“Look, Manny,” said Uncle Julius, folding his arms like a well-considered hero. “We can get the book back for you. We can make this just go away.”
Manny opened the drawer and took out Tim’s check. All he could say was, “Julie, I shoulda called you.”
“Yeah-yeah.” Julius said, smiling and patting Manny’s shoulder.
Charles remained annoyed. “There’s a little matter of the pictures,” he said with some bite.
“Right!” said Uncle Julius, a little too enthusiastically. “Can we see ’em?”
“Down, boy,” said Charles.
Manny said, “I got no pictures.”
“What?!” Charles and Uncle Julius exclaimed together.
Charles asked, “A bluff?”
Manny nodded. “A bluff.”
“What made you think he’d bite?”
“Gal like that?” said Manny. “You think there’s no pictures?”
Julius took Manny’s hand like a priest and kissed the top of his head.
“Manny, you’re beautiful. What a pro.”
On the train, Charles ordered doubles.
“I’m still not sure I know what’s happened,” he said.
Handing Charles the check, Uncle Julius said, “See, it’s in Manny’s interest for that book to disappear for a while. This dame, she tainted it by talkin’ it up. If we keep a lid on it, he’ll unload it next year. To someone quieter. A Swiss cheese or someone. He’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about Manny.”
“Believe it or not, Uncle Julius,” Charles said, dripping irony on the floor, “I’m not really worried about Manny.”
Anne Elliott and Tim Pemberton announced their engagement the following weekend during a luncheon party at ASTA. All Tim would tell her was that the book wasn’t what it was supposed to be. But he knew about a book that had just been sold, inscribed by Austen’s publishers to a family friend.
“It’s as close as we’ll get to the holy grail,” Tim told her. “As I see it, if you want to give me a wedding present, you could get that—or a new roof for the house.”
“Why not both?” Anne laughed, looking as happy as a movie queen in the last reel.
They kissed for the cameras. Off to one side, watching the circus, Charles nudged Nicola.
“In Pride and Prejudice, what does Darcy do?”
“He pisses off Lizzie.”
“No, kid, after that. What’s the key thing he does?”
“You tell me, Charlie. You’re the one who fancies Janey.”
“He pays off somebody’s debts. He proves he can protect someone. That’s why Lizzie melts toward him.”
Nicola, Charles, and Uncle Julius left the restaurant together. In the hall, they heard Nora’s welcome and the tapping of her nails on the marble floor. Charles picked up his silky dog and Nicola stroked Nora’s satin ears. Nora rolled her head back and closed her eyes—dog heaven.
“Well,” said Charles, “she won’t be the first commoner marrying into the English aristocracy. But she might be the most beautiful.”
Nicola said, “You haven’t seen her without the façade.”
Uncle Julius went to bed. Charles opened the cognac, their late-night nip. He carried their glasses upstairs.
“Love,” sighed Nicola, “it always brings out the best in people. Always makes them nicer.”
“So I was the one with the prejudice?”
“You’re always the one with the prejudice, Charlie.”
“And the pride?”
She laughed. “I’m proud of the fact that Jane Austen can’t have you. Nor can Miz E.”
“Get over, Nora. Can you move her?”
Nicola picked up the dachshund, repositioned Nora at the foot of the bed, and made herself comfortable against her husband’s shoulder.
“If Jane Austen were alive today—”
“You mean Jean Austen—”
Nicola laughed and continued. “What would she be writing about?”
“I dunno. She’d be writing about, I guess, a girl of humble origins who fancies a lord, and there’s a lot of trickery with aristocrats and doubtful characters. And I’d still think she’s hot.”
“Would she write about us?”
“Yes.” He hooked his arm around her. “She was very good on fine gentlemen. And on busybody girls with hearts of gold.”
F. J. MEIER is the nom de plume of husband-and-wife authors Diane Meier and Frank Delaney.
She: Author of the acclaimed novel The Season of Second Chances and the nonfiction cultural commentary on the changing styles of ceremonies and celebration, The New American Wedding: Ritual and Style in a Changing Culture. For the past thirty years Diane has been the president of MEIER, a NYC-based luxury marketing firm.
He: Irish-born Frank Delaney is the author of more than twenty books of fiction and nonfiction, including the New York Times bestselling novels Ireland and Tipperary. A veteran BBC broadcaster, his weekly podcast Re: Joyce, deconstructing James Joyce’s Ulysses in five-minute episodes, is enjoyed by tens of thousands of listeners each week.
www.dianemeier.com
www.frankdelaney.com
@dianemeiernyc on Twitter
@fdbytheword on Twitter
A wedding must always be an occasion for joy, except when the husband is unwise enough to come under his wife’s influence. Mrs. Elton, married to the vicar of Highbury, had made good use of the newly-wed couple’s two-week absence to persuade everyone in their circle of acquaintances that no good could possibly come of it.
“Poor Knightley. To think that he has been so taken in that he would be willing to give up his home—so comfortable an estate, so charming and superior—to satisfy the whim of a young girl determined not to leave her father! And to be obliged to move to a house so much inferior—sad business for him.”
Few took such a grim view of the affair, since Emma Woodhouse and Mr. Knightley had a long history in the village, while Mrs. Elton had joined them only recently, and had already lost her position—and consequently part of her appeal—as the newly wedded bride. Nevertheless, the villagers of Highbury awaited the move with some measure of anxiety and a great deal of anticipation. No one, however, could be more sensible of the enormity of the event than the very reason behind it, Mr. Woodhouse himself.
Mr. Woodhouse had long tried to postpone what could only be an unwelcome source of disturbance, pointing out that it would be far better if Emma—poor Emma, for it was all so very inconvenient—could wait for Mr. Knightley to come and live with her until at least spring, or even summer, when the weather could be relied upon to be far more favourable. Storms were a regular occurrence in November, and depend upon it, someone was bound to contract a terrible chill as a result.
Mr. Woodhouse’s gloomy predictions proved unfounded. Despite its being November, the weather was unseasonably warm, and seemed determined to contribute everything possible to support Mr. Knightley’s decision to leave Donwell Abbey and reside in Hartfield. Even the sun resolved to give its blessing to the day. Emma was able to open an upstairs window without fearing a draught, and to look down upon Mr. Knightley as he conferred with Mr. Abdy, who was head man at the Crown. Mr. Abdy was overseeing the men as they loaded and unloaded the carts.
Mr. Woodhouse sat huddled next to the fire, his knees and shoulders wrapped in blankets. Anyone who set eyes on him could be forgiven for thinking that Mr. Knightley was forcing himself abominably on them in Hartfield, rather than performing an extraordinary sacrifice.
“If only Mr. Knightley could have managed to come and live with us without all this fuss,” said Mr. Woodhouse, as soon as Emma came downstairs. “Doors opening and closing all the time, leaving us exposed to the elements. Men all over the house, bringing dirt unto the carpets. One cannot go anywhere without worrying about boxes and all manner of objects. Emma, you must not set foot outside the drawing room. I am certain you will trip and suffer a fatal injury.”
“But Papa, surely you wish me to help Mr. Knightley arrange wher
e to put his things?”
“You must not take too much upon yourself, Emma. You will get very tired. You and Mr. Knightley must leave the men to get on with their work and come and warm yourselves by the fire. He will grow quite ill, standing about in the passageways. You must ask Mr. Knightley to join us. I am convinced he is doing injury to his lungs.”
Emma knew that nothing would calm her father’s agitation until he assured himself that Mr. Knightley was in no danger. Accordingly, she left the drawing room to seek him.
“Dear Mr. K.,” she said, sneaking up to him from behind after waiting for a moment when no-one was in sight and touching a hand to his cheek. “Will you do us the honour of joining us in the living room?”
Mr. Knightley drew her closer, and after favouring her with a few tokens of his affection, pinched her on the nose.
“If you persist on calling me Mr. K. in imitation of certain vulgar acquaintances of ours, I shall start calling you Mrs. K., and we shall see how well you will receive that.”
“I have no intention of emulating your favourite, Mrs. Elton,” said Emma, laughing. “But do come and sit by Papa a little. You know how perturbed he is by all these changes.”
“I have sat by your father several times already this morning, Emma,” he said. “I cannot continue to oblige him. At this rate, the move will take several weeks to accomplish. I am quite sure you cannot wish for such a thing.”
Any reply she would have made was interrupted by the entrance of a man bearing several bundles of papers wrapped in string, who wished to discover where he would take the papers.
“To the library,” said Mr. Knightley, briskly. Once the man was out of sight, however, he succumbed to Emma as she playfully pulled him towards the drawing room, where her father was.
“Did I hear Mr. Knightley say ‘the library,’ Emma?” said Mr. Woodhouse as they entered, his distress apparent.
“You did indeed hear me say so, Mr. Woodhouse,” said Mr. Knightley, agreeably. “If I am to save myself several trips to Donwell Abbey daily, I must have somewhere where I can keep my papers, somewhere where there will be no danger of anyone coming upon them, or a sudden wind blowing them away.”
The prospect of a wind should have proved deterrent enough, but it had no effect on Mr. Woodhouse, who had fixed his thoughts on something else entirely.
“You must know that I never use the library in the morning, Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “Mr. Perry has said the room is damp in the mornings, since it has no sun, and he has recommended me to sit there only on such afternoons when the sun can dispel the damp.”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Knightley. “Since you will not be using the library in the morning, it will suit me very well. I will be able to use it to go over my accounts with no fear of interruptions, or of causing you any inconvenience.”
“You must by no means use the library in the morning, Mr. Knightley. Mr. Perry—”
“I am sure Mr. Perry’s recommendations are very appropriate for you, Mr. Woodhouse,” said Mr. Knightley, “but as my health is robust, I have no fear of dampness. I must deposit my things where I think best, without regard to Mr. Perry. If you will forgive me?” His voice was more than a little sharp. Emma now regretted bringing him into the drawing room. Her father was looking even more downcast than he had been before.
Mr. Knightley left the room and could presently be heard giving instructions to carry a portmanteau of his clothing to the west room.
Mr. Woodhouse’s alarm in hearing this was so great that it overcame his fear of draughts. In an instant he was in the passageway, protesting loudly.
“No, no, Mr. Knightley!” He voiced his objections so vehemently that the workman dropped the portmanteau onto the ground. “You could not possibly wish to sleep in that bedchamber. It faces north, and is extremely cold in the winter. No, no. You must take the bedchamber adjacent to mine. I insist on it.”
Mr. Knightley stopped and turned to stare at Mr. Woodhouse.
“You cannot possibly mean that you wish me to take the bedchamber that belonged to your late wife?”
“It is by far the best room in the house, after my own, of course.”
“But it has no adjoining room for Emma to sleep in,” said Mr. Knightley, driven beyond patience. “I have come to Hartfield to be with Emma.”
Emma looked from one to the other of the two men in her life and wondered how she could possibly have expected that this could work. Mr. Woodhouse was bewildered at Mr. Knightley’s sudden anger.
“Come, Papa,” she said. “You must not be away from the fire for too long.”
“But I must speak to Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Woodhouse.
“You can speak to him later,” she said, leading him away. Her voice fell to a whisper. “You would not wish to speak to him in front of the servants for everyone to hear, Papa, surely?”
Mr. Woodhouse allowed himself to be coaxed back to the fireplace.
“Why couldn’t things have remained just as they were?” said Mr. Woodhouse, mournfully, as she endeavoured to settle him down once again. “You would have been a great deal happier if things had stayed the same. You should not have married, Emma.”
Emma was inclined to agree with him. She bitterly regretted acquiescing to such a scheme. She saw now it was not at all what she had first envisioned when Mr. Knightley had proposed coming to live with them at Hartfield. She had thought matters would remain very much the same. She now discovered that there was a great deal of difference between Mr. Knightley visiting them whenever he chose, enduring her father’s humours when he pleased and leaving at his convenience, and being forced to live in close proximity all the time.
Her father was growing more nervous, but she felt it imperative to speak to her husband. She tore herself from her father’s side and went to find Mr. Knightley. He stood outside on the steps, looking over the fields towards the direction of Donwell Abbey, his home.
“You must be patient with my father, George. You knew how it would be with him. He cannot endure change.”
“I am very willing to be patient. I hope I have always been sensitive to his wishes. But there are things that cannot be endured. I can understand that he will not give up his chamber for us, even though, with its adjoining room, it is most suitable for a married couple. I cannot expect him to do so. But how can he even suggest that I sleep in the adjacent room? Does he not realize that I wish to be adjacent to you, not to him?”
“He does not think of these matters.”
“Then he has not yet begun to understand that I am married to you,” said Mr. Knightley, pacing back and forth. “It is quite impossible. Two men cannot be heads of the same household. We have done this all wrong. We ought to have waited until he was truly willing to accept that I was to be your husband.” He stood with his back to her. “I am to blame for my impatience,” he said in a choked voice. “I did not comprehend that your father would never see me as anything more than an intruder in his home. I thought myself more prepared to humour him, and I thought him more ready to receive me as his son-in-law. But I was mistaken.” He stared into the distance for minutes more. By and by, he came to a conclusion. “Perhaps for the time being I should stay in Donwell Abbey until we have sorted everything out.”
Without further ado, he hurried down the stairs and set out in the direction of his estate.
Emma made to go after him. She could not let him return to his estate. It boded ill for their marriage, if he was to think of Donwell Abbey as an escape from her.
“Emma, where are you?” called her father from within the house. “I must move my chair closer to the fire. The front door is open, I am sure. I can feel the draught most clearly.”
Emma, torn between one and the other, decided to appease neither. Two weeks of time alone with Mr. Knightley had not prepared her for strife. At the seaside, surrounded by the trappings of love, free of all demands, she had thought herself in a fairy-land. Now she had tumbled out of fairy-land into the world of mere m
ortals. She could not believe she could be so wretched. Was it possible she had traded her single state for a lifetime of discord?
“Miss Woodhouse—I am sorry, I meant Mrs. Knightley,” said Mr. Abdy, approaching her, his kindly face breaking into a smile. “Mr. Knightley is nowhere to be found. I am afraid I cannot give my men any further instructions without Mr. Knightley’s recommendations.”
Emma—as mistress of Hartfield—was long accustomed to assuming charge. She was on the verge of providing the men with instructions when it occurred to her that Mr. Knightley would not appreciate her intervention in his possessions any more than he would her father’s.
“Mr. Knightley has been called to his estate to deal with an urgent matter,” said Emma, trying to give the appearance of calm rather than the impression that matters were moving beyond her control. “I think it best that you disperse your men and return later. Since there is no danger of rain, Mr. Knightley’s things may remain in the carts for the moment.”
Mr. Abdy had business of his own to attend to, and looked relieved that she did not expect him to stay. Certainly she did not wish to hold him up if Mr. Knightley did not return. She was aware that he had offered the services of his men as a favour to Mr. Knightley.
“Then you will send round to tell me when Mr. Knightley returns?”
“Most certainly, Mr. Abdy,” she replied.
But she had no idea if he would even return today. Perhaps he intended to spend the night at Donwell. Perhaps he would not even come for several days. Oh, what had he meant by saying he should stay at Donwell Abbey until they sorted matters out?
“Emma!” came the voice of her father.
Emma marched down the pathway, through the gate, and down the road to Highbury. She would occupy herself with other things; buying provisions or even a new pair of gloves. It might improve her spirits and she would be less inclined to blame Papa for causing a rift between her and her new husband.
Haberdashery, she discovered soon, held little appeal, despite the helpful suggestions of Mr. Ford. She could not distract her thoughts from the sight of Mr. Knightley striding away across the green verdure towards his home. Was this the end of their felicity together? It was not unheard of in wealthy families for wife and husband to live apart for some months of the year—during the London Season, for example—though no one of her acquaintance did so. Yet she knew it was not unusual. Would that be her fate with Mr. Knightley?
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