Emma & Knightley

by Rachel Billington

  ‘I thought she would not admit to professional talent,’ whispered Mr Knightley to Emma.

  ‘She has given up the deception.’

  ‘So now she gives us pleasure.’

  Emma looked to see irony in her husband’s face; but there was none, could be none. As soon as Mrs Tidmarsh embarked on ‘Strike the Harp in Praise of Bragela’, it was clear beyond doubt – even to Emma who was an imperfect judge of the instrument – that here was a very superior player. Even the children sat still while the room filled with noble sounds.

  ‘I think of Highbury,’ whispered Emma to Mr Knightley; she bethought herself further, ‘and of Donwell.

  Mr Knightley smiled and inclined his head closer to hers. The weeks of anguish were replaced, for one evening at least, by the joys of a happy family life – raised to a higher pitch by Mrs Tidmarsh’s art and the consciousness of what had gone before. This house might have reached the end of its era as the John Knightleys’ home – they must leave it in ignominy in the world’s terms – but this evening, this tableau vivant told another story. They were happy and this happiness of an hour or two would always be more real than cleverly-set bricks, a fine staircase and a broad front door.

  ‘I thank you. I thank you!’ John Knightley did not try to hide the tears in his eyes. His thanks enlarged to include everyone in the room.

  Mrs Tidmarsh breathed deep and lifted up her arms again; the music seemed to come out of her white brow and elegant nose, her red curled lips.

  Emma sighed and shut her eyes. The river between Donwell and Abbey-Mill sparkled, fast and quiet, in front of her; willow trees trailed their long fingers above, weeds stretched hand upon hand below. Emma sighed again.

  ‘You are tired,’ whispered Mr Knightley.

  ‘A little.’ Ah, the secrets, the secrets! Emma saw Frank Churchill’s hangdog but jaunty back disappear along the bank, Harriet’s plumply pleased figure at the gate of Abbey-Mill. Frowning, Emma brought herself back to the present, to the white sinuosities of Philomena’s fingers, to her back straight as a pillar – but then even that turned itself into the dignity of a woman left behind in the hall of the Foundling Hospital, the dignity of someone who stood beside a woman who was not quite a lady. Once more Emma closed her eyes and this time it was Jane Fairfax she saw; and heard her slender fingers make music from the ivory keys.

  Chapter 21

  A home-coming must always be a delight – particularly when an elderly and much-loved parent, unseen for very many weeks, awaits in welcome.

  ‘Ah, my poor dear child! You are just as sickly as I feared. If you knew how I have suffered on your behalf – Miss Bates and I – we have talked of nothing else!’

  Mr Woodhouse stood in his hallway, on a December day when the wind blew, a signal of his true affection for his daughter and his urgent need to see her at the first opportunity. Behind him, Miss Bates peered humbly around, like a squirrel behind a tree, although now and again she abandoned this natural role to stretch to her toes and twitch Mr Woodhouse’s shawl closer about his shoulders.

  ‘I am in remarkable health, dear papa. Tell him, Knightley, how well I am and Isabella and all the children and let us have the cold meats which I can see on my kind round table for I am as hungry as anyone who has been up since before dawn, forgotten to eat breakfast and arrived many hours later at their own dear home with their own dear papa! Oh, papa, I am so glad to see you and—’ she caught a glimpse of the flickering squirrel – ‘dear Miss Bates who, I can already perceive, has looked after you so well.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. She is a good lady, very good. Come, Miss Bates, do not hide—’

  ‘No, no, I’m sure – the family together – a joy—’ Miss Bates was too overcome to continue and Mr Knightley, ever kind-hearted, gave her his arm to follow Emma and Mr Woodhouse into the parlour.

  The reunion with Mr Woodhouse must be followed by a reunion, nearly as emotional, with all the inanimate but much missed old friends of sofa, chair, tables, hangings, bookcases, staircases, windows and vistas from the windows. Mr Knightley had ridden immediately to see Mr Martin so Emma had plenty of time to feel herself truly at home again, to find nothing important had changed – merely a few rearrangements downstairs of chairs and cushions which she soon restored to the original (dear Miss Bates had never much of an eye for such things). In a few hours, after interviews with Sterne who was no more disobliging than usual and Merry who confessed to being very under-occupied, she was able to feel that Hartfield and she were on terms and that she might read the notes left for her in her upstairs parlour.

  Mrs Weston must come first. At her late age to produce a second child, another healthy daughter, and to be yourself in good health and good spirits, was more than enough to thank God for! Mr Weston could hardly believe such fortune; the only cloud – an anxiety that must be cleared sooner rather than later – was that Frank’s child, Mr Weston’s grandson, was said to be ailing. Old Mr Churchill had written with such a report but Mrs Weston’s calm nature allowed that Mr Churchill’s distress at the continued absence of Frank – he knew not where – and his own solitariness following the death of both Mrs Churchills might have led him to exaggerate the baby’s illness. Mrs Weston felt sure it was nothing more than the slightest of ailments. Nevertheless, it had inspired Mr Weston to feel a greater responsibility for his grandson that might result eventually in the baby being brought, even before the good weather, to Highbury where he could keep a better eye on its welfare.

  The second half of this letter Emma read with fluctuating emotions and she turned to a letter from Harriet Martin rather quickly. Here, too, there was news of a safe delivery – as if every one of her acquaintanceship was intent on enlarging the human race, she thought a little sourly. The baby was a boy, ‘the image of his father’, and Harriet was all simple pride and satisfaction; no mention was made of the new ownership of Abbey-Mill Farm. For that, at least, Emma must be grateful.

  There were other letters and invitations – from the Coles, from Mrs Goddard and from Mr Elton who clearly knew more about John Knightley’s altered circumstances than any of the others and spoke of ‘the mysterious ways of God who raised up only to cast down.’ Emma felt moved to cast down this letter to the floor and only picked it up again when she saw a long postscript on the back of the paper penned in Mrs Elton’s hand:

  My dear Mrs Knightley, I understand in the sadness of your family’s times of tribulation you may not be in a mood for merriment but I hope you may make an exception for a dinner I shall be giving in the New Year when Mr and Mrs Suckling arrive on a visit. They have suffered the misfortune of a part of Maple Grove falling to the ground. It seems that the heavy autumn rain followed by severe frost shortly before Christmas caused cracking in stone so particularly venerable. A further misfortune caused the cracking to reveal itself in the wall to the dining-room where a great dinner had just been laid – utilising, as a tribute to the season, their best set of Sèvres china. Suffice it to say that only one gravy-boat survived and that only because Mr Suckling held it aloft in his hand as they fled the room. It was a miracle that only that which can be replaced was lost, while the irreplaceable – I refer to my dearest sister and her family – emerged unscathed. They are now in excellent lodgings in Bath but I have prevailed upon them that a family environment (however inferior) may lift their spirits after such a horrible experience. So I ask you to dinner – first, as always. As I observed to Mr Elton, Mr John Knightley’s follies cannot be laid at your door.

  Down went the letter again and up jumped Emma to stamp her feet and cry, ‘I wish the Eltons’ house would fall down as well as the Sucklings’!’

  On the whole it seemed to Emma that her inanimates gave her better welcome than the animates – saving those in her own household, of course. Merry did her hair so neatly and the rooms, although very quiet after a house so filled with children, gave all the pleasures of country light and space. When Kn
ightley returned, she was able to pass him the Eltons’ letter quite calmly and ask how Isabella and John’s situation was to be explained in the village. There was sure to be talk.

  She had tried to say this without sadness or reproach on her account but could not subdue a blush that gave away the depth of her feelings.

  ‘Oh, Emma, you should not have to bear this,’ he took her hands.

  ‘You have had to bear far more – Abbey-Mill—’

  ‘Yes. But I do not have your pride—’

  ‘You criticise me?’

  ‘No. No. I am older, that is all I meant by it. I have had my dignity knocked once or twice. You are new to the sensation. I sorrow for it but I console myself that at least, now, here, we can face whatever unpleasantness may follow together.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ cried Emma. ‘I did not mean to complain on my own behalf – on behalf of my pride, as you term it – but merely to inquire how far we will explain the circumstances of my sister’s visit here – of John Knightley’s changed appearance (for it will be remarked on) and their continued stay, when before they could never spare more than a week or two.’

  Mr Knightley let drop Emma’s hands and stood. ‘They may not be here so long as you imagine. You have already seen my brother’s powers of resurrection—’ He stopped abruptly.

  Emma waited for more; but no further explanation came. He looked down on his wife kindly but with the eyes of someone who saw a child. He did have more to say but he did not mean to confide in her. Yet again he did not mean to confide in her.

  ‘I have no doubt you found time to visit Abbey-Mill Farm,’ she said in a spiteful tone.

  ‘I did.’ No emotion.

  ‘You had much to discuss, I may be certain.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He bowed and gave her his hand; his meaning was clear – this private conversation was closed and it was time for dinner.

  But Emma evaded his hand and, smiling falsely, went, fast and furious, alone to the door. ‘I also may be certain,’ she cried over her shoulder as she reached the head of the stairway before him, ‘that you saw Mrs Robert Martin!’

  He made no answer, perhaps did not take it in; then they were in the hallway – in the drawing-room – and following happy Mr Woodhouse and happy fussing Miss Bates to the dining-room; there they sat together, the picture of contented reunion, one each side of the table. Emma must talk; Emma must smile; yet her words cried over her shoulder, echoed in her heart – she scarcely knew why or what she had intended by them, and yet how they echoed!

  ‘I am out of sorts tonight.’ she told Knightley.

  They stood outside the bedchamber, the long evening, the evening of home-coming, over, sadly undergone when it should have been so gay.

  ‘Emma—’ He put out his hand. She turned away; her heart was cold, stunned by that echo, unfeeling. Sleep was all that she cared for. He watched her face, her clear young profile; he bowed. ‘You are fatigued.’

  She gave the smallest of curtsies and went into the room; the door closed sharply between them.

  ***

  Torrents of cold rain fell on Hartfield, Highbury, and the surrounding countryside. Mr Knightley, on horseback early, had not perceived the force of descending water and found himself soaked through, with insistent trickles even managing to insert themselves down the insides of his riding boots. Not being foolish and being unwilling to risk catching a cold, he put in as soon as possible at a warm fireside where, moreover, he was also likely to be offered the breakfast that he had, in his haste to get away, left Hartfield without.

  ‘Oh, Mr Knightley!’ cried Mrs Martin – old Mrs Martin, her skirt bundled up and her hair not quite neat, but she did not think of that – ‘Come in! Come in! To be sure, you are more like a waterfall than a man. Take off your wet things where you stand.’

  Leaving behind in an outer room his streaming hat, coat and boots, Mr Knightley made his way with many protestations of gratitude and apologies at the earliness of the hour, to the warm and cheerful breakfast room. Robert Martin and his sister stood by the table where they had been sitting until a moment ago, in front of steaming platters of bacon and coddled eggs, while Harriet still sat in a corner chair, by the fire, her fat, dimpled baby asleep on her knee. She still wore a bonnet and a loose wrapper and the mixture of embarrassment at the unfinished nature of her toilette and the consciousness at making a perfect picture of motherhood made her glow like a beacon. She had never looked so pretty.

  Mr Knightley bowed, glanced in her direction just long enough to admire, and then took his place at the table where Mrs Martin had already laid a full platter.

  ‘We are simple here,’ said Mr Martin, his words suggesting only satisfaction at such a state, ‘no ceremony, no attempt at ceremony.’

  ‘Not for very much longer if Harriet has her way—’ Any criticism implied by Mrs Martin was contradicted by the fond look she directed towards her daughter-in-law.

  ‘Oh, mama!’ Harriet blushed redder than the fire. ‘You will let Mr Knightley believe I am not satisfied with how we are—’ turning her appealing blue eyes on their visitor. ‘It is only that the parlour is small with so many of us now—’ here she hid her blushes with a kiss on her baby’s smooth brow – ‘and there is a place so rightly waiting for a drawing-room – so flat – facing south – with a view of the river – it barely needs more than a few tiles to roof it in—’

  She broke off at the smiles and even a hearty laugh from Mr Martin. ‘How can I refuse her anything, when she asks so sweetly and there is so very very little to be done?’ he asked Mr Knightley.

  ‘Oh, Robert, you mock me!’ cried Harriet.

  ‘Indeed I do not. You have quite convinced me of the rightness of your argument. You shall have your drawing-room and your new pianoforte shall go in there and, when you pace up and down and discover that five couples could stand up in it, without any squeeze, I shall not be surprised at all but suggest that, if we were to push the bow out a little or even, perhaps, dance across the hallway, we might run to ten couples – for, after all, there is Elizabeth to find a husband—’

  ‘Robert!’ cried Elizabeth.

  ‘Look, Mr Knightley, how dreadfully he mocks his ladies!’ cried Harriet.

  ‘He is a very lucky man,’ said Knightley, his smiles becoming a little serious. ‘If I were him, I’d build a drawing-room east, west, north of the house if it would please—’

  ‘Oh, Mr Knightley! Now you are mocking me—’

  ‘Never. Now, I must see how my clothes dry?’ He looked to Mrs Martin but she shook her head and told him it would be longer than half an hour before they even stopped dripping, so he had no choice but to sit in the midst of this cheerful family and fill himself up with food, tea, and friendly talk enough to last him for the day.

  ***

  Emma watched the torrents of rain from her bedroom window while Merry took an age with her hair and told her the Highbury gossip she had been saving up for weeks.

  ‘The rain runs more heavily in the country,’ Emma sighed. She had woken with a dull head and a feeling of guilt at her emotional behaviour of the night before. She had intended to be simple and lively, to recapture the happiness of her arrival, to put things on a proper comfortable footing between herself and Mr Knightley. But these good resolutions were undermined by his absence – even before breakfast and on such a day, as if he had fled the house. Now she must eat with her father, submit to more questions about Isabella which were hard to answer since it was agreed that Mr Woodhouse must not know the full extent of John Knightley’s difficulties, and do all this under the ever-watchful and sincere eye of Miss Bates. This good creature did not talk as much as she used, it was true, for her time seemed entirely taken up with seeing to Mr Woodhouse’s comforts – like a friend, servant, worshipper! thought Emma, aware that, despite all her good intentions, she was already giving way to disagreeable instincts.

/>   ‘And I expect, dear Mrs Knightley,’ said Miss Bates, ‘you will be happy to see your own pianoforte again.’

  ‘I had little time for music,’ began Emma shortly, before recovering herself. ‘Thank you. Indeed I am sadly out of practice but I shall take my accustomed place as soon as I have finished the housekeeping with Sterne. Perhaps you would like to attend on this first occasion since my return?’

  ‘Oh, no – yes – whatever you think best – your superiority in such matters – my own humble attempts – Perhaps I may be of use—’

  This was penance for Emma but she welcomed it and did not even allow herself to wonder when Miss Bates might resume her place in her own lodgings. She took her penance further by duly taking her position in front of the piano keys where she was repaid by fingers as stiff as spoons and a memory of no music beyond that which she had known since childhood.

  It was thus Mrs Weston, come by carriage to welcome Mrs Knightley back, found her erstwhile charge, thundering out ‘The Grand Old Duke of York’.

  ‘Mrs Weston! How pleased I am to see you!’ Emma jumped off her stool and ran towards her.

  ‘My dear. My dear.’ The two ladies kissed, held hands. Miss Bates, chancing to come to the door, made sound enough to attract Emma’s attention which was followed by such a frown (an unconscious frown, one must hope, for the sake of Mrs Knightley’s good intentions) that she retreated instantly.

  ‘In such weather, this is nothing short of heroism!’

  ‘Mr Weston had to engage a carriage for a meeting at Richmond, so I took advantage of it to come to you. My dear Emma – all these weeks in London – so much sadness, difficulty, joy – dear Isabella – another little Knightley daughter—’