss Fairfax’s health lately, and of course he had just advertised his concern to all of Highbury a few moments ago. And Cole had heard him praise her at that little gathering at Weston’s, too, in an effort to stop Weston’s going on about Emma. It was no wonder he had assumed a partiality for Miss Fairfax. Did everyone else think the same? Could Emma possibly…? No. She, at least, knew him too well to think any such thing. Didn’t she?
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