Emma & Knightley

by Rachel Billington

  ‘I will wear my sprigged muslin with the blue shawl,’ began Emma and then thought again of the day ahead. Today she must not be so cheerful, for Knightley had suggested that she see poor unhappy Mrs Weston. ‘No, Merry, I have changed my mind. The plain green and the white shawl.’ That would show respect, without being too drab on such a bright morning.

  The maid went, returned, while Emma sat on the side of the bed, idly turning between her hands the cap she had just taken from her head. What was it about that ordinary nightcap, white frilled muslin, which suddenly brought Jane Fairfax before Emma, with all her seriousness, her charms, her elegance? Perhaps it was the delicacy, the pallor of the material, but suddenly Emma was cast into a passion of weeping. ‘Oh, Jane, Jane – how can you have passed like this! Oh! Oh! I never behaved to you as a friend! I never truly liked you! And now it is all over! All too late!’

  Merry, coming in to see her mistress so distraught, was ready to call Mr Perry in another moment. But as fast as the passion had risen, it had abated. Cold water splashed on the face was accompanied by good resolutions. ‘Jane Churchill is gone but there are others left behind. To them I shall be the best friend that ever breathed.’

  Fortified by the sense of virtue in prospect, Emma descended to breakfast with her father in her usual cheerful manner so he could not suspect that, just fifteen minutes before, she was sobbing as if her heart would break. He was glad to see her looking bright for he had news for her that she would not like.

  ‘My dear, ’tis a sad business when husband and wife must be separated – and for such a place as London. But Mr Knightley would be off—’

  ‘Papa, what is it you have to tell me? I assure you I am strong this morning.’

  ‘Personally, I do not believe anything is worth the journey to London – and you, my dear, have managed your life without it very well – would you not say?’

  ‘Yes, papa’ – in agreement but with mounting impatience. ‘Are you trying to inform me that Knightley has left for London?’

  ‘It is true, against my advice, an hour ago. He did not wish to disturb you from your sleep after such a day as yesterday.’

  ‘And when will he return?’

  ‘Not today, I think.’

  ‘But London is only sixteen miles and he is a quick rider with a good horse. I assume he has not walked?’ Emma attempted an injection of playfulness, although her heart had sunk at the news. No Knightley for a whole day! Perhaps more – and just when her spirits needed his calming presence.

  ‘It is on Mr Weston’s behalf he is gone. That is why I could not object more strongly. Poor Mrs Weston in her condition – Mr Weston could not think of leaving her himself. So I could not object too far, indeed I could not, although they say a sharp sun in the morning means rain before gloaming—’

  ‘But why has he gone, papa?’ asked Emma who had certain suspicions.

  ‘I have already told you. He has gone to search for Mr Weston’s son – his natural son, Mr Churchill, and send him back to Yorkshire, where he should be. It is all most unfortunate. And we are the sufferers – you and I – such a disturbance – so early – and not knowing when he will return. I don’t know how you will bear it—’

  Mr Woodhouse’s ignorance of his daughter’s strong will went unnoticed by Emma who soothed her father with a solicitude practised over many years. But as soon as he was comfortable and, finding she had no appetite for breakfast, she removed herself to her little parlour – despised as ‘stifling’ the day before but now seen as a haven of solitude and peace.

  Here she could think of Knightley’s mission in all its strangeness – as it seemed to her; for of all men Knightley had least respect or affection for Mr Churchill, yet here he was setting out as his saviour – from whatever evils even Emma’s fertile imagination could not imagine. But there would be evils where Frank was concerned, she was sure of that. He had proved himself, to her, a liar and a hypocrite. She believed that it was only Jane – clever, beautiful, fragile Jane – who could have kept him straight. Now his suffering must be great indeed! His temptation to fall away from the proper path, proportionately greater. He had no strength of character, she was sure of that too, but would, at all times, choose the easiest path. Oh, if Mr Knightley could only find him in time! Before – before . . .

  Emma could not quite complete her thoughts as they whirled through her agitated mind; but she was so far from attending to the ordinary domestic sounds of the house that Merry had to knock twice before her mistress bade her enter.

  ‘Mrs Weston is downstairs, ma’am.’

  Mrs Weston here! And she had neither finished dressing nor interviewed Sterne, the cook, about last evening’s stale apple pie which she had promised herself to do before anything. Yet Mrs Weston must not be kept waiting a second more than was necessary.

  ‘Oh, my dear! My dear!’ Both ladies were in tears as soon as they met and clasped each other close.

  ‘Now, we must not cry.’ Mrs Weston recovered first. ‘It is too tragic for that. I said to Mr Weston, no fainting, no hysterics, no crying, just arrangements. But arrangements, I believe, are the very worst of it.’ Despite her own advice, Mrs Weston was forced to put her handkerchief to her eye again. ‘He is so overcome, poor man, so utterly distraught.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Emma when her friend had recovered a little, ‘where is Mr Frank Churchill gone?’

  ‘That is why I have come. I thought it wrong to take Mr Knightley from you without explaining the circumstances. But, to answer your question, we hardly know where poor Frank is, except that he is reported seen in London. Mr Knightley plans to stay with his brother and find out what he can from there.’

  ‘Is Mr Churchill not in his own house in London?’

  ‘That is shut up, for poor Jane had wanted the baby to be born in Yorkshire and she had prevailed on Frank to be with her. Oh, Emma, you can imagine how Mr Weston feels – to be a grandfather for the first time in such tragic circumstances. It is no wonder he is incapable.’

  At this, Emma saw the truth of the case. Mr Weston, a kind-hearted man but not of strong disposition, had passed on his responsibility to one he knew possessed the virtues he himself lacked. It was not all out of consideration for his wife’s condition, as Mr Knightley had kindly let it be thought. Emma’s heart swelled in pride at being the wife of such a man as Knightley who would take so much trouble over a man he truly disliked. It was for love of her that he had done it – and out of duty, of course. His sense of duty was ever strong.

  ‘He will find him, be assured. But then what will follow? Frank will never stay content with old Mr Churchill and the baby – indeed, what of the baby? Who will look after the baby?’

  This aspect of the case had not much presented itself to Emma so far; but now, reminded, in part, by her friend’s own condition, she thought of it with dismay.

  It was clear from Mrs Weston’s heavy sigh that she had much considered little Frank Churchill’s fate. ‘Dear Emma, we will not talk of that yet. It is too soon. The baby will stay in Yorkshire with his nurse. But, as you can imagine, it would be my greatest joy if my dear Mr Weston’s grandchild could join our own little nursery. But time must pass. The baby is not yet a week old.’

  At the thought of the poor, motherless baby who had not much of a father at present either, both ladies had to clasp each other again, and weep a little more.

  This time Emma recovered first for she, after all, had no intimate knowledge of babies and therefore somewhat less vivid a picture of little Frank’s abandoned state and the motherly caresses he was foregoing. ‘I am so glad Mr Knightley has gone. I shall bear his absence with patience. Perhaps, if he is still not returned, tomorrow, we shall dine together.’

  ‘Oh! And I have quite forgot to ask about your ankle!’

  ‘It is nothing. I was on my way back from—’ but here Emma paused and a flush crossed her cheeks, because she d
id not wish to pronounce the word ‘Bates.’

  ‘The Bates’s!’ Mrs Weston had too many anxieties to try and fathom the blush. ‘They were so grateful for your message. Their misery is acute. But we must not talk of them now or we shall find ourselves in tears again and my little Anna will wonder what has become of me.’

  ‘Yes. You must go. But I shall call the carriage.’

  ‘No, Emma. It is too short a distance.’

  ‘Not in your condition. And look, papa foretold right – the sun is turned to black cloud.’

  ‘It is but half a mile. I will be back before James can bring round the horses.’

  ‘I will not be denied.’

  In such heartfelt arguments – very usual at Hartfield – the visit, with all its drama and unhappiness, ended. Mrs Weston prevailed – but only because James could not be found. The two friends parted, although not before promising to speak as soon as there was any news or, indeed, if there were no news.

  Emma, pleasantly conscious of having provided the best of husbands to soften the Westons’ unhappiness, went to the kitchen. There she gave Sterne a hearty lecture on the over-use of soft apples and the under-use of bottled plums which was received in silence, giving Emma some hope, if not certainty, that her advice would be followed.

  From there, she proceeded to her father, determined to devote the rest of the day to him, for she could not but value the calmness of her family condition when she compared it to what Mr Knightley must face in London. At least he would stay with John and Isabella and bring back news of them.

  So Emma’s day passed quietly. Night fell without the return of Mr Knightley and Emma went upstairs to her bedroom without the usual comfort of a devoted husband. They had not been parted in the year of their marriage and solitude felt strange, the room full of shadows, the bed bigger and cool.

  She went to sleep, eventually, however, and might have slept on till morning – Emma was as heavy a sleeper as any young and healthy person – had not a sharp noise outside her window wakened her, thereby, incidentally, proving well-founded Mr Woodhouse’s suspicions that she pushed up the casement even on cool nights.

  Perhaps Emma’s sleep had not been so sound that night because she was over by the curtains remarkably quickly and peering out into the garden. A moon, bright enough, though made crazy by a gauzy film of clouds, illuminated the well-known paths and shrubs. Nothing else was visible; nothing at all, although Emma had such faith in her ears that she sat until her feet were quite cold.

  The cloud thickened under her gaze so that the moon hardly shed more light than a taper. She was just turning to return to her bed when, out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a figure. But it was too quick, too shadowy, for certainty and then the sky was entirely black and the garden too.

  Giving up her watch – if it were the Highbury turkey thief come back, then he was clever to come in Mr Knightley’s absence – she hurried back to bed and pulled the clothes right over her head. Morning would be soon enough for any further investigations.

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, the weather was cold, blustery and wet, as if winter were trying to shorten the golden charms of autumn. At midday a message was brought for Emma from Mr Knightley. He informed her in a short note that he would be remaining in London at least another couple of days since he would take the opportunity to do some business, long overdue.

  The tone was warm but not containing enough of either regret or information for his abandoned wife; he only mentioned Frank Churchill as far as to say that he had not yet found him – which was hardly kind to Emma’s excitable curiosity – and made no inquiry about the injured ankle. (The ankle was perfectly recovered but he was not to know that.) ‘It will be luck if we are not all to be murdered in our beds,’ thought Emma, remembering afresh her adventure of the night before. It was vexing, too, that she had no one with whom to share such a story since she did not dare arouse her father’s ready fears. In truth, daylight had lessened her belief in the existence of a shadowy figure but that did not alter her sense of grievance that ‘business’ should keep Mr Knightley from her. If she had been given even a whiff of the gaming dens or dark alleys where Mr Knightley was forced to go in his search for the tragic widower, then, at least, she would have something to make the day less dull.

  But dull it had to be; no intercourse with anybody beyond her father and no prospect of it if the weather continued so bad.

  ‘You are inattentive, my dear,’ commented Mr Woodhouse as he sat with his daughter over a game of backgammon. They had finished dinner and there were several long hours to be filled before tea and bed.

  Emma frowned, quite startled; she presumed on her father’s thinking her perfect and this ‘inattention’ was as near criticism as she had ever heard him make. It forced her to realise how much she had come to rely on Knightley for the entertainment and well-being of her father.

  ‘You are not feeling unwell, I hope, my dear?’ continued Mr Woodhouse, with rising anxiety.

  ‘No. No. I am in very good health, papa,’ Emma spoke warmly, a flush of guilt across her face. ‘I was merely distracted by the thought of Knightley – where he may be, as we sit so comfortably here.’

  ‘Where he is?’ cried Mr Woodhouse, voice rising, ‘But surely we know where he is. He is – with poor dear Isabella and Mr John Knightley. He is with your sister and his brother. There can be no reason there for you to be unsettled, I trust?’

  The question at the end of his sentence convinced Emma that the matter was serious and a bowl of the gruel Mr Woodhouse found the most beneficial drink in the world, and everybody else the most disgusting, must be ordered at once. She was just outside the room, having felt a restless need to give the order in person, when a small commotion occurred and Mr Weston, coat-tails flapping, was blown in through the front door. This was a welcome diversion, indeed. But he met Emma’s smiling countenance with a frown quite unusual for one usually so easy and good-humoured.

  ‘My dear Mrs Knightley, Emma. I cannot stay. I must return at once. Poor Mrs Weston is not well – hardly ill at all, she would say – but I insist she stay quiet – her condition – the news—’

  ‘Is there any news?’ whispered Emma, hoping to avoid her father’s hearing. ‘Mr Knightley has told me none.’

  ‘Nothing further. It is just the slightest cold – no fever – but, under the circumstances, I shall keep her inside – such a wind blowing, such rain. You would not wish to visit, I make certain – but do not do so – tranquillity, the company of baby Anna – Mrs Weston is a practical woman.’

  Emma had never seen Mr Weston so talkative in such a depressed manner and began to wonder if his protestations concealed greater illness than he described; however a close examination proved that Mrs Weston had nothing worse than a slight cold but that her husband was increasing her ill-health by the sum of his own general anxieties. It was natural enough and doubtless the rest would do Mrs Weston good. Yet, as Emma bid him good-night and watched the draught caused by his departure eddy round the hallway, before daring to open the door to the room where her father sat, she thought – with a selfishness she could not control – that now one more of her small circle was taken from her and tomorrow would be as tedious as today.

  In this gloomy mood, the rest of the evening and the long night – without moonlight, without lurking apparitions – and with only the gusting wind to keep her company, passed by for Emma.

  But she was young, her depression not deep and, in the morning, when the day was a little brighter, if not blue, Emma’s spirits rose; and with good spirits came resolve.

  ‘I believe it is my duty to visit the poor Bates’s this morning, papa. I shall take James and the carriage for the horses need the exercise and they can put up at the Crown.’

  Thus Mrs Knightley arrived this time in Highbury with some style, not blown about and panting but pampered and looked after as
a young married lady in her station should be. This time her visit felt as it should and she was in good humour as the Bates’s servant showed her into their living-room which, she was glad to see, had no other visitors.

  A few moments passed, long enough for Emma to look round the room and notice something very peculiar in the corner. It was, in fact, a very large object, very large indeed, entirely draped by black cretonne. The effect was so strange as to be sinister and Emma’s curiosity could not be resisted for long. Rising quietly, she went over to the source and raised a corner of the cloth. It was in this attitude that Miss Bates, entering quietly, found her.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Knightley – you have discovered it – poor Jane’s pianoforte – Oh how can I pronounce her name!’ Sinking down into the chair nearest the door, Miss Bates was overcome by sobs and could say no more.

  Dropping the cloth as if it had dangerous properties, Emma hurried back to the sofa on which she had been sitting before. Her mind, previously so clear, clouded with confusion at the sight of Miss Bates’ grief. To her shame, she had not envisaged such a scene – the poor lady’s red and swollen face, her hair in a tangle, her handkerchief reduced to a soggy mess – worst of all, the lack of words. Miss Bates without words was like a tree without leaves. Visits to the Bates’s house were always accompanied by a running patter of goodwill, a commentary on every moment, that which was important finding equal place with the trivial. Miss Bates was, normally, a babbling brook of words, a stream of words, and now she was merely water.

  If such thoughts did Emma little credit, then it must be remembered that this was her first experience of a serious loss. Her mother had died when she was too young to remember and, since then, her circle had only expanded with the arrival of healthy nieces and nephews. Health was a constant preoccupation in the Woodhouse household but its black demon, death, never discussed.