Emma & Knightley

by Rachel Billington

  It was a disappointing and disturbing end to the evening. Emma sat in her little room – the house dark around her – and tried to write out some of her anxieties by answering her old friend Mrs Weston’s letter to her:

  It is late but I cannot sleep; you will say it is too much pleasure – it is that – and pain. Tonight we attended the theatre – such crowds, such stuffiness and Miss O’Neill with a voice as loud as a dragoon – although very beautiful. But afterwards we saw Mr and Mrs Campbell and their kind, sad faces made me think so vividly of Jane Fairfax – how little I helped her – how little I liked her! And why? Because I thought her cold – that is what I believed to be my reason but was it not because I knew her to be inferior—

  As Emma wrote these words, she was stabbed by the knowledge that she had addressed them to someone who must never read them – for Mrs Weston, too, had been inferior, a governess, as Jane Fairfax was to have been, until her marriage. In both cases, marriage had saved them, raised them – but poor Jane had not lived to enjoy it.

  Emma scrumpled up her letter and mounted into her little bed. On the morrow she would write to Mrs Weston of Isabella and the children, air, of Westminster Bridge and Hyde Park. Such thoughts as she had started to pen must be left behind with the dark night and guttering candle.

  Chapter 18

  Emma’s epistolary resolution reckoned without visitors. She had scarcely dismissed Isabella’s maid who had become quite as good as Merry at setting her curls round her face, when the first carriage was at the door.

  ‘I am far too early, I own it, I apologise for it, but we have decided to travel up to Yorkshire to visit poor Jane’s child.’ Mrs Campbell sat, but would not leave her coat. ‘But I did not wish to leave London without seeing you. It was you that brought it all back to us again. We so much wish to see her child, we cannot even wait for better weather.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Emma, ‘She was like a second daughter to you.’

  ‘It is true—’ a pause; ‘you knew Mr Churchill too, I recollect,’ a question; yes, it was certainly a question.

  ‘Mr Churchill was at Highbury on and off during that summer that he was engaged to Miss Fairfax—’ a pause, ‘Mr Weston, with whom he stayed, is an old and dear friend of ours.’

  ‘So you saw a good deal of Mr Churchill?’

  Emma nodded.

  ‘You grew to understand him.’

  Emma did not nod. ‘He was carrying a secret – his secret engagement to Miss Fairfax. It is not easy to understand someone who carries a secret. You may think so at the time but when you are proved by subsequent events to be under a misapprehension, then you lose faith in even the generalities of understanding.’

  ‘Quite so. Quite so.’

  ‘I could not say I understood Mr Churchill but now I am very sorry for him.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  There was a silence, during which it was borne upon Emma that this sensible lady had come to tell her something – not merely for the sake of politeness – and that now she debated whether to proceed. She leant forward, studied Emma, and then stated abruptly, ‘The past is history, do you not think?’

  ‘I have little in my past,’ smiled Emma, ‘that could count as history.’

  ‘Yes. Yes’ – and Emma had an even stronger sense of a confidence edging tentatively towards her.

  Mrs Campbell stood and, as if the motion released her anxieties a little, said, quite loudly, ‘Mr Churchill was never what he should have been, I am much afraid. Neither before his marriage, during, nor after.’

  ‘Oh!’ Emma found herself picturing the haggard man she had seen at Donwell – a man in danger from his own despondency. She stood too. ‘He has a capacity for strong emotions, I believe. Mrs Churchill was the centre of his life.’

  ‘You say so – yes, perhaps. But he did not make her happy.’

  ‘No!’ This was too sad; Emma did not want to hear more. She saw Mrs Campbell understand this and pull on her gloves. She produced a sociable smile.

  ‘He is not here to defend himself. I am partisan. I am sorry, Mrs Knightley, if I have said too much. My sorrow – you understand—’ She went to the door, Emma in attendance. ‘Yet I must own that I am glad that he has gone to Europe. I cannot but believe that little Frank Churchill will grow up better without such an influence as his father must exert.’

  The words were cruel, the face intelligent and good; Emma was left distressed but had no time to dwell on an explanation before the second visitor was announced. It was Mrs Tidmarsh.

  ‘I must say thank you; thank you, dear Emma, thank you!’

  ‘Why so many thanks?’ Emma laughed at her friend’s sincerity. It was a relief, after her previous visitor, to feel such open warmth.

  ‘Last night has restored my faith in la nature humaine.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Emma, ‘so you enjoyed Miss O’Neill.’

  ‘I do not talk about Miss O’Neill; Miss Eliza O’Neill’s nature cannot improve—’

  ‘But the nature of man can?’

  ‘Ah – you mock me. You who know above all the justice of my new faith. Such gentlemen as Mr Knightley and Mr Martin! You may be used to such company – they say custom stales the greatest—’ she broke off, ‘but you frown?’

  ‘No! No!’ Emma did frown to hear Mr Knightley coupled with Mr Martin. She would not have expected Mrs Tidmarsh to lack such discernment. ‘Mr Martin is an upright man – a farmer.’

  ‘Yes, I understand he has a veritable paradise of a farm. He describes such sunsets, rivers hung about with willows, meadowland—’

  ‘He is a tenant of Mr Knightley’s’ – stiffly. Emma did not exactly doubt the verisimilitude of her visitor’s description of Mr Martin’s conversation; perhaps he had talked of the land – it was his work, his means of employment – but she suspected that Mrs Tidmarsh’s romantic imagination had supplied the sunset and the draping willows. ‘Mr Martin is a happy man; he has a young wife who thinks him the centre of the firmament, a mother-in-law who dotes on him, sisters who listen for his step as if he were a king—’

  ‘Ah! Happiness!’ Mrs Tidmarsh sighed. ‘Tell me again about Highbury – how I love your stories of that little place. Last night as I lay abed, I found myself turning against London. I said to Mr Tidmarsh over breakfast, perhaps London has lost its most vociferous supporter – perhaps I have been in the smoke and grime too long—’

  ‘It is not at all smoky and grimy where you are—’ interjected Emma.

  ‘I speak in metaphor. All night I saw those green meadows, clear skies, pure water—’

  ‘And wind and frost and rutted roads—’ laughed Emma.

  Mrs Tidmarsh laughed too but persisted all the same, ‘I am resolved; I must come to the country; if you will ask me, I shall leave my beloved London and see what happiness trees and rocks and hills may bring me.’

  ‘There are no rocks in Surrey.’

  ‘A detail’ – long elegant hand waved. ‘I have showed you the beauties of the town and now you may show me the beauties of nature! But do not worry; I will not force myself. It will be when it suits; when you are back, comfortable, once more established?’

  ‘Of course you shall stay, dear Philomena, although I fear you may be disappointed—’ Emma broke off – the future was still unknown and, until Mr John Knightley was rescued, full of dread. She was glad when her friend rose with her usual swiftness and grace.

  ‘I must leave you – I have a pupil—’ She stopped, hand to mouth, coughed, brought a lace-edged handkerchief to her mouth, but the word was out. Emma had suspected it for some time since seeing a young lady disappearing with a maid from the Tidmarsh establishment on one of her visits. Philomena not only kept house for her stepson, but also taught the harp. Emma blushed for her; blushed for herself; could think of no words to cover the awkwardness. For an heiress of thirty thousand pounds, married to a Knigh
tley of Donwell, to make such a connection was indeed awkward. Constraint was on both sides and followed them to the door.

  ‘I am sorry to have missed dear Isabella.’

  ‘We are all in great expectation.’ Emma was glad of the subject.

  ‘She is well?’

  ‘Mr Wingfield is very satisfied.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it.’ They parted on this quiet note and Emma, dissatisfied with herself, although not willing to own the reason, went upstairs to make sure that Isabella was as comfortable as she described. But once more the front door was swung open to the wintry cold and this time Mr Knightley entered.

  ‘My dear!’ They clung together.

  ‘Dearest!’

  ‘Isabella?’

  ‘Not yet. I am expecting the doctor any minute.’

  ‘Then we can sit together.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ They found that sofa which would always be the heart of Brunswick Square for Emma and sat close. ‘Your hands are cold,’ said Emma, for Knightley was silent.

  ‘And yours are hot. Did I see Mrs Tidmarsh as I came away?’

  ‘You did!’ Emma heard the note of defence in her voice and wondered at it.

  ‘She is your friend so I shall say little but I did not quite like her manner with Mr Martin.’

  ‘He did not object to it!’

  ‘He is a man.’

  ‘Ah,’ Emma took away her hand, which was indeed very hot. ‘Ah, a man may encourage but a lady must discourage.’

  ‘He did not encourage – but I do not wish to argue.’ His wish, however, was too late.

  ‘He talked of sunsets, glistening rivers, graceful willows—’

  ‘Mr Martin? Impossible!’

  Since this echoed her own view, Emma was too honest to push it further but returned to the earlier theme. ‘You hold that a lady must behave better than a gentleman. And yet it is gentlemen who govern us, make the laws—’

  ‘Manners are more important than laws.’

  ‘I imagined that you might pronounce the word “morals”.’

  ‘According to their quality, ladies aid morals, they supply them – or they totally destroy them.’

  ‘You refer to their place in the family?’ Emma questioned and continued as Knightley bowed in assent. ‘It is all, therefore, in the hands of the female sex?’

  ‘All that is most important.’ A pause. ‘Dear Emma, you are grave. So much philosophy because you have a friend who I reproach a little. She is clever, of course, witty, and admires you greatly. I should have started with that. Now give me back your hand.’

  Emma did so gladly; but she could not shake off the subject of Mrs Tidmarsh so easily.

  ‘I believe Mrs Tidmarsh—’ she began hesitantly. ‘Her rooms are cold and she does not have a maid.’

  ‘The gloves? – “like a sword to a soldier” – the maid who forgot them?’

  ‘I believe she teaches the harp – she is afraid to show me her proficiency because she is ashamed.’

  Mr Knightley inclined his head. ‘You understand her.’

  ‘She is brave. She admired Mr Martin extremely as an example of a countryman. She is very keen to visit the country; to visit Highbury. She is worn down by London.’

  ‘I see.’

  A pause. Silence. They both considered.

  ‘Sometimes she puts me in mind of poor Jane Fairfax. Not her exterior,’ she added, at Mr Knightley’s surprised look. ‘She is all emotion, Jane was all coolness – at least to my eye. But their situation, their situation as Jane’s might have been if she had not found a husband. That is why I say she is brave.’

  ‘And that is why you wish her to visit.’

  ‘I cannot say that I wish it; I feel she is so much a part of the bustle of London that I fear the quietness of Highbury would hold little appeal for her. She wishes it.’

  ‘Yes?’ prompted Knightley.

  ‘I was never kind enough to Jane Fairfax.’ The sentence hung there and Knightley may or may not have been forming a comment when there was an urgent knock at the door and Isabella’s maid put a scared white face through the crack.

  One look was enough for both Mr and Mrs Knightley to spring to their feet. ‘And now there is no time to say what I came for,’ muttered Knightley but Emma was already out of the room.

  The successful advent of a new soul to a household – a female soul, as it turned out – is always a matter of great rejoicing, even when there are five little ones in place already and when the master of the household is unaccountably absent. For two weeks and more, nothing else was thought of but nurses, cots, shawls, warming pans, hot drinks, cold drinks, nightlights, sleep, or lack of it.

  Emma’s role in all this was neither too easy; nor too arduous. She must keep the children occupied so that Isabella might have enough rest to regain her health. Despite the continued cold weather and Philomena’s ‘dead souls’ wafting across from one end of the square to another, she took the older children on a daily walk. As they bowled their hoops across the frosty ground or raced each other down to the tradesmen’s mews and back again, she found herself contemplating the Foundling Hospital with more curiosity than heretofore.

  One afternoon when the children were engaged with a special religious instruction under Mr Dugobair Tidmarsh, she resolved to walk inside the great doors. She knew already that visitors were welcomed. She was not prepared, however, that the first face presented to her curious gaze, should be that of her friend, Philomena Tidmarsh. The lady herself looked equally taken aback, although she recovered quickly enough.

  ‘You catch me at good works! You have enough at home. But I must go out and find them!’

  An elderly woman joined them – perhaps once a nurse, Emma deduced, respectable but hardly a lady. Introductions were made. She was a Mrs Fennell. She began at once.

  ‘Mrs Tidmarsh is such an inspiration to us – her talent – her responsibility to the Foundling Hospital when many in her position might want to forget—’

  As the good woman talked, Mrs Tidmarsh became noticeably uneasy but then a look of patient resignation came over her features. It was unlike any expression Emma had seen before on a face that was usually notable for its vivacity. Gradually, it was borne on Emma that everything that Mrs Fennell said – as to ‘gratitude’, ‘old friends’, ‘improved situation’ and, finally, ‘Mr Tidmarsh, our excellent musical patron, our genius of the cello’ – led to one conclusion: Mrs Tidmarsh had herself been a foundling, only plucked from it for marriage to Mr Tidmarsh!

  The news was almost incredible! That a friend of hers – chosen by her – should be a foundling – poor babies left, on occasion, as Mrs Fennell described it, in a hole in the exterior of the wall! The contrast between the scenes even now taking place at Brunswick Square and such tragic abandonment, pressed closely on her.

  ‘And would you like to see some of our educational facilities?’ inquired Mrs Fennell kindly. ‘We like our children to read and write wherever possible.’

  Pleading duties to her sister, Emma escaped. Neither Mrs Fennell nor Mrs Tidmarsh attempted to detain her and, as Emma cast a look over her shoulder, she saw them still standing together, the older woman talking in her good-natured open way and Mrs Tidmarsh silent, unmoving, dejected.

  Chapter 19

  The weeks passed. Mrs Knightley still saw Mrs Tidmarsh, although less – both ladies finding themselves too occupied for more than an occasional expedition to a gallery or, on one bright afternoon, a breezy walk accompanied by Mr Knightley across Westminster Bridge. ‘It is so long since I first crossed into London—’ Emma had sighed. A concert, too, was shared, where Mrs Tidmarsh and her stepson both showed themselves admirably at ease with ‘rallentandos’ and ‘glissandos’ and ‘appoggiaturas’. But for intimate teas across glowing coals, for muffins and confidences, there seemed little time.

  ‘You ar
e not such friends with Mrs Tidmarsh.’ commented Mr Knightley.

  ‘I am ready for Hartfield.’ said Emma.

  ‘I had hoped you might say that. I would not like you to have lost your heart to London. Particularly now that the time has come to prepare Isabella for the change in her circumstances. I am counting on you to paint the most glowing picture of life at Highbury because that is where they must reside. You must write to Mr Woodhouse also. Illness will be the excuse – it will appeal to your father and he will look no further.’

  ‘Oh, Knightley!’

  ‘It is hard for you. I know it.’

  ‘I did not refer to my part in it. I am not so selfish. But I must presume that this means Mr John Knightley is safe!’

  ‘He is.’ Knightley bowed.

  ‘When?’

  ‘A few weeks past. But only now—’

  ‘I knew it. When you were so glowing. At the time of Mr Martin’s visit—’

  ‘You are correct. Mr Martin is much concerned in the affair. But tomorrow, you will come to Henrietta Street.’

  ‘He is there!’

  ‘He is there. See him. Prepare Isabella and we will have him back here for Christmas and spend New Year together in Hartfield.’

  ‘Oh, Knightley! It is too good. All these many, many weeks – But how? – How?’

  ‘Come to Henrietta Street tomorrow.’

  Such was Emma’s happiness that she need no longer picture her brother-in-law among the rats and the squalor of a prison cell – although Knightley had constantly assured her that his care made sure John was never in a place so dreadful – that she did not pursue the ‘how’ too far. Her duty was to pen a letter to her father that would prepare him enough, but not too much, and give Mr and Mrs Weston a report by the same post containing rather more information, so that they could comfort the fears at Hartfield with firm good sense. The word bankruptcy had lost its terror for Emma over the weeks and they must learn to face at least a hint of it too. John Knightley had failed himself and his family but the best must be made of it. He, no doubt, had suffered for it and would continue to do so.