Fortunately for him, his closest friends all lived near by—the Westons of Randalls, Mr. George Knightley of Donwell Abbey, and occasionally Mr. Elton, the young vicar living alone without liking it.
Occasionally, through Emma’s persuasion, his chosen circle dined with him at evening parties. He was quite terrified of the evils of food and, therefore, quite pleased that his friends, for the most part, consumed nary a morsel themselves. Mr. Woodhouse could not help wondering, though, what exactly his friends did eat.
Besides his inner circle, there came a second group, among the most come-at-able of whom were the elderly Mrs. Bates, her spinster daughter Miss Bates, and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies almost always eager to accept an invitation from the Woodhouses at Hartfield.
Mrs. Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old lady, almost past everything but tea and French square dancing. She lived with her daughter in a very small house and was regarded with the respect which a harmless old lady can excite.
Her daughter Miss Bates, however, enjoyed a most uncommon degree of popularity for a woman who was neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates stood in the very worst predicament in the world for having such popularity—she had no intellectual superiority, she had never been guilty of either beauty or cleverness, her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle life was devoted to the care of a failing mother and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as possible.
And yet, she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one mentioned without compliment. She loved everybody, was interested in everybody’s happiness, and was attentive to everybody’s best qualities. She thought herself a most fortunate creature and was a great talker upon little matters, which exactly suited Mr. Woodhouse, who himself was full of trivial communications and harmless gossip.
Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of the local boarding school—not an establishment which might turn young ladies to vanity at enormous expense, but a real, honest, old-fashioned boarding school, where a reasonable quantity of accomplishments were sold at a reasonable price. Here, wealthy girls might be sent to get them out of the way of their parents, and orphan girls might learn to be ladies through the generosity of the local charitable trust.
Mrs. Goddard’s school was in high repute, and very deservedly. She had an ample house and garden, gave the girls plenty of wholesome food, let them run about a great deal in the summer, and, in winter, dressed their frostbite with her own hands.
It was no wonder that, as the train of twenty young ladies followed Mrs. Goddard to church every Sunday, the bloodlust of the young male vampires in attendance was sorely tempted. Might some of these same young fangs have been among the wild, vagrant vampires who had recently preyed on the poor virgins of Mrs. Goddard’s school? All of Highbury speculated, but no one knew for certain.
Mrs. Goddard, Mrs. Bates, and Miss Bates, then, who would gather around Emma’s father, were the same ladies whom Emma also found very often gathered around her. They were pleasant enough, though they were no remedy for the absence of Mrs. Weston. Emma was delighted to see her father look comfortable and was pleased with herself for organising things so well. But the quiet conversations of three such old women made her feel that these evenings were indeed the longest evenings of her life.
As she sat one morning, looking forward to exactly such an evening, a note was brought from Mrs. Goddard requesting, in most respectful terms, to be allowed to bring a Miss Harriet Smith with her—a most welcome request, for Miss Smith was a girl of seventeen whom Emma knew very well by sight, and Emma had long felt an interest in meeting her on account of Miss Smith’s beauty. And thus, the evening was no longer to be dreaded by the fair mistress of the mansion.
Harriet Smith was the natural daughter of Somebody whom nobody knew. This Somebody had placed her, several years back, at Mrs. Goddard’s school. This was all that was generally known of her history. She had no visible friends besides those acquired at the school, other than a family in the country with whom she had spent two months in the summer—unbeknownst to her, a family of vampires.
Harriet was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a sort which Emma particularly admired. She was short, plump, and fair, with a fine bosom, blue eyes, light hair, regular features, and a look of great sweetness. The male vampires in Highbury drooled over her, contemplating vile thoughts about sinking their fangs into her plumpness. And Emma herself felt a vague sense of foreboding that Miss Harriet Smith was just the sort of delicacy who might appeal to the dreaded vampire attackers who skulked about the countryside.
***
That evening, at the dinner party, Emma was introduced to Miss Harriet Smith. She was not struck by anything remarkably clever in Miss Smith’s conversation, but she found her altogether very engaging and not too shy. More commendably, Harriet seemed so pleasantly grateful for being invited to Hartfield and so impressed by everything that was superior in style to what she had been accustomed that Emma decided that Harriet must have good sense and deserved encouragement.
Emma concluded that Harriet’s soft blue eyes and all those natural graces ought not be wasted on the inferior society of Highbury. The acquaintances Harriet had already formed were most unworthy of her. The friends whom she had visited last summer, good peasant farmers, were a family by the name of Martin, who rented a large farm from Mr. Knightley and resided in his parish of Donwell.
Emma knew that Mr. Knightley thought highly of the Martins—not realising, of course, that most vampires thought highly of each other—but Emma decided they were coarse, unpolished, and very unfit to be the close friends of a girl who needed only a little more polish and elegance to be quite perfect.
Yes, Emma would take her on. She would improve Harriet; she would detach her from her bad acquaintances and introduce her into good society. Emma would form Harriet’s opinions and manners, and instruct her in the proper use of a wooden stake in case she was ever attacked at night. It would be an interesting and certainly a very kind undertaking, highly becoming to Emma’s own situation in life, leisure, and powers.
Emma was so great a personage in Highbury that Harriet had as much panic as pleasure upon first meeting her hostess. But the humble, grateful little girl was delighted with the friendliness with which Emma had treated her all evening.
Emma was so busy admiring those soft blue eyes, talking and listening, and forming all these schemes in the in-betweens that the evening flew away at a very unusual rate.
As the perfect hostess, Emma eagerly did all the honours of the meal and recommended the minced chicken and scalloped oysters to the ladies present. Missing from the party were precisely the guests who would rather have had Emma’s wooden stake driven through their hearts than partake of such disgusting victuals.
At these dinner parties, poor Mr. Woodhouse’s feelings were always in sad warfare. He loved to have the table set, but his conviction of food being very unwholesome made him rather sorry to see anything put on it—in this respect, he would have made an excellent vampire.
While his hospitality welcomed his visitors to enjoy everything, his care and concern for their health made him grieve that they should consume a single taste.
A small bowl of thin porridge was all that he could recommend; though, while the ladies were comfortably eating nicer things, he would say, “Mrs. Bates, let me propose your venturing one of these soft boiled eggs,” and “Miss Bates, let Emma help you to a little bit of tart—a very little bit,” and “I do not advise the custard, Mrs. Goddard; what say you to a small half-glass of wine? I do not think it could disagree with you.”
Emma allowed her father to talk while she supplied her guests in a much more satisfactory style, and on this evening she had particular pleasure in sending them away happy, especially Miss Harriet Smith.
At the conclusion of the party, Emma accompanied Harriet Smith and Mrs. Goddard outside the house, as they aw
aited the carriages to be brought round.
“A very lovely evening, Miss Woodhouse,” said Mrs. Goddard. “And it is always such a pleasure to see Mr. Woodhouse again.”
“Oh, yes,” gushed Harriet Smith, “I so enjoyed meeting you, Miss Woodhouse, and trust that I did not bore you exceedingly with my prattle.”
“Dear Harriet, I find you quite engaging and lovely. I trust that we shall become friends. You are quite a charming young—”
At that moment, the ladies heard a loud rustling in the shrubbery nearby. All were silent, then Mrs. Goddard spoke with great trepidation.
“Miss Woodhouse, was that the wind crackling the bushes?”
Emma wore an expression of concern. “I think not, Mrs. Goddard. The evening air is quite still and bushes do not normally crackle.”
“I do wish the carriage would hurry,” said Harriet, her plump face flushed with worry.
Suddenly, the tall bushes parted. The ladies gasped in unison and froze where they stood.
A hideous apparition emerged, male, his face and hands pale as snow; wearing a suit of rags that hung off his spare frame; hair black as night—long and unkempt; eyes even blacker, if that were possible; and his pale lips parted to reveal sharp, white fangs.
It was a wild vampire.
Harriet and Mrs. Goddard shrieked as Emma dashed into the house. In a blur of motion, the vampire was next to Harriet, grasping at her bosom, his fangs flashing ominously.
Screaming, Harriet beat at him with her fists, flailing about and keeping him at bay. Weakened as the vampire was from lack of sustenance, it was nevertheless clear that Harriet had only frantic moments to live before she would succumb to his vicious designs.
Mrs. Goddard fainted dead away and fell to the ground as Emma came running from the house, waving her father’s old sabre in both hands.
With a single, clean swath of the sword, Emma severed the head of the vampire. It bounced on the ground and rolled a few feet, and then the body of the creature collapsed as well.
Emma then pulled her handy wooden stake from beneath her bombazine skirts which were, like everything else she wore, at the height of fashion, and drove it through the vampire’s heart.
Emma stared speechless at the carnage then looked at Harriet, who was gaping at her, wide-eyed.
“Miss Woodhouse!” exclaimed Harriet. “Oh, dear Miss Woodhouse! You have saved my life!”
“Indeed, I suppose I have,” Emma said, still shaken from the surreal experience. “Are you all right, Harriet?”
“Indeed I am, Miss Woodhouse. But are you? What possessed you to have the presence of mind, and the knowledge, to vanquish such a despicable foe?”
“I honestly do not know, Harriet. I suppose a well-bred young lady knows instinctively what to do in any circumstance. I knew I must help you.”
“Indeed you did, Miss Woodhouse. Indeed you did! Oh, Miss Woodhouse, I shall be indebted to you for the rest of my life!”
Mrs. Goddard had now awakened, and the Bateses and Mr. Woodhouse had hurried out the front door after hearing the screams and commotion.
“Dear me!” squealed Miss Bates. “Upon my word! Is that a vampire? Dear Miss Woodhouse, have you just killed a vampire? I have never in my life seen anything equal to this moment! Mrs. Goddard, are you quite all right? May I help you up? Mr. Woodhouse, do you see that your precious young daughter has just killed a vampire and saved Miss Harriet Smith from certain death?”
Mr. Woodhouse could not find words to speak. His eyes were the size of Delft china saucers.
Old Mrs. Bates had not heard a word. “Eh? What was that? What did she say?” said she, cupping her hand to her ear.
Emma helped Mrs. Goddard to her feet. “Dear Miss Woodhouse, how can we ever repay your kindness? I have never seen such courage!”
Emma, still reeling in disbelief, pondered, “I wonder how this horrid vampire came to be here.”
Harriet spoke up. “He must have followed Mrs. Goddard and myself from the school. Miss Woodhouse, surely you must have heard of the recent attacks on my fellow boarders.”
“Yes, of course, that would explain it,” said Emma. “Well, your carriage is waiting. Perhaps we should all hasten to the safety of our homes.”
Mrs. Goddard and Harriet and Mrs. and Miss Bates stepped into their respective carriages and were rapidly conveyed out the gates of Hartfield.
Emma watched them silently as they left. Then, dragging her sabre along the ground, she walked slowly back into the house, her eyes in a daze.
Mr. Woodhouse stood in the doorway. “Emma, dear Emma. How did you—”
And at that moment, without further words, Mr. Woodhouse fainted.
Chapter 4
News of Emma’s vanquishment of the wild vampire soon spread throughout Highbury, thanks to the dependably loquacious Miss Bates. All were astonished at Emma’s courage—for they had always considered her quite frivolous—and she commanded a respect heretofore unknown by a young lady of such refinement.
Mr. George Knightley, upon hearing the news, felt a mixture of pride and horror—pride that his dear Emma demonstrated such bravery in the face of danger, and horror at the thought that a young lady for whom he cared so deeply came so close to being taken from him.
Harriet Smith’s presence at Hartfield was soon a regular occurrence. Emma lost no time in inviting, encouraging, and telling her to come very often; and Harriet, for her part, was not only flattered that Miss Woodhouse would pay her such attentions but also full of undying gratitude that she had saved her life. Thus, as their acquaintance grew, so did their satisfaction with each other.
As a walking companion, Emma saw how useful Harriet might be. Mr. Woodhouse never went beyond the shrubbery, and since Mrs. Weston’s marriage, Emma’s exercise had been much too confined. She had once ventured alone to Randalls, but it was not pleasant—she sensed bloodthirsty creatures lurking behind the privet in the moonlight—and Harriet Smith, therefore, one whom she could summon at any time to a walk, would be a valuable addition to her privileges.
And quite frankly, though Emma was now regarded by her social circle as the resident expert par excellence on the art of vampire killing, she continued to feel apprehensive at wandering about the countryside alone. A companion such as Harriet alleviated such anxiety.
On the other hand, Emma was fully aware that Harriet seemed to attract vampires like chutney attracted flies. To that end, Emma presented her plump friend with a gift of a wooden stake of her own and a yellow satin ribbon—a very long satin ribbon—with which to secure the weapon to Harriet’s rather ample thigh. Thus armed, Emma felt that she and Harriet could stroll about freely without undue concern.
Harriet certainly was not clever, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful disposition and was not conceited. Emma was quite convinced of Harriet Smith’s being exactly the young friend she wanted—a friend to whom she could be useful. For Mrs. Weston, there was nothing to be done; for Harriet, everything.
Meanwhile, Harriet’s thoughts were a good deal occupied, not only with surviving the vampire menace but also, on a more pleasant note, by the Martins of Abbey Mill Farm. The two months she had spent with the vampire family had been very happy, and she now loved to talk of the pleasures of her visit and describe the many comforts and wonders of the place.
Emma encouraged her talkativeness, and learned such things as that Mrs. Martin had “two very good parlours, one of them quite as large as Mrs. Goddard’s drawing room, an upstairs maid, eight cows, and a very handsome gazebo in her garden.”
As Emma came to understand the Martin family better, she realised she had been mistaken in thinking it was a mother and daughter and a son and his wife who all lived together. When it appeared that Mr. Martin, whom Harriet always mentioned with praise for his great good nature, was a single man and that there was no wife named Mrs. Martin, Emma sensed danger to
her poor little friend from all this hospitality and kindness.
Emma enticed Harriet to talk more of Mr. Martin. She was very ready to speak of their moonlight walks, the romantic gaze of his black eyes, and the chill that surged through her body when his cold hand touched hers.
His mother, Mrs. Martin, had told Harriet that it was impossible for anybody to be a better son, and whenever he married, he would make a good husband. Not that she wanted him to marry. She was in no hurry at all.
Well done, Mrs. Martin! thought Emma. Then she turned to Harriet and asked, “What sort of looking man is Mr. Martin?”
“Oh! Handsome, though I thought him very plain at first. Pale skin, of course, like his mother and sisters—he detests the sun, most unusual for a farmer, do you not agree? He works outside only on cloudy days. He possesses the most beautiful white teeth, almost like fangs, and his eyes are deep onyx. He is so strong—he can lift a cow over his head. Did you never see him? He is in Highbury every now and then.”
“That may be, and I may have seen him fifty times, without having any idea of his name. A young peasant farmer,” sniffed Emma, “is the very last sort of person to raise my curiosity. The yeomanry is precisely the order of people with whom I feel I can have nothing to do.”
“But Mr. Martin knows you very well indeed—I mean by sight.”
“What do you imagine his age to be?”
“He said his birthday was the eighth of June, but he did not mention the year of his birth. His mother said he has always been twenty-four as far as she was concerned.”
“That is too young to settle down. His mother is perfectly right not to be in a hurry. Six years from now, if he could meet a good sort of young woman in the same social rank as his own, with a little money, it might be very desirable.”
“Six years! Dear Miss Woodhouse, he would be thirty!”
“Well, and that is as early as most men can afford to marry, who are not born wealthy. With diligence and good luck, Mr. Martin may be rich in time, but it is next to impossible that he should have realised anything yet.”
Emma and the Vampires Page 2