‘He is making fun, Isabella dearest,’ Emma smiled reproach at Mr Knightley. ‘What Knightley means us to understand is that our papa is as he always is – thoroughly taken up with fearing for his health—’
‘And not just his own – he could hardly believe I had taken a public conveyance in such weather and insisted poor James be turned out to bring me—’
‘Dear papa – so thoughtful,’ agreed Isabella.
‘He has a new gravitas to his thoughtfulness – a new responsibility which he takes with commendable seriousness—’
Neither of the ladies could make out this reference so Knightley continued, ‘It is neither old nor young, neither male nor very female; neither big nor small—’
‘A riddle!’ cried Henry.
‘—neither fast nor slow, except in its tongue which races as if James had his whip on it—’
‘Miss Bates!’ cried both boys as one.
‘How are they dealing together?’ asked Emma once the laughter had died.
‘They are capital friends. Mr Woodhouse has found a companion who will drink gruel, shut windows before they are open, play quadrille – with Mrs Goddard and the Coles—’
‘The Coles!’ exclaimed Emma.
‘—live off thin food, little wine, take never more than three turns round the shrubbery – in short, he is a despot, who has found a subject, a most willing subject. Miss Bates has aged ten years and Mr Woodhouse has lost ten. They are in perfect accord. Indeed they scarcely had time for me—’
‘Oh, George!’ cried Isabella. ‘That cannot be true!’
‘Of course it is not true, Isabella.’ Emma was delighted to see Mr Knightley in such a playful mood. Something good had happened, she felt sure. She had not seen him so cheerful since the terrible news of his brother and she could not wait to have him to herself so that she might know if her observation were correct. But first there was the whole of Highbury to be inquired after – the Westons must take a good half-hour on their own, even though Mr Knightley had brought letters for both sisters from Mrs Weston.
‘They are in exceedingly good health. Anna has made up for the loss of two of Mr Weston’s teeth by gaining two new ones of her own—’
‘Oh, Mr Knightley,’ protested Emma. ‘Mr Western’s teeth are nearly as famously good as his wine.’
‘Nevertheless he has lost two of them – while visiting the farm at Abbey-Mill with me – pearls before the swine, you might say!’
Emma had never seen him so exuberant and wondered that the others did not notice the change from the grey, hollow man that had been there before. He had brought cream, eggs, butter too, and a whole side of pork – ‘a special present from Miss Bates, I understand.’
There was still much left undiscussed – the Eltons, for example. Had Augusta Elton yet secured a visit from her intolerable (in prospect, at least, since no one had met her) sister, Serena Suckling? But dinner could wait no longer or Cook’s temper would be taken out on the lamb – she could burn the sweetest meat from the other side of the kitchen. They must eat; Isabella must rest; happy recollections of Highbury would sustain them for a week or more. Henry banged the gong and they all went to table.
Emma’s impatience must be curbed for at least another hour.
Chapter 17
‘My dear, I have some further news – an arrangement I have made that I hope will not cause you displeasure.’ Emma and Mr. Knightley sat together on the sofa – at last alone. Emma, who had longed for this moment, looked at her husband with surprise.
‘What should cause me displeasure that you have arranged? It is impossible.’
‘You are generous. I am perhaps being too wise – but I recall; it is not so important, after all. I have brought Mr Robert Martin to London with me; he stays at my lodgings.’
‘There is room enough for another!’ exclaimed Emma before she could help herself.
‘I have taken a further room. We have business together. He—’
‘Yes?’
‘He will call tomorrow.’
Emma bowed in assent. Of course he would call tomorrow; she might not think him quite a gentleman but she was not so prejudiced as to want him banned from her sister’s house. In person she thought him a fine, sensible man.
‘He carries particularly fond memories of Brunswick Square. It was when Mrs Martin was staying here – still Harriet Smith – that they came to an understanding.’
‘I know it,’ assented Emma, yet in wonder that their conversation dwelt so long on Mr Martin when she wished to uncover the reason for the tranquil glow of contentment in which Mr Knightley still bathed.
‘You recall also that I mentioned I had tickets for the theatre?’
‘Oh, yes!’ This was more positive. ‘I have been looking forward to it, to walking with you like an ordinary married couple, quite on our own—’
‘I have invited Mr Martin to join us—’
‘Oh!’ – a gasp, big eyes.
‘I have a box – there is room; he is in London for three or four days and I have a particular reason—’
‘Oh, Knightley!’ It was too cruel – for their tête-à-tête to be broken for such a man. The disappointment was so great that, coming on top of the last weeks, Emma found childish petulance overtaking proper resolution – ‘To go to my first theatre in the company of one who is hardly more than a servant!’
‘Emma! He is a gentleman.’
‘A gentleman-farmer, as you once informed me, it is hardly the same as a gentleman.’
‘You are unjust. You may recall that on Mrs Martin’s visit here, she and Robert Martin took Henry and John to Astley’s; they did not think him not good enough!’
‘Astley’s is for children – dancing horses and suchlike – re-enactments of battles – the sort of stupid things little boys like and uneducated men!’
‘Emma! I had not believed you could say such things—’
It was dreadful – they were quarrelling. Tears came into Emma’s eyes – their first quarrel – and over someone as unimportant as Mr Robert Martin.
‘You are overtired,’ Mr Knightley became more gentle as he saw the tears. ‘I cannot disinvite Mr Martin – it is not possible – nor would I – but I had hoped to please you with another guest. Your friend Mrs Tidmarsh – and her stepson, if that would be right. Emma, what do you say to that?’ He lifted her chin, humouring her like a child.
She was conscious that she needed such treatment; she had borne the responsibility of the Knightley household and of keeping John Knightley’s terrible secret from it. ‘I say it is a happy thought—’ she managed a watery smile – ‘Philomena will not know the difference between a gentleman-farmer and a gentleman.’
‘Philomena, is it?’ was Mr Knightley’s only comment but his face wore a look of relief that the quarrel was over, the affair settled. The tranquil glow – still unexplained – returned, even if a little dimmed.
Mr Martin duly called the next morning for what he immediately announced as a brief visit; and Emma was struck afresh by his handsome unpretentiousness.
‘Mrs Martin is well, I trust?’
‘She is happiness itself, I thank you.’
‘And your mother and sisters?’
‘All in good spirits.’ He paused. ‘Miss Elizabeth Martin is enjoying the pleasure of the presence of a superior instrument, the new pianoforte, at Abbey-Mill.’
Emma saw this was an opening, if she wished to take it, to follow up her note to him with a further inquiry; it was sensitive of him. ‘That other pianoforte I wrote you about travelled from Highbury to Donwell without injury, I surmise?’
‘Indeed. It is in the driest corner of the house; I am confident that everything is as it should be at Donwell.’ As he spoke, he looked at her closely, an odd, questioning look.
‘It is very good of you. I was probably over-anxio
us.’
‘I would do nothing less – my respect for Mr Knightley.’
Was this a reference to her request in the note not to inform Mr Knightley? Much to her annoyance, Emma found herself blushing.
‘Please give my regards to Mrs John Knightley. And Mrs Martin’s—’ he hesitated and Emma guessed that he was undecided whether to remark that the confinements of both ladies would come nearly together. She smiled coolly – and he decided to remain silent.
‘I am meeting Mr Knightley.’ He rose, bowed.
It was done. Emma returned to her seat to try and discover what it was in the meeting that had made her feel uncomfortable. Surely she could not be uneasy because he had behaved so well, so irreproachably well! Then was it the note, the secret note? The ghost of Frank Churchill hovering. She was glad to be called away to mix Isabella’s chocolate, ‘in the way only you, dearest Emma, know how’. She was good for making hot drinks, at least.
Mrs Tidmarsh expressed herself delighted at the invitation to see the celebrated Miss Eliza O’Neill, in a piece, quite coincidentally, called Isabella. ‘I will be intrigued to see her torture the English language on the excuse of drawing tears from our dried-up London ladies’ – as she put it, somewhat to Emma’s surprise. ‘My preferred female performer when my dear Mr Tidmarsh was still with me – and his ear for a voice was prodigious – I must confess was Mrs Billington – such purity of tone! – such technique! – such independence of spirit! But she belonged to the whole of Europe and could seldom be spared to delight her home country! I shall be glad of Miss Eliza O’Neill – at least she is a female!’
The Reverend Dugobair Tidmarsh, however, declined Mr Knightley’s invitation, although professing himself very much honoured, et cetera. He proclaimed pressing parish business as the reason for his unavoidable absence; but his stepmother informed Emma with a laugh, ‘He can bear nothing in the dramatic form but Greek tragedy – and that in the written mode. I sometimes tell him he is quite allergic to the spoken word.’
The party, therefore, would consist of Mr Knightley, Mr Martin, Mrs Tidmarsh and Emma. A light meal would be had at Brunswick Square so that Isabella could enjoy at least a part of the evening’s festivities; Mr Knightley ordered quails, Emma oysters. Mrs Tidmarsh looked out a dress with a train and Emma, torn between happiness in Mr Knightley’s spirits – for his glowing air still prevailed (still unexplained) – and her own misgivings as to the peculiar mix of Philomena Tidmarsh and Robert Martin – she could not think of them in the same breath – altered between all expectation of a cheerful outing – ‘My dearest,’ said Mr Knightley, ‘you know, this evening is for you’ – and a foretelling of doom. ‘The Drury Lane Theatre was at its zenith when Mr Garrick presided but that was nigh on a hundred years past’ – Mrs Tidmarsh could be very cutting.
Nevertheless days must pass, dresses must be freshly trimmed, shoes and gloves bought new. ‘London is very hard on shoes,’ sighed Isabella who was glad that her dear sister should have an outing. ‘You must look your best so that Highbury would be proud.’ Isabella’s spirits, in decline over the last week or so, had risen noticeably after a letter from her husband had arrived by special messenger. She did not divulge the contents to Emma who wondered what good cheer John could possibly have found to impart, but she kept it by her bedside as if its physical presence gave her courage. ‘He promises to be back before the baby finds his thumb,’ was Isabella’s only hint at his message.
‘Highbury,’ the word murmured on in Emma’s head even as she dressed for this great event – even as she was admired for the jewelled feather in her hair and the piece of new lace across her bosom. Henry and John and Bella admired and thought their aunt like a queen or, at very least, a princess.
‘Then I am satisfied.’ Emma smiled, although ‘Highbury’ still sighed in her head. Only Mr Knightley could banish it, arriving with Mr Martin, both so scrubbed and red-faced and as nobly elegant as any country gentlemen come to town. For, Emma had to admit it, Mr Martin looked more the gentleman than she would have credited.
‘I am late!’ cried Mrs Tidmarsh, arriving shortly behind them. Her elegance was of the dramatic sort – in emerald green with her favourite black velvet and necklace and earrings of fine jet. ‘I must report that my maid mislaid my gloves, despite my informing her that a lady without gloves is like a soldier without a sword!’
The gentlemen bowed; introductions were made; they moved to a table from which at the last minute Isabella had absented herself.
To think I am the only true Londoner!’ cried Mrs Tidmarsh.
‘Were you born in London?’ inquired Emma, with real interest because she could scarcely believe anyone could not be born in the country – despite five, nearly six nephews and nieces to prove the contrary, besides a foundling hospital on her doorstep.
‘Ah. Ah,’ responded Mrs Tidmarsh, if it could count as a response, and said no more.
‘I am very taken by London – such as I have seen of it,’ Mr Martin was deliberate.
‘On behalf of the city, I accept the compliment,’ smiled Mrs Tidmarsh.
‘I should like Mrs Martin to visit it again.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Mrs Tidmarsh, smile fading.
The high spirits of the whole company was remarkable, Emma could not help but think, and she could not help but think also of poor John Knightley when his house was used for such merry-making. But Mr Knightley must be allowed a little relaxation.
With talk of London, music – ‘I am at my most severe where music is concerned,’ said Mrs Tidmarsh, tapping her fan at Mr Martin – to fill any gap in the conversation, the meal passed with such rapidity that the arrival of the carriage took them all by surprise. Not a serious word had been spoken and near two hours passed.
‘Your friend is quite a flirt.’ whispered Mr Knightley in Emma’s ear as he laid her cloak about her shoulders.
Emma had no time to utter more than a surprised disclaimer when they must bustle into the conveyance and set off with a rush.
‘I hope I am not too close.’ said Mrs Tidmarsh to Mr Martin. ‘You are broad and I am narrow, which should fit the space in equable manner – except that ladies are inclined to spread.’
‘Thank you. I have ample room.’ replied Mr Martin and Emma felt Knightley squeeze her fingers. It was so unlike him, so lacking in his usual dignity, that she thought she had imagined it until he whispered close in her ear, ‘You perceive my earlier meaning.’
Their progress was at first perfectly quick and, as they reached the vicinity of the theatre, perfectly slow.
‘Look, dead souls!’ Mrs Tidmarsh bent her head to the window. It had begun to snow; white flakes floated through the dusky evening air.
‘Why d’you call them that?’ asked Mr Martin, his curiosity caught.
‘Why? Because I always have. Do they not look like dead souls to you!’
‘You could hardly have an alive soul.’ commented Mr Knightley sotto voce to Emma.
But Mr Martin, so sensible, so practical, such an unfanciful countryman, seemed quite taken with the idea and the discussion between him and Mrs Tidmarsh on the subject of souls and death and snow and winter continued until they reached the theatre.
The press of people there was so intense that Emma was glad to hang on to Mr Knightley’s strong arm and took very little notice of her companions until all four of them were safely seated in their box. The consciousness of grandeur, of red velvet and gold tassels – a sort of grandeur she had previously associated with such as Serena Suckling and would have despised but which now seemed part of the theatrical experience – gave her heart an extra beat.
‘It is altogether another world!’
‘False,’ said Philomena, smiling at Mr Martin.
‘If the theatre were not false it would not be theatre, it would be life,’ said Mr Knightley.
‘Great art is more true than life,�
� again Philomena bent her gaze on Mr Martin who looked, however, somewhat out of his depth. Besides he, like Emma, was keen to crane about and see everything that went on. The theatre was completely full, surrounded with the noise of hundreds of voices all shouting at once – some from one side of the theatre to another.
‘The last time I was here,’ said Philomena, although no one listened, ‘I saw Kean doing Shylock. London is full of Jews, you know. Mr Tidmarsh numbered them among his dearest friends.’
‘The lights are dimming, my dear,’ Emma addressed her husband. ‘Will you not take your place?’
‘Two boxes along, where the front curves,’ Knightley was leaning forward, ‘sit Mr and Mrs Campbell. Look, Emma; I met them, you know, on my failed search for Frank Churchill. They returned from Ireland just as I gave up all hope of him being in England. Emma!’
But Emma, it seemed, could not take her eyes from the stage for a moment – curtains parted and drama about to commence. The deepened colour of her cheeks must be attributed to excitement rather than to any discomfiture caused by the name pronounced by her husband.
Such was the press during the interval that despite Mr Knightley’s intentions, they did not meet the Campbells till both parties were leaving and they found, by chance, they stood together on a cold pavement waiting for their carriages.
While Mr Martin listened to Mrs Tidmarsh confess – although it sounded more like a boast – that both the handkerchiefs she had brought were dry, Mr Knightley bowed at Mr Campbell and brought Emma forward. Introductions were made; Mr Martin and Mrs Tidmarsh summoned to make their bows.
‘You must call, Mrs Knightley,’ Mrs Campbell was civil. ‘We are still melancholy at the loss of poor Mrs Churchill; it will do us good to meet such an old friend of hers as you are.’
Emma received the invitation with a sorrowful face which hid many different emotions. ‘I will be glad to.’ Their carriages arrived; they parted; and Emma was left on her own very soon after, for it was not thought sensible for the gentlemen to come all the way back to Brunswick Square when their lodgings were a short walk away. Mrs Tidmarsh would be with her almost all the way.
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