So Emma was unprepared for this degree of misery and correspondingly overcome. ‘Oh, Miss Bates – I am so sorry – dear—’ But she found she could not pronounce the name, ‘Jane,’ and she, too, fell silent. Now, she found herself almost wishing for another visitor. Even Mr Elton, previously so despised, might be of some help in such things, as he had pointed out.
‘I am ashamed,’ muttered Miss Bates, rising. And, before Emma could protest that she would leave her in peace, she had gone, murmuring, however, on her way out, ‘I shall return, composed. Please wait.’
So Emma must sit longer and look further at the black object in the corner which had now taken on for her the form of a coffin – although it would have had to be a very large body indeed, quite twice the size of Jane who was so elegant, so slender. Trying to divert her thoughts from such morbid fancies, Emma pictured Jane at the pianoforte on the first occasion she had seen it – Frank Churchill so attentive, she, Jane (their engagement still being a secret), in a state of nerves that at first precluded her playing. Oh, their union had started in secrecy and ended in tragedy!
A good ten minutes passed before Miss Bates returned; but she was quite calm, hair smooth, voice low. ‘It was seeing you – her good friend – but we will not talk of her or I will fail again.’
‘Dear Miss Bates. I would not cause you unhappiness—’
‘No. No. Sensible of the honour—’ Normally such a beginning would be a forerunner to a litany of such grateful sentences, but not today. An almost businesslike look came over Miss Bates’ face. ‘You may know Mrs Bates is feverish in bed—’
‘Yes. I—’
‘It is the pianoforte that distresses her particularly – its arrival – the donor – poor Jane. The night before last, Mrs Bates was in this room, very late – she would touch it, hang over it – I could not stop her – when she imagined she saw a face at the window—’
‘At the window!’ exclaimed Emma.
‘It is imaginings – her fever – but the piano preys on her mind. I had thought by covering it – but it does no good. She thinks someone wishes to steal it. She will talk of nothing else … Oh what will I do, Mrs Knightley? She did not sleep all night. It was pianoforte all night long!’
The appeal in Miss Bates’ reddened eyes was a challenge to Emma’s vigour and good sense. Here was something practical in which she could help. ‘We must remove it altogether!’ she said decisively.
‘You think, remove it – of course – but where to? It is, I suppose, Mr Frank Churchill’s but he—’ Her voice ended despairingly.
‘It can be a temporary removal,’ said Emma. ‘Mr Churchill will not object when he hears the circumstances. I shall make arrangements and let you know. It will be safer and better for poor Mrs Bates.’
‘You are so good – although I shall miss it, as the best reminder of my dear...’
Here Emma rose hurriedly before Miss Bates should be overcome by her tears once more and she, herself, felt a swelling in her throat and a pricking in her eyes. ‘Tell your mother, the piano will go to Hartfield.’
‘Oh, Hartfield! Well, in that case – an honour indeed—’
Emma left them with all the speed that sympathy and politeness allowed and it was only when she was safely back in the carriage on the way to Hartfield that she wondered whether she had not been too hasty in offering a home to Jane Fairfax’s pianoforte. The more she thought about it, the more she recognised that she did not want it where she spent her every day. It would recall too much in the past – her foolish intimacy with Frank and her less than charitable feelings for Jane – which she would far rather forget. Besides, Jane had always been so much a superior player to her that it would take away the pleasure from her own efforts. No! The pianoforte should not come to Hartfield. But where, then?
Now that she had promised Miss Bates, she must find it a home and a suitable one. Doubtless the Eltons would snatch at such a prize; but that the vulgar Mrs Augusta Elton should take it – and cover it with shawls fringed and over-fringed – she could not countenance; the Westons at Randalls were obvious in one way as Mr Weston was Frank’s father but their house was not big and, under the present circumstances of Mrs Weston’s delicate condition, she was certain it would not be received as a good idea.
What possibilities were now left? Few, indeed; for Mrs Bates must be assured that it would be safe from her imagined burglar. At this point it struck Emma with a start that Mrs Bates’ ‘burglar’ had been seen the very same night as her apparition had slunk behind a shrubbery. Such a coincidence could not be overlooked; perhaps there were truly cause for alarm! Now there was even more reason to look forward to a message announcing Knightley’s return.
But Emma arrived back at Hartfield to find no such message. As the day progressed into evening and once more the backgammon was resorted to, with – and there was some excuse – even less concentration from Emma than the night before, despite all her best efforts, Emma felt more and more the lack of an equal companion in whom she could confide the troubles of the day.
Two troubles in one day! – burglar and pianoforte; it was as many as she had to solve in a year and now she was on her own with no one to help her.
Emma spent a disturbed and wakeful night during which the rain and wind, gusting about the house once more, seemed to echo the turbulence in her mind. With no excuse of unexplained noise, she rose from her bed and went to the window. The effect that met her eyes was spectacular. Jagged clouds, silver edged by the light of the moon, beamed, raced by in continuous sequence. Now and again, a gap appeared between them and then the brilliant orb, as full as it could be, shone more radiantly than any light. Then the garden appeared as if a stage, fully lit, almost glaringly lit; nothing could be hid. But as far as Emma could see, there was nothing to be hid, nothing to see but the wildly shaking shrubs and trees which flung their leaves out like pennies to the poor.
To the poor!’ Emma exclaimed out loud. That was the answer to the fate of the pianoforte. It should go to Mr and Mrs Robert Martin. They were a musical family but despite being in farming, unable to afford anything but a very inferior instrument; they would be truly grateful to borrow a better. She would go on the morrow and visit Harriet Martin whom she had a somewhat guilty apprehension of not visiting as much as she should lately. Harriet would be grateful, Mrs Bates’ fears calmed and she, Emma, would have something to fill her day.
Quite sleepy now, Emma returned to her bed and knew nothing further till morning.
Chapter 6
Emma’s inclusion of the Martins among those she thought of as poor hardly did justice to that family’s situation. It was true that Mr Robert Martin was a farmer who did not own land but rented Abbey-Mill from Mr Knightley; but he was a gentleman-farmer. Moreover, although but five and twenty years of age, he had been in sole charge of the farm for several years, since the decease of his father, and was full of energy and good sense. He was supported in his work by his mother and two sisters and now by his wife, Harriet, whom he had married just a month before Emma married Mr Knightley. The Martin household was not rich but it lacked in none of the essentials: a good old house, in a lovely setting, abundant food and fuel; and it rejoiced in those riches that many, with far more pounds to their name, could not boast of: health, happiness and loving kindness. It was to visit this fortunate household that Emma took out her carriage for the second morning running. ‘Dear Harriet,’ she thought to herself, ‘I have neglected her sadly. How pleased she will be to see me!’
The knowledge of the joy she was soon to confer occupied Emma at the start of the short journey but as she entered the valley in which the farm lay, and peered from the window at the pastures on either side, her mind turned to other thoughts. It was impossible not to be conscious that these were her husband’s lands – his own house, Donwell Abbey, just beyond a coppice and, although on rising land, hidden from view. Donwell should have been her home; an
d yet now it stood empty. These were unpleasant thoughts, for she knew how Knightley loved his home and what a sacrifice he made so that her father should be kept happy. It was a relief when the carriage stopped and they had arrived at the path to Abbey-Mill.
Emma stepped out, trying as much as possible to avoid the patches of water in the broad gravel path and looked around her. The wind had entirely died with the coming of the day and the sun had just broken through in a sky that had been smoothly grey. A neat espalier of apple trees, evidence enough of Mr Martin’s efficient husbandry, led up to the front door and was now touched with gold. At intervals, rosy apples still hung on the trees, looking more like baubles for decoration than anything nature could produce. Emma imagined that it was a whim of Harriet’s to let them hang there, rather than bring them in as the Martins would be used to do. She was lingering there, almost against her will admiring the ancient beauty and serenity of the place – different, of course, to the modern elegance of Hartfield, but perhaps expressing more of the true nature of the English countryside – when Harriet herself burst out of the door.
‘Mrs Knightley! I am so happy to see you! We are all so happy to see you!’
‘And I am happy to be here’ – feeling this was indeed so, for Harriet’s pretty, fair face was wreathed in smiles and, peeping behind her was Elizabeth Martin, and her sister, equally welcoming, and even a glimpse, she fancied, of Mrs Martin not far behind.
‘But, come in, Mrs Knightley, or the damp will get through to your shoes and Mr Woodhouse would never forgive me!’ Harriet laughed merrily.
This playful reference to the master of Hartfield did not totally please Emma but her earlier gratification and the pleasant impression of the scene, carried her into the house with good humour intact. Harriet had always been a silly girl.
Soon the party was gathered in the best parlour and a cheerful servant despatched to fetch chocolate for Mrs Knightley – ‘after such a journey with the paths so unsteady from the rain.’ At first the talk was all about the weather. ‘I do declare the wind kept me awake the whole night long!’ from Harriet, yellow curls bobbing round her fresh complexion. ‘I am quite done up!’
‘My brother has said two limes came down in the avenue at Donwell,’ from Elizabeth Martin, with gravity.
‘Limes are never long-lived but a favourite in so many gardens,’ from Mrs Martin with much good sense. ‘It is the lightness of the leaves that attracts, I believe.’
‘They are my favourites, in particular,’ said Emma, surprised that such a homely body as Mrs Martin should notice such things as the colour of the leaves. ‘And that avenue is very dear to Mr Knightley. I am sure he will wish to consider replacing the trees when he returns to Hartfield.’
‘Returns!’ exclaimed Harriet. ‘He is away then!’ The idea seemed to fill her with amazement and she turned a look of pity towards Emma.
‘On business,’ said Emma briskly. She had forgotten the simple affection that she allowed Harriet to feel for her. ‘Men in his position must go to London on occasions.’
‘Indeed, indeed,’ commented Mrs Martin and all three Martins fell silent as if newly impressed by the grandeur of their visitor. Or, possibly, made anxious by her silent frowns and the way she looked with eager, darting glances about the room. Was there something amiss? wondered Mrs Martin, and yet Mr Knightley came there often enough and sat there over his tea – like a man who felt himself as near at home as he could be when away.
Elizabeth was naturally of quiet disposition and therefore did not speak, but even Harriet, who was agog to raise the subject of her condition – so obvious, she felt, that Mrs Knightley must notice it and, yet, perhaps not, for she had always been plump – could not break the silence. There was, too, other news, which she desired to share, news of great importance to the Martins – but there seemed no way for that either, with Mrs Knightley alternately gazing eagerly about the room or bent over her chocolate.
The truth was that Emma, usually so sprightly with words, was searching without success for an introduction to the subject of Jane Fairfax’s pianoforte. She had noted to her satisfaction that there was no instrument in the parlour and, although she had a memory of a small instrument being played in an outer room, she felt assured of a need and a space to fill. If only the matter could be handled directly, without mention of poor Mrs Churchill! For that, in such company, was a conversation which – except in the most formal of terms, and she did not believe it would remain formal with Harriet taking part – she would rather avoid. Frank Churchill was a name that between her and Mrs Robert Martin held few respectable memories. However, she was resolved on her plan and must start anyhow.
‘You do not have a piano in this room, I see?’
As if it were a cue she waited for, Harriet sprang to her feet. ‘Oh, such a coincidence that you should mention it! Perhaps if you are not too tired you would come to see it! It is not yet fully unpacked but we can inspect a corner. Of course, as you know too well, I am a hardly adequate performer but Elizabeth Martin plays so very lively an air—’
Seeing Mrs Knightley’s bewildered air and that Harriet might run on for ever without properly explaining herself, Mrs Martin intervened. ‘We have just received delivery of a new pianoforte. You may not know but Mrs Martin’s father has recently died and there has been a sum of money … ’ Now her voice, too, died for Emma’s face expressed anything but satisfaction at this news. Harriet’s birth, not sanctified by her father’s marriage to her mother, was perhaps not the subject for parlour conversation and silence might have fallen again, had not Emma resolved to talk herself, with all politeness, out of the house. Her mission had failed. Her visit must end.
‘This room has fine proportions,’ she said – and ‘The light comes in very prettily from that southerly window, not too bright but bright enough’ – and ‘My father sends his regards; he always hears about Donwell and Abbey-Mill with interest’ – this not true, but it would serve.
Eventually Emma was out of the house and standing once more in its pleasant surroundings – behind her the lush pastures on either side of the river that encircled the house, before her the start of the Donwell home farm which led up to the gardens and the Abbey itself.
The sun still shone, the air was mild, and Emma felt disinclined to mount her carriage which had waited all this time, with the faithful James, in the lane. But she said her goodbyes amiably enough and even allowed Harriet to tell her the reason for her added dimples and glowing health. ‘I congratulate you, Harriet, you and Mr Martin can look forward to a happy future.’
But the moment she was inside the carriage, she gave directions to James which caused that faithful servant, accustomed to only the most settled and practised destinations, to assume an expression which said very clearly, without the necessity for words, ‘I have already stood for half an hour in the damp. My horses will not like the wet, uneven going; my wheels will not like the mud and the jolting – one may even come off – and I will not like missing my usual place by the kitchen stove with a hot cup of soup in my hand.’
But Emma was peremptory. Her humour, already discomposed, had not improved as Harriet’s telling of her own happy news was followed by a questioning, if humbly questioning, look in her blue eyes. She had not asked but, like James, Emma knew exactly what she wanted to say: ‘And when will you be looking forward to a happy event, Mrs Knightley?’ It was intolerable that such a question, even with only a humble look, should be made to her by such a person!
In truth, there was not a person in the world that Mrs Knightley allowed to raise the subject. Even when her own Mrs Weston had made a scarcely more than sidelong reference – ‘You will not be so free for long, my dear Emma’ – she had been received with a pursed mouth and a frown. Any references Mr Knightley made could scarcely be received with such a show of reluctance, but she tolerated without encouraging; he was too restrained a man to press her. Emma was conscious, howe
ver, that a man of nine and thirty must be looking for a family before he was too old to enjoy the company of small children; but he was an active, young-looking man and the idea did not weigh on her too heavily.
It was stranger, perhaps, that Emma, in her perfect love for her husband, did not desire a child to complete their happiness. Yet she had for so long thought of herself as unlikely to marry, for so long thought of Isabella’s children as Knightley’s heirs, that there was some excuse. Besides, although she enjoyed the company of her sister’s two oldest boys, there were times when she found the ever-increasing nephews and nieces somewhat overwhelming. She had seen them change her lively sister into a mother permanently vexed and worried so that she sometimes seemed as old and anxious as their father. It was a wonder her health had not given way under the strain of it, and indeed John Knightley – a bad-tempered, ironic sort of man, although adored by his wife – was little support. Isabella had lost her looks, her temper and, thought Emma, as cruel as any loving sister, her intelligence.
There was a better model now for Emma to see: Mrs Weston was happy and calm, with one daughter and another to come – or rather had been happy until the news of Jane Fairfax. And now there was that tragedy to add to the many good reasons why motherhood should not be regarded as the crown of life. Let Harriet Martin’s proud smiles turn to sympathetic, pathetic patronage – she, Emma, could not yet regret that she was still at liberty, unfettered by the joys of bringing new life into the world!
Such thoughts were interrupted by James, announcing in lugubrious tones, ‘I can go no further; the road is quite washed away.’
‘Then I shall descend,’ said Emma, putting her hand on the door handle.
Chapter 7
Emma had known Donwell Abbey and its grounds since she was a child; and yet hardly knew it at all. This was due to her family circumstances for, since Mr Woodhouse seldom ventured out, Mr Knightley had been the visitor rather than the visited. Yet, in the world, she was known properly as Mrs Knightley, mistress of Donwell. It was an odd situation, leading to melancholy, and Emma mused on it as she wandered up the lime tree avenue. Indeed, there were two trees down, lying across each other, like fallen comrades in battle – as her romantic sadness led her to imagine.
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