‘And you? How is your new little one? I see you have escaped your motherly duties.’
‘Indeed I have. But you know I have in my time replaced the duties of a mother towards you, dearest Emma. Let us say that I am the most fortunate of women – let us pass from that, to you. How is it with you?’
As Emma felt herself under inspection from that calm, loving eye that for sixteen years had been all she knew of a womanly affection – indeed of a motherly sort, if it could never replace that of a true mother – she felt a great urge to cry and howl like a baby.
‘You are a little pale, I think. Perhaps London—?’ Mrs Weston hinted delicately into the silence.
‘No. No. My human frame is just the same as always – strong and healthy – my body does not let me down—’
‘But? There is a but, I feel it coming.’
‘Mr Knightley—’
‘Oh!’ Mrs Weston looked down at her hands; her expression was not encouraging; at least Emma did not find it encouraging. Nevertheless she persevered; if she did not talk she must howl.
‘Mr Knightley and I – a quarrel – no, a coldness – he does not confide – there is a want of openness in him,’ her voice strengthened, ‘and yet it is he who has always convinced me of the greatest value of openness—’ A fleeting image of Frank Churchill’s passionate face made her hesitate, but that secret was long over. ‘He has now on several occasions taken action, kept secret – oh, it is hurtful!—’ she gulped, stopped.
Mrs Weston looked up. ‘Mr Knightley is a man of sound judgement.’ she said. ‘He approaches forty years of age, of which only one of those years has been spent with a wife. He is used to relying on himself and himself alone. His takes the most manly road in which he bears full responsibility. If he does not apply to you for your opinion, it is because he is sure of his own. You are still very young, however brilliant your intellect—’
‘Oh, don’t tell me such stuff!’
‘Emma!’
‘I am sorry. I am sorry for such rudeness. But you have always led me to believe that I am clever, whereas in London I learnt just how limited my knowledge and understanding and education is – and now Mr Knightley makes it clearer still. He sees me as a spoilt child – he used to tell me so! – he likes me well enough, my looks well enough – but only as he might like a doll!’
‘You a doll?’ despite Mrs Weston’s distress at Emma’s unhappiness, she could not help smiling at this unlikely image that her intemperance had called forth.
‘And now you smile too! As if I were a child in a tantrum—’
‘No. No. You mistake me. I am your friend. But I cannot agree with you about Mr Knightley. If he does not tell you everything he knows, then he must be right not to do so. You must rely on his judgement in all things. He is your husband. You must endeavour to submit yourself to his will—’
‘Oh! Oh!’
‘You do not like such talk. Perhaps I seem old-fashioned in comparison with your London friends—’
‘I had no time for London friends.’ But as Emma spoke, she thought of Philomena Tidmarsh, of Mr Tidmarsh. They would not have lectured her so – as if Mr Knightley was a god, not a mortal man. Besides, how could Mrs Weston pretend that a wife must submit to a husband in everything when they both knew perfectly well that Mr Weston’s easygoing nature looked to his wife for guidance – only seldom the other way around! Why should she play the role of unquestioning slave just because she was married to a man of strong, intelligent character? It was not right; she knew it was not right – but she also knew that calmly determined expression on her old governess’s face; there was no more to be gained by continuing the conversation.
‘Mrs Weston, my dear Mrs Weston,’ said Emma, trying to still the trembling in her voice, ‘I apologise, the strain, poor Isabella, John – the journey from London. I have of course the uttermost respect for Mr Knightley’s views.’
‘We will not talk of it again.’ Mrs Weston sat up, managed a smile. ‘Now, show me what you have purchased in London, for I am sure, from the descriptions in your letters, that you have ribbons and trimmings and lace that will set all Highbury green with envy.’
‘It is the cut of the sleeves where I learnt most,’ contributed Emma, very nearly calm again. ‘Tell me, is it true that the Sucklings’ house has fallen about their ears? I would laugh heartily, if I did not understand from Mrs Elton their misfortune might at last bring them to our doorstep—’
‘Oh, it is a terrible prospect, but I believe we must not hold our breaths for I saw Mrs Elton only yesterday and her face was long with stories of the Sucklings’ being too much in demand at Bath for them to wish to desert it for the humble pleasures of Vicarage Lane.’
‘I am relieved.’ Emma took a breath. ‘And what of young Frank? The baby?’
‘On that subject there is much to say—’ And with this introduction Mrs Weston settled down to the absorbing story – to her at least – of slatternly wet-nurses, unregulated behaviour, childish weakness and strength – She had had it all from Mrs Campbell who had been up to Yorkshire to see for herself.
The rain continued to come down outside the window as she spoke – on and on, as it seemed to her companion. The evergreens took on a darker shade, the branches of the trees and shrubs that had lost their leaves, striped grey and black. It was a dismal sight, Emma thought, and found herself contrasting it to the colonnades and porticos, the bow-windows and trim brick, the bridges and gardens and lakes of London. How could it be that after only a day back in her beloved home she found herself harbouring such disloyal comparisons!
‘In short,’ concluded Mrs Weston, who did not seem to have noticed Emma’s wandering gaze, ‘we will have the poor creature here as soon as ever Mr Weston can arrange the journey. That is what he has gone to Richmond about, for old Mr Churchill stays there now and is talking of shutting up Yorkshire and removing to Richmond permanently. Poor Frank must be in great anguish of mind to stay away so long, when he must know the pain his continued absence will cause those he most loves—’
‘The one he most loved has left him,’ Emma spoke with a blush.
‘That may be so; but there are many left behind who bear him lasting affection—’
‘Ah – indeed – a passionate man may feel that affection is no exchange for love—’
Mrs Weston looked at Emma, surprised. ‘There may be both together – I do not separate the terms—’
‘What does it matter?’ Emma turned her eyes on the melancholy vegetation again. ‘We are agreed – we forgive him – you because you have a forgiving nature and I because – because I admire one who can love so deeply as to ruin his life—’
‘And ruin others with him?’ Mrs Weston’s tone now seemed a little sharper than her nature, as described by Emma, should make it be.
‘Ruin? Do not let us talk of ruins.’
A silence fell as both ladies tried very hard not to think of John Knightley as a Gothic castle.
‘I believe the rain has slowed to nothing more than drips.’ Mrs Weston stood and went to stare out of the window.
‘If you mean to go,’ said Emma, joining her, ‘then I must call papa; he will never forgive me if you leave without sitting a little with him—’
‘Your dear papal How glad he must be to have you back!’
‘He says so – but I would never have believed how comfortably he and Miss Bates have dealt together – sometimes they seem to speak in the same voice. I must admit it has been a surprise to me – I had not thought Miss Bates quite so excellent a companion—’
‘And Sterne? The other servants? Do they have complaints of her management?’
‘Not one bit – and she does not flutter half so much. She will sit without speaking a word for up to half an hour – I noted it last night.’
‘She is a good, dear creature – she was needed and she came – and no
w?’
Emma sighed; it seemed that no subject was without its problems. ‘There is such an appeal in her eye – yet she cannot stay for ever.’
‘Perhaps when Isabella comes—’ Mrs Weston hinted delicately.
‘There will not be room; my thought entirely – every bedchamber occupied—’
‘Quite. And now there is even a spark of sunshine. Look, how it makes the laurels shine.’
‘I shall fetch you to papa.’
Emma found as she left Mrs Weston and Mr Woodhouse at a table of backgammon that her head was less heavy than before. She felt quite able to manage various necessary arrangements and regretted all the more her outburst over Mr Knightley’s lack of openness. It had been mere foolishness. No one was married to a better man!
It was with real warmth of spirit that she saw Mr Knightley, handsome and glowing, ride up the gravel drive, give up his horse to be taken into the stable, and take his usual firm stride into the house.
‘How early you left!’ She smiled, helped him off with his coat. ‘And in such a downpour.’ She held the coat next to her cheek, ‘And yet you are hardly wet at all!’
‘I sheltered for the worst of it at Abbey-Mill – dried myself through – and had such a breakfast! My dear, you must find time to visit the Martins today; they are asking after you.’
Emma’s head gave a throb. Knightley glanced at her as she made no answer.
‘You must not allow prejudice to overwhelm good manners.’
‘No. No. Indeed. I shall visit them this afternoon.’
‘Thank you, dearest Emma. I expected nothing less.’
Chapter 22
To be married and in harmony is happiness complete; to be married and to be in disharmony turns the whole world black. Emma and Mr Knightley ate dinner together, spent the evening in the same room, lay together and breakfasted the next morning together. But they never looked into each other’s faces and their voices – as they spoke politely of plans for Isabella and John Knightley’s arrival; of the Westons’ determination to succour little Frank Churchill or of that traditionally diverting subject, the Sucklings – did not penetrate to their thoughts. Their thoughts remained private, sad and undefined. Soon Mr Knightley, with his usual purposeful calm, announced that it was his day to be a magistrate and left Hartfield. Emma did not watch him go.
What had come between them? If questioned, neither would have showed themselves certain. Knightley, the man of action, hardly wanted to believe there was a separation – or only such a separation as might come between two people, however loving, who had overtaxed their strength. Emma, more used to considering her motives, felt a lack of sympathy from Mr Knightley, a wish that she should be someone rather different than she was or than that person she should wish to be – although what constituted this person she was perfectly unclear. It was not exactly disapproval that she sensed but a kind of insistent weightiness. This weightiness, felt whenever Knightley was near (and to some extent even in his absence), carried with it, scarcely out of sight, an image of Harriet Martin at her garden gate – Mrs Robert Martin who was now a mother and owner of Abbey-Mill Farm – and whom she must visit that morning. It was unfortunate that the first words Emma heard at breakfast after Mr Knightley’s departure should come from Miss Bates, blithely sure of having found an excellent topic of conversation: ‘Mrs Elton assures me that Mrs Martin is determined to throw out a room at the back of the house twice as big as all their present rooms together; she talks of dancing!’
‘I wonder, dear Miss Bates, whether you have misinterpreted—’ said kindly Mr Woodhouse, scraping off what little butter he had first allowed on his bread till there was no more moisture visible than a veil-like film. ‘Mrs Martin’s father was a tradesman. Mrs Elton is prone to exaggeration; she had told me the Sucklings’ house, Maple Grove, had fifteen bedrooms and it was only when I questioned her she revealed that half of these were in use by the servants; on the other hand she calls the Vicarage a “house for dolls”, whereas it is perfectly spacious enough for two – even if Mrs Elton does have a few thousand to her name. You will tell me Mrs Elton is building a ballroom next.’
Miss Bates, smiling agreeably, nevertheless stuck to her principle. ‘I am sure I am not as mistaken as all that; she was tolerably clear.’
‘You know, dearest papa,’ interposed Emma in a voice that sounded strangely sharp to her ears, ‘tradesmen have the money of the future. If you had seen the shops in London—’
‘I expect you are right, my dear. In London – you know all about London – I am quite prepared to let you speak for London money, but in Highbury, it is a quite different matter. In Highbury – or Donwell indeed,’ he gave Emma a smile that was arch as well as complacent, ‘it is land that counts. You will convince me of nothing else, however many visits you pay to London!’
Emma who, in her exasperation with her father’s refusal to face facts (facts that she herself had been just as unwilling to face a few weeks earlier), had been about to mention the Coles – and, even, closer to home, Mr Weston’s trading successes – became abruptly silent. The abruptness pleased Mr Woodhouse, convincing him of his rightful victory over London; but, in truth, Emma’s silence and the blush on her cheeks denoted her sensibility that such talk approached the thin ice of John Knightley’s situation. She must not be drawn into any conversation that might approach the reality: it was tradesman’s money that was looking after Mr Woodhouse’s daughter and six grandchildren. A lawyer had been hard enough for Mr Woodhouse to accept as a son; a bankrupt lawyer, although still very likely above a tradesman in his view of the world, would cause him the sort of pain and confusion that it was the duty of even the most hard-hearted daughter to make every effort to avoid.
‘I am glad poor Isabella and John are giving up London for the country,’ Mr Woodhouse was following a satisfactory train of thought. ‘I know you have assured me it is only for a short time but I beg to differ; no one at Hartfield ever wishes to leave!’
Catching sight of Miss Bates whose smiling and winking face at this sally indicated that she wished to heartily agree but did not quite dare, Emma stood up and prepared to leave the room.
‘She has let her egg become quite hard, that is the problem.’ Mr Woodhouse’s words followed her: ‘Poor Emma; she would never have done that before she left for London.’
Emma could not catch Miss Bates’ humbly murmured rejoinder but her father’s words rose above the closing of the door. ‘Another week or two and she’ll settle down comfortably; change is always for the worse, I do believe.’
This conviction, so patently true in a way Mr Woodhouse could not possibly imagine, perhaps for this very reason, vexed Emma to such an extent that she had to exert extreme forbearance to avoid clapping the door shut with a violence that might have made a part of Hartfield follow the example of the despised Maple Grove, and collapse to the ground. Hartfield was not used to change or noise – even Isabella’s children managed a quieter level. Emma had grown up with this knowledge and never before felt the need to question it. Indeed she did not now but merely rushed through her duties with a more forceful energy than was her usual practice and, before she left the house, looked in on her father with an unthinking flurry and no attempt to rearrange his rug which she saw had been quite wrongly folded by Miss Bates.
‘Goodbye, papa. I am to go visiting. The weather is bright, as you see. James has the carriage out so you may be easy.’
She had gone, so quick that Mr Woodhouse had no time to voice a fear but not, however, quite quick enough to avoid Miss Bates who stood behind – almost inside – the grandfather clock in the hall, and clasped her hands beseechingly.
‘I should have spoke at breakfast – you gone so swift and dear Mr Woodhouse – perhaps as far as Highbury – I may walk – my boots are stout, but—’
‘Dear Miss Bates,’ Emma moderated her voice, ‘I will be glad of your company as far a
s Highbury. I see you have your coat on in readiness.’
‘A presumption – I should not presume—’
‘Of course you should. You have been far too generous with your time to Hartfield. It is your rooms, perhaps, you wish to visit.’
‘The damp – in this weather.’
‘It is done. I shall be glad of your company.’ As Emma spoke these insincere words and they set out together in search of James, it struck her that Miss Bates – her good nature, her loquacity, her general popularity – might be a useful emollient on her visit to the Martins. This proposal was received with much lively gratitude and, with some sense of shame, Emma was forced to realise that the past weeks had seen a severe curtailment in social life for Miss Bates, who, when living in the centre of Highbury, had been used to being surrounded by humankind – even if this merely led to a nod on the pavement or a word about the weather in Ford’s or the post office. It would not have occurred to Mr Woodhouse that Miss Bates would wish to leave his side, so that any contact she would have with the world outside must come to Hartfield.
‘I suppose the Coles and Mrs Goddard and Mr Weston and the Eltons called on you in our absence?’ Emma questioned.
‘Oh, yes! They are all so very kind – so very fond of your dear father – so attentive – as attentive as such busy people can be – We were quiet – but we wished to be quiet.’
By further questioning Emma discovered that the attentiveness of Highbury had been very limited indeed – and that Hartfield had almost slept like an enchanted castle. ‘I am surprised rose thorns did not grow round the walls!’ She laughed, but was a little vexed.
‘No. No, Mrs Knightley. We were so content – three turns round the shrubbery, unless the wind blew too strong – backgammon, chess – I can give Mr Woodhouse a game now – the days flew by – and your letters – oh, if you knew how often we read them – my eyes being a little better than your father’s, I read them aloud – It put me in mind sometimes of the days – oh, I should not say—’ She stopped, a tear in her eye, and Emma could not but be aware that she was thinking of those days when she and old Mrs Bates had read aloud their letters from Jane Fairfax.
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