Emma & Knightley

by Rachel Billington

  This sun is most deceptive,’ Mr Woodhouse told Emma. ‘I hope Mr Knightley took his greatcoat.’

  ‘I am sure he did, papa, Mr Knightley is never foolish in looking after his person.’

  ‘For sure he is not a foolish man in any way. He is the only man I would have allowed you to marry, my dear, for just that reason. If he must dash up and down to London twice in a week, then he will have a reason, even if he does not share it with me. He is rational in all things.’

  ‘I know, papa.’

  ‘Although he is a little over-fond of red meat.’

  To this Emma made no answer. A silence passed while Mr Woodhouse looked at the paper and Emma made up her mind. I must visit the poor Bates’s this morning, papa. Mrs Bates is most unwell, most unwell—’

  ‘Then that is a reason for not visiting. You are very likely to catch something.’

  ‘I fear our old friend is suffering from a sickness too deep-grained to throw itself at others.’

  Mr Woodhouse’s objections were overcome eventually and Emma set off with James whose face showed even more clearly what he thought of his mistress’s constant requirement of his services. ‘To Highbury, ma’am?’

  ‘To Donwell, James’ – short and crisp.

  If there had been anyone deserving of explanation, Emma would have spoken of a glove lost on her last visit. She would not, however, have described how she had got hold of the heavy old key that filled what space was left over in her little bag from a handkerchief in which two biscuits were wrapped and a couple of silver coins.

  On arrival at Donwell, Emma leapt forward and handed a note to her driver. ‘This is for Miss Bates. You may leave me here and deliver it to Highbury. Do not linger. The task I must execute for Mr Knightley will not take me long.’

  Emma stood in solitude outside the fine old house. Her sleepless night had left her with an aching head and she drew in deep breaths of the cool autumnal air. It was purer here than anywhere, she thought, perhaps the propinquity to the river and open meadows giving a translucency more refreshing than the bush-shrouded environment of Hartfield. How Knightley must miss it!

  Boldly she walked to the front door and put the key into the great lock. It turned easily and, in a moment, she was inside the darkness of the hall – for on this side the shutters were entirely closed.

  ‘Mr Churchill! It is I – Mrs Knightley,’ and then, in case his mind was further disordered, ‘Miss Woodhouse!’ But no sound came back to her – except the scuttle of mice chasing as far away as possible behind the wainscoting.

  ‘Mr Churchill, I have no one with me! I wish only to be of aid to you!’ Still no sound – not even a mouse this time. Emma walked further inside – into the large panelled room which – it seemed so long ago – they had visited on that strawberry-picking summer’s day. Frank had arrived late, ill-humoured, having ridden from London; she had told him to eat to improve his temper – it had been in the days of their friendship – and he had returned to them recovered in spirits. It was only later she had discovered that the true reason for his reaction had been his meeting, on the way, with Jane Fairfax, who had refused to let him accompany her back to Highbury. They had quarrelled.

  Ah – secrecy and deception – how it led to deeper and deeper waters. The echo of these thoughts, both exciting and frightening, stayed with Emma as she wandered through the shrouded empty rooms. It took an effort to remind herself that she was mistress of this house – as her husband was master – and not to feel as much of an intruder as Frank Churchill. Of him there was no sight; evidence of his presence recently, however, was presented to her when an old bird’s nest falling down a chimney – she jumped much at the sudden sound and her heart clapped like a bell – led her to the grate. There she saw the remains of a fire, just such an inefficient, messy fire as she would expect Frank to make.

  In expectation of James’s return, she could look no longer; once more she stood out in the sunshine, although the cold of the uninhabited house had crept into her bones and she felt light but no warmth. Shivering and beating her hands, she set out to walk a bit. Her steps – how it led to deeper and deeper waters! – took her across the lawns through the shrubs, and towards the closest point in the loop of the wide river.

  ‘You will not find me floating yet!’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘I gave you a fright.’

  ‘You are good at such things.’ Anger helped Emma to recover her composure. Toor old Mrs Bates! Your wife’s grandmother. What have you done there?!’

  Emma stared at Frank’s face – still unshaven, gaunt, and now as sullen as a child’s in front of a disapproving adult. Where was the handsome young man she had admired? ‘You must come with me now before you do more harm to those you love – or those you should love. You can come with me to the Martins. They are good, kindly people.’

  ‘Good, kindly people! Oh, Emma! I am a soul in torment and you talk of good, kindly people. What are such people to do with me? I, who am nearer the bottom of that river than you could ever understand – you who are happy, content – in perfect happiness – you who have a husband – a good man – Ah, I am doomed, utterly doomed—’

  On these words Frank made a dash to the edge of the river so that Emma felt obliged to dash with him and grab his arm – although something told her that he would not jump or, if he would, he could swim – Yet his wife was dead….

  ‘I feel your sadness, your suffering. But you will do no good living such a life as you do now – it merely encourages you in dangerous fancies—’

  ‘Oh, Emma! Your kindness – I do not deserve—’ He had flung himself violently into her arms, clung, sobbing.

  ‘No. No!’ Vainly, Emma tried to disengage herself but their position – on the very edge of the river, the bank slippery – made it difficult to be too energetic. ‘Mr Knightley,’ she began, as if waving a wand of good sense, and indeed Mr Churchill did at last loosen his grip so that she could remove herself with fervent agility.

  ‘You have told him?’ – that sullenness again. ‘But why are you here without him?’

  ‘I have not—’

  ‘How can such a man as Mr Knightley understand me? A man without passions – an old man—’

  ‘An honourable man!’ – stung into angry retort.

  ‘Ah, yes. Honourable.’ In Frank’s mouth the word became an insult. ‘It is easy to be honourable when the blood in your veins runs thin.’

  ‘I will not listen.’

  ‘No, do not! Why should you, Miss Woodhouse, Mrs Knightley! You are above such things. Your blood is as thin as his—’

  ‘Mr Churchill!’

  ‘Oh – I am sorry – I am mad – but you do not know – Do not go – I beg you – I am far worse – She was so often ill – out of sorts – forever wanting me to stay quiet – and then she would be ill – The pianoforte – we were happy when she played – but I could not sit there, day after day – the long dark nights in Yorkshire – Years I have had of it – first at the beck and call of one Mrs Churchill and then at another Mrs Churchill – is it surprising I wanted to be in London?’

  ‘But you had a house in London.’

  ‘She did not like it – my friends – my occupations – She wanted to be in Yorkshire, and me to be with her.’

  ‘She loved you!’

  ‘Love!’ Groans. ‘Love – if only love were the end of it – or even the most of it – I loved her – I will never love another.’

  ‘If you loved her, you would want to be with her.’

  ‘Ah, you make it sound so easy. Be my love ever so strong I could not give up my life for her – and she was obstinate too. She could have come to London, it would not have hurt her.’

  ‘No.’ A silence came to both of them. They stood at the water’s edge and both thought that the harm that had come to Jane could not have been surpassed.

 
‘Come with me.’ said Emma, eventually, quietly.

  ‘No. I will not. But I will not stay here. Do not worry, I shall go away further, much further.’ He was quiet, too.

  ‘Abroad?’

  ‘You may think of me as you please, where you please. But remember, my faults arose out of too much passion, not too little. There are those—’ Seeing Emma’s expression he stopped himself. ‘No, I will not speak of your husband again – I have apologised – I spoke out of madness – but you are not like him. Mrs Knightley – see, I call you by his name, with respect – you are a woman whose nature it is to feel deeply—’

  ‘Mr Churchill, I will not listen to you further.’ She walked a few steps, frowning, and yet there was a part of her which did want to hear these words; so false as they must be and coming from a man so unlikely to recognise the truth or be capable of telling it, yet they took hold of her. Mr Knightley and she were very different in temperament. Previously, she had seen his good sense as a welcome regulator to her impetuousness; but Frank Churchill’s words showed it in a different light, and she remembered how Knightley had turned on his side the night before, slept evenly while she had lain awake.

  ‘Here is your carriage – I will not see you again. Be content with Mr Knightley. It may be that people like you and I – so passionate – should find someone to look after them, as a parent, as a father. Goodbye, Emma!’ He departed along the riverside, a slim, tattered figure, yet with something of the hangdog desperado exchanged for the old jauntiness.

  Emma did not look further. Her hands and feet were very cold; but her cheeks were burning; she felt as if something momentous had come out of this meeting – to do with her, not him. But there was no time to examine what exactly it was. Hurrying on feet that felt numb, she reached her carriage and sank into the cushioned seat. The horses were whipped up and they started the journey back to Hartfield.

  ***

  The news that awaited Emma on her arrival swept out all ideas of her own condition. Mr Woodhouse was agitated enough to greet her in the hall.

  ‘My dear. News! What sad news, indeed! Mr Weston has just called – I am surprised you did not cross him on the road. He was coming at Mrs Weston’s most particular request so that we should know at once that Mrs Weston is much improved and, although keeping to the house a little longer, would most enjoy a visit – but you must think of yourself, my dear Emma – the infections—’

  ‘But this is good news, papa’ – taking off her bonnet and cloak, pinching her cheeks to take off the draining pallor.

  ‘No. No. You do not understand me—’

  ‘Come, papa. Let us enter the room.’

  This was allowed but with Mr Woodhouse speaking all the way. ‘Mr Weston had business in Highbury before he came – you were not there, I understand – and it was there he heard the bad news. Poor old Mrs Bates was taken away from us in the night!’

  ‘Oh!’ Emma sank into a chair.

  ‘You are shocked. What a pity that you should be so shocked.’

  ‘Papa – such an old friend!’

  ‘Yes. Yes. I felt it deeply. When Mr Weston gave me the news, I could scarcely find words – I feared for myself – on my own – no one to support my spirits,’ a dart of reproach to Emma, ‘so I set to thinking—’

  ‘Thinking, papa? That was brave in such a case—’ Emma spoke almost at random, for this morning seemed to be determined to give her nothing but pain. Now she must find strength to cheer her father when she only felt weakness, or his spirits would give way. In this she underestimated Mr Woodhouse.

  On the death of an old friend, a rational man, bent on not adding needlessly to the sum of human misery, may have two reactions: the first will lead him to the term ‘a merciful release’ and the second will find him dwelling, almost with exultation, on his own continued existence in this world. In his daughter’s absence, Mr Woodhouse partook freely of both these consolations and was now made even happier at the prospect of sharing them with Emma.

  ‘Mrs Bates was, I fear, no longer the Mrs Bates who played such a sharp hand at quadrille. Poor old lady – stone deaf – rational mind quite gone – blind—’

  ‘Mrs Bates could see only too well,’ Emma lifted her head.

  ‘But she could not give a proper interpretation of the message of her eyes – hallucinations – it is the same as blindness, perhaps worse! It is a wonder she lived on so long. We must console ourselves, Emma – it is better that – in all, a merciful release!’

  ‘Yes, dear papa’ – for Mr Woodhouse seemed to expect approbation for his attitude. ‘She was made very wretched at her granddaughter’s passing away – although the child—’

  ‘She had determined to leave us – we must not hold her back—’

  ‘No, papa.’

  The first point agreed, Mr Woodhouse proceeded with even more satisfaction to the second. ‘You have noted that I am not overwhelmed?’

  ‘I am very glad to see it, papa.’

  ‘It is one of the peculiarities of the case that poor old Mrs Bates who has never had a day’s illness in her life should be carried away while I – a martyr to my health – should be here. It must be put down, my dear – I must speak immodestly here – to strength of purpose, strength of will—’

  Emma was about to point out that it could also be put down to a difference in age since Mrs Bates was a good fifteen years older than Mr Woodhouse. On reflection, however, she saw that Mr Woodhouse had for so long thought of himself as elderly and in need of care – perhaps ever since his wife left him – that he truly believed he was the elder. Besides, there was no reason to contradict any attitude that gave him comfort.

  Indeed, dear papa, you are an example to all in Highbury.’

  ‘That is true; I cannot contradict it. Now, Emma, you must change your shoes which I perceive are wet to the ankles.’

  ‘Ah, poor Miss Bates,’ Emma spoke quickly. ‘I cannot think of her without unhappiness.’

  ‘Poor Miss Bates – poor Miss Bates.’ Mr Woodhouse’s face fell, then brightened. ‘We shall invite her here. Mrs Goddard may come too,’ he added, naming the respectable widow who ran a school for young ladies in Highbury. ‘But poor Miss Bates we shall invite very often. Emma, you will see to it that Miss Bates sits down with us,’ a sigh, ‘Ah, change is hard to bear – but we must remember it was Mrs Bates’ own wish. She is at peace.’

  So Emma escaped from her father to her parlour and could find relief in tidying up after her morning’s excursion; the key must be replaced in Mr Knightley’s desk and the biscuits, still wrapped in her handkerchief, eaten for want of any other means of disposal. They must have had a strengthening effect for then she was able to look forward, with a measure of calm expectation, to the visit she would make to Mrs Weston on the morrow. Rational intercourse was the least she could expect and far more than she had heard all this troubled day. Her best consolation, however, lay in the knowledge that Frank Churchill would no longer haunt Donwell Abbey; and with this came the idea that the very best place for Jane’s ill-fated pianoforte – even if it were a case of shutting the stable door after the horse had bolted – was at the Abbey.

  Chapter 11

  ‘Mr Knightley is long away?’ Mrs Weston sat in her accustomed chair, a lace bonnet tied neatly under her chin and her child, Anna, playing comfortably at her feet.

  ‘The sight of you is such a comfort!’ cried Emma, looking at her dear friend and erstwhile governess with a smile that brought a tear to her eye.

  ‘So much emotion,’ commented Mrs Weston, smiling. ‘We all must lose our husbands to business – except that—’ she hesitated as if to remodel her thought, ‘you are young—’

  ‘Not so young; not so young as Harriet Martin – beside her I bear immeasurable years.’

  ‘Immeasurable years?’ – a grave smile. ‘Oh, Emma, it is not that. You are not comparing your situation –
there is time.’

  But although they were such good friends, the delicacy of her nature and the consciousness of her own good fortune in being shortly to produce a second child, when one had been more than she hoped for, made her incapable of inquiring whether it was Emma’s own childless condition which was the cause of her unsettled mood.

  ‘It is not that I care about Harriet,’ said Emma, sensitive to what her dear friend was thinking. ‘I do not need a child to make me satisfied with myself or my life. I will not object; but I do not mourn.’

  ‘And Mr Knightley?’ With all the goodness of her heart and her kindness towards her former charge, Mrs Weston could not resist the question. She did not add ‘a man of his age’ but the thought was clear on her face.

  ‘What has made you happy and Mr Weston happy may not do the same for Mr Knightley and me!’ Emma’s voice was stiff; here was something near reproach when she had come for comfort. On her walk over to Randalls she had considered confiding the story of Frank Churchill’s stay at Donwell but now that held no temptation.

  ‘Mr Knightley returns today, perhaps?’ After a pause Mrs Weston reverted to her first remark for she had something more to say on the subject, although she too was wondering whether it would be wise. Emma seemed such a child today, her usually bright face clouded, her hazel eyes dropped down. And yet a small warning to something that might, anyway, turn into nothing, could do no harm.

  ‘Mr Weston has also been in town on business.’

  ‘Ah. He saw Isabella?’ Emma brightened.

  ‘Indeed he saw Mrs John Knightley.’

  ‘She is well?’

  ‘Better than can be expected – in health – but—’

  ‘But? Speak, Mrs Weston. I am all agitation. You are like a doctor who says his patient is quite well – except that his head is off his shoulders. There is so much that is morbid around us that my fears – and you know how little I am accustomed to groundless fears – are up and bristling as soldiers on a battlefield.’