‘Oh yes! Yes! He lives such a hearty, outdoor life. You would think him ten years younger.’
‘I had been surprised to see you so young,’ said Mrs Tidmarsh with increased interest, ‘knowing Mr John Knightley was the younger brother and Isabella the older sister by many years.’
‘It is strange,’ Emma blushed; the perfection of Mr Knightley stood in front of her. For some reason she wished to convey this further to Mrs Tidmarsh but could not find the words. ‘He is – so – honourable – good—’
‘Handsome, too, I trust.’
‘Very handsome,’
‘Mr Tidmarsh was not handsome; his health was too ruined by his experiences in that country I will not think of. But when he held a bow’ – again that sigh.
‘He fiddled?’
‘The cello. But he was principally a composer and a historian of music.’
‘He has published – ?’
‘Indeed. Handel relied on his opinion. We met through music – I play the harp tolerably – it shows off the bare arm so well—’ she laughed; but Emma could not help but be aware that ever since the name of her husband had been introduced, her high spirits had been overlaid by a depression; she admired her for it; it showed the depth of her feeling for Mr Tidmarsh. How lucky she was to have Mr Knightley, even if she could hardly own to much of him at the present time – and in such good health!
‘Now – my dear son approaches – we must stiffen our sinews – Come, Mrs Knightley, we have exchanged our husbands and we are friends; soon you will call me Philomena and I will call you—?’
‘Emma’ – blushing a little.
***
A day such as Emma passed could hardly be taken in at the time – a new city, a new friend, two new friends; and, although in some ways her inferior – she could not be insensible of the hired coach and a growing awareness that Mrs Tidmarsh’s clothes, if stylish, had a very rough, homemade look about them which, together with other remarks made in the course of the drive, led her to conclude that they were sadly lacking in money – she could not help but be greatly drawn to them. Isabella would tell her more; meanwhile she waited with expectation for Mr Knightley’s tread so that she could share some of her day with him.
‘Emma! My dear Emma – you are pale. Are you well?’ He held her so close – how warm! How comfortable to be together!
‘Oh, yes. Extremely well’ – a pause – ‘I have been viewing London!’
Mr Knightley sat down. ‘I see. London, you say. The whole of London – no wonder you are pale!’
‘Very nearly the whole—’ Emma laughed; she sat beside him. ‘We began at St Paul’s Cathedral where a smoky pall is due to—’
‘We?’ inquired Mr Knightley.
‘Isabella’s friends. The Reverend Mr Tidmarsh and his stepmother.’
‘Ah, a vicar. I wondered my unsociable brother allowed Isabella any friends. But a vicar and a doctor may pass. And a stepmother, you say?’
‘She was married to Mr Tidmarsh’s late father – you may guess that—’ Emma smiled at herself.
‘He was a fiddler – admired by the great Handel—’
‘A veritable Methuselah then!’
‘Indeed, he was older. And she plays the harp and – and will not go into the shops, although she can recite them all. Mr Tidmarsh is very learned, full of Latin, full of quotations – a reading man – he gave me so many lectures on the town, on each of the bridges – there is a new one, you know, just constructed – and oh, Mr Knightley, if we had only been here a winter or two past, when the whole River Thames became frosted over and turned itself into a great street – with a name, even – but I have forgot the name. There is so very much to remember.’
‘And where else did my dearest Emma go?’ – indulgently.
‘Through Covent Garden – a mad rush of a place.’
‘Covent Garden!’ – a frown.
‘What is it?’ – anxious.
‘I am foolish. It is nothing – my lodgings, as I said, are in Henrietta Street – near Covent Garden. I had thought to give myself the pleasure of showing you—’
‘Oh, Mr Knightley!’ – the day was spoilt! That she could be the cause of any sadness when he bore so much, so bravely. I would never have gone – I should never have gone – If you knew how I talked of you—’
A proud look – ‘Talked of me, Emma?’
‘Thought of you,’ she corrected herself, ‘Lacked your presence. Oh, my dearest, how can we go on like this, apart!’ The day had turned to dust and ashes. Mr Knightley was displeased with her; her conscience was not clear; she had talked of him. ‘I did not even know the place of your lodgings – we might have driven straight by it—’
‘Sshhh, Emma, my dear. I am glad you have been happy. I had wanted to walk with you on my arm, my dear, pretty wife; it is mere whimsicality! I have you here, now. I thought the weather too cold for walking—’
‘But we did not walk! We drove everywhere – to gain an impression of the whole.’
‘You did not walk?’
‘We floated around the churches—’ a smile, irrepressible, appeared. ‘But you shall be the first person to walk with me on the streets of London.’
‘My pride is quite restored,’ said Knightley ironically; Emma could see he had been hurt but had now decided to be content.
‘Could you not stay here?’ she asked. ‘My room is not so very small and I am sure I am thinner than when I arrived. And you certainly are.’
‘Oh, Emma, Emma. If you could only know how I long to be with you—’ he embraced her then, showing a depth of passion which surprised Emma – particularly in the drawing-room. She drew apart, patted her hair, ‘The children—’
‘The children. Yes.’ He composed himself. ‘You must stay a little longer. Even if there were room here, I could not see Isabella every minute – when I am to visit poor John or have come from him. It would be beyond my powers of deception. Tell me, does Isabella talk much of John?’
‘A little, yes. She is anxious at his prolonged absence, I make no doubt. Sometimes I feel she knows more than we guess. But she says nothing or merely sighs and repeats as if to convince herself, “George is not worried, so I am not worried, I have perfect trust in George”, and once she added, “It is not good for the baby if a mother is down-spirited so I shall not allow myself such a luxury.”’
‘Poor Isabella – and you, too, my dear. The strain is great but I feel it for the best. I will not be jealous of any outing that comes your way. I am not a city man. I would rather trace a path across my meadows than the most elegant street in London; I warn you, however, that I have tickets for the theatre. It is the celebrated Miss Eliza O’Neill, at least I am assured she is celebrated. I am advised ladies must bring at least two handkerchiefs and gentlemen present a tolerably clean shoulder.’
This discussion between Mr and Mrs Knightley proved that a loving couple, after spending a day in which their experiences have conducted them into utterly different directions of thought, may nevertheless come close together if a high degree of love is combined with a reasonable degree of goodwill.
Nevertheless there was a wistfulness in Mr Knightley’s eye as he presided over dinner. Isabella had not felt well enough to descend from her room, so Emma faced him at the other end, with the children, on their very best behaviour, ranged on either side. He looked down and could not but wish that this was his table – even his children – transported of course to Donwell Abbey. What a joy that would be! But he was too practical a man to live with what might have been or even what yet might be in the future.
‘A further slice of ham, my dear?’
‘No thank you, Knightley,’ Emma had just recollected Mrs Tidmarsh’s comment that God gave gentlemen louder voices so that they could command and ladies softer voices so that they could gossip – and she spoke abstracted and with a smi
le. Following her train of thought she did not at first hear little Bella’s lisped question, ‘Why do you call Uncle, Knightley?’
‘I know,’ answered John. It is because he was an old man when she was a silly maid like you.’
They all laughed, Mr Knightley too, but it was not a comfortable sound.
Chapter 16
Mrs Philomena Tidmarsh and Emma became close; it was inevitable. There had been a thirst for friendship on Emma’s side ever since Miss Taylor had married, Harriet Smith had proved herself a fool and Augusta Elton a bigger one. A husband was not the same as a friend, Emma owned it to herself – particularly when he was so seldom in the same place as his wife. A gentleman not only spoke differently from a woman but thought differently also; it was delightful but it left a space for someone else; Philomena Tidmarsh became that person.
‘I am glad that you and Philomena have become so close,’ Isabella sat up in her bed, surrounded by three of her five children. ‘To drive all the way to Bushy Park without even a leaf to see on the famous chestnuts – such friendship, such exertion! I declare that I take more pleasure in your explorations than if I were to undertake them myself. You have seen more in two weeks than I have seen in the eight years I have been here! What are you to do today?’
‘Today she is to play me her harp. We go to St Peter’s – their house—’
‘I am glad not to follow you there. A gloomy place and the harp runs up and down without ever a variation. I fear I fell asleep when she played to me – not that she is so keen to play—’
‘You are in good spirits today,’ Emma looked approvingly at her sister.
‘I am always in good spirits when the time comes near. It is the waiting – but I must not put you off—’
‘No. No. Perhaps I should stay—’
‘Not at all; it is a good day for you to visit when poor George visits Hartfield.’ Isabella sighed, her face cloudy for a moment, ‘What weight of business our dear husbands do support; John has never been from home so long—’
‘In Scotland, you must remember—’ this as agreed with Mr Knightley – ‘at the mercy of weather, roads—’
‘You frighten me – If he would but send me a letter—’ but the fear and the hope were equally short-lived for little Emma, the baby for a few weeks longer, must snatch Bella’s doll and the two children, struggling energetically, be removed by a nursemaid. It was time for Isabella’s rest, Emma persuaded her sister, and mentally told herself to see if it were at all possible that John could write his wife a reassuring note.
Indeed motherhood transports a woman into such a private world that she is scarcely part of the human race, thought Emma, as she walked, in the company of a servant, across Brunswick Square – for the church and the house at its side, where Mr Tidmarsh lived, was not far off.
‘I have decided my fingers are too cold for the harp!’ announced Philomena on Emma’s arrival. ‘We will sit by the fire and talk, drink coffee, toast muffins, perhaps read poetry. Do you admire Byron?’
‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Emma with feeling. His was a shocking name, she knew, although not having read a word.
‘Then Crabbe. But maybe we shall have no time for anything but talk!’
Emma, who had been used to taking everyone in hand but Mr Knightley – who used to take her in hand – was still surprised by how much she enjoyed being led by Mrs Tidmarsh. She no longer felt overwhelmed, however, for she saw she was quite her new friend’s equal in intelligence; but very much below her in experience. Besides, there was a frankness which she could not but admire.
‘I cannot quite perceive how you became so close to Isabella,’ she said, once they were installed either side of the fire – necessarily very near because the rest of the room was as dark and cold as a mausoleum. ‘Your natures are so very different; she so bound up with her children, you so ready for new ideas—’
It is strange, I acknowledge. We met through my son, of course, and I suppose I see in her something I have never been, will never be now—’
‘A mother!’
‘Yes. A happy mother, with healthy children, a good, loving husband—’ she paused, a long pause.
Emma looked into her cup, blushing that the truth was so different and could not be told now but must be known some time soon; the elegant house sold, servants dismissed – The blush subsided, pallor replaced it.
‘You are sad?’
‘No. No.’ This secrecy, this falsity was the only jarring note in her friendship with Philomena. Yet in this she was bound by Mr Knightley’s direction. He had not yet succeeded in obtaining his brother’s release from gaol but he said it was a matter of a week or two. Money would be forthcoming – he had not told her how. Isabella would have her baby – Christmas must be passed – the baby put to a wet nurse – and a new life must be started on a humbler scale for Mr and Mrs John Knightley and their family.
‘You frown. You are silent. You are vexed.’
‘Vexed?’ – if only such a small word could encompass what was a perfect tragedy. ‘I am a little tired – a little expectant, too – Today Mr Knightley has gone to Hartfield – and tomorrow I will know how my father does, have letters, hear from all my friends.’
Mrs Tidmarsh put her elegant head on one side while she considered this. She already knew Emma’s circumstances and showed a curiosity, remarkable to Emma in one who had travelled so widely, in all the details of life at Highbury. ‘You are anxious of bad news?’
‘No. Not exactly. But my father has poor health. It has always been my responsibility to keep him happy. I cannot easily believe another can do it so well, although all the reports are good. Perhaps it is pride in me—’
‘That another can supplant you so readily.’
Emma assented with a smile. ‘And such a one as Miss Bates whose voice is like the patter of rain on a roof.’
‘But she is kind?’
‘Oh, yes, she is kind enough. She cared for her mother until her decease; she gave up her own life to it.’
‘I can never understand such sacrifice.’
Emma looked surprised. ‘But surely it is only natural—’
‘—that a younger should make sacrifice to an elder. I do not feel it. When my dear Mr Tidmarsh passed away, I was melancholy, very melancholy, but I could not regret that I had been spared long years of chasing after a querulous, complaining old man.’
Emma could think of nothing to say; she was shocked.
‘You may say he would not be querulous; but all old men are; they cannot help it. It is their nature. Many younger men are too but they can help it. I shall never marry again, for that reason. I do not like men, in general. I worshipped Mr Tidmarsh; but he was a genius. His playing was the least of his talent; by the time he passed away he had written half a dozen books; you may have heard of his Rules for Playing in a True Taste on the Violin, German Flute, Violoncello and Harpsichord? No? Well, it does not signify – Have I told you I am writing a novel?’
It was such talk – a combination of the shocking and the exciting – that made Emma take such pleasure in Mrs Tidmarsh’s company and that sometimes also gave her a sense of disquiet. ‘I would always look after Mr Woodhouse,’ she said, formally. ‘Perhaps that is my nature.’
‘Yes. You are better than me – I have no doubt of it—’
I did not mean – it is what I wish to do – not a sacrifice—’
‘But now Miss Bates does it,’ Mrs Tidmarsh laughed, ‘and you are worried lest she should not be as good as she should and you are worried lest she should be too good.’
In conversations such as this, in the agility and sharpness of Mrs Tidmarsh’s mind, Emma had food enough for thought in the long hours she spent on her own at Brunswick Square. Until this meeting, she had been entirely unconscious of herself as she might appear to anyone other than Mr Knightley. He had been her sole adjudicator; but now
she had another – and someone whose viewpoint was altogether more daring.
‘Did you sustain your wits through the harp?’ asked Isabella on her return.
‘She did not play. We talked.’
‘How dear Philomena talks! I do not listen to it any more than I listen to the harp, she runs up and down just the same. But I believe it is very clever.’
‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Emma, sighing. ‘Now I have promised to read to Henry and John, although I fear, by their faces, they sometimes think my voice sounds very like Mrs Tidmarsh’s harp.’
***
Mr Knightley’s return from Highbury the following day was awaited with a high degree of expectation by all at Brunswick Square. He would come at a good time for Emma since Mrs Tidmarsh had informed her that for the next few days she would be entirely occupied in teaching those who could find none better at the Foundling Hospital, that spreading building which Emma passed every day without ever exploring.
‘It is James!’
‘It is James bringing Uncle!’
The boys’ cries brought Emma to the window, heart beating. Knightley was already out – Henry and John jumping up at him like dogs.
‘Oh Knightley! Knightley!’ She flew down the stairs and into his arms.
‘I see what I must do for a warm welcome; I shall plan a visit to Hartfield every day!’ Even Isabella was out of bed and the questions came so fast that Knightley protested he must give a general report first or no one would hear anything he had to tell. This was agreed and they all managed to sit down more or less quietly, although little Emma had to be restrained in her aunt’s arms and Mr Knightley kept a hold of John’s leg.
‘First,’ the tone was solemn, ‘Mr Woodhouse is most fearful of having caught a cold, a sore throat, which may lead to a putrid fever because the front door was opened on my arrival and, although this unfortunate door was closed as soon as my second leg and arm were in the hallway, the ensuing draught—’
‘Oh, dear papa!’ cried Isabella, ‘putrid fever—’
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