The memory caused a slight rise in Emma’s colour since at that time her own principal interest had been to avoid hearing these letters – letters from a paragon of every virtue and talent – and she more than once had cut short the doting grandmother and aunt. Yet it would be cruel not to mention her now. ‘Dear Miss Bates – she of whom we are both thinking is at rest now – she is peaceful—’
‘Yes. Yes. You are too kind.’ The good lady dabbed at her eyes and made every effort to sit straight and not give way to grief.
‘You must be in a fever to see little Frank Churchill—’ The idea came to Emma with something of a shock; she did not look forward to it.
‘Yes. Oh, yes. That is why I wished to look into my lodgings. There is talk of the nurse taking him there – the Westons’ house is not large, you know; but perhaps you have an idea—’
‘No. It is entirely what you and Mr Weston decide – I am no relative.’ Emma had never quite managed to couple Mr Weston and Miss Bates with total conviction – the one so sturdy and self-supporting and the other so needful of patronage, so this little piece of deference cost her an effort. But the truth was there and she must not deny it. She was surprised, however, that Miss Bates made no mention of her own return to her rooms as companion to her nephew and his nurse. Perhaps she was taking such a step for granted.
‘I will only be a very few minutes,’ Miss Bates assured Mrs Knightley, her agitation at causing a delay in her hostess’s plans very plain.
‘I shall come in with you. Ford’s has no excitements for me after London and another’s presence may lighten your task.’
The rooms were very cold, small and dark. Emma had forgotten how small and dark; her eyes, inevitably, were drawn to the corner where the pianoforte had stood.
Miss Bates, whose humility did not hinder the efficient working of an observant eye, looked up from her search for mice. ‘You remember what stood there – but we must not talk of that!’
‘It is safe at Donwell – rest assured. Mr Martin has it in his care.’
‘I am glad. Yet I cannot—’ she hesitated.
‘We will inquire after it.’
‘Thank you – all the trouble – Yet I cannot like that piano!’ the words came in even more of a tumble than before and continued in fits and starts as Miss Bates eased her troubled mind by a confession to someone whom she trusted and looked up to as the representative of all generosity. ‘The piano sometimes seems to be – an indication of the bad – the bad in Mr Churchill – The secrecy of its arrival – money spent – Jane playing on it too long – wearing herself out – Mr Churchill leaning close to her face, my poor Jane – so worn, so pale—’
‘Miss Bates, do not distress yourself! Sit down, please.’ Emma was quite alarmed by the trembling figure and gasping face. ‘They found happiness in marriage, we must remember that.’
‘Marriage – happiness – ah, yes. They were happy, Jane’s letters – happy, for a while. But his nature. Jane had no one to turn to. Oh, Mrs Knightley, how could he have left her so much alone! Was not that cruelty. She wrote to us of the long evenings in Yorkshire, alone with Mr Churchill who was not a man of decision – of any activity of mind. Sometimes – I should not even think such a thing – but I cannot but wonder that if she had not been so much alone she would have been stronger – Oh, poor Jane!’
‘Jane was never strong, you must not make things worse—’
‘You are right – of course – I have burnt her letters – I promised myself never to speak of her unhappiness – loneliness—’
‘But if she were so unhappy, why did you not go to her?’
‘Oh, Mrs Knightley!’ A wail. ‘How could I?! Do you not think it was my one desire to be with her? – oh, how I longed for it – but there was my dear Mrs Bates, and—’
‘And?’ prompted Emma.
‘Mr Frank Churchill could not quite – we are humble people – in the grandeur of Enscombe – we would not quite fit in – It was for our own sakes, he said – we would not have been comfortable – but, if I had been able to move Mrs Bates to Yorkshire – probably not, most probably not – but if I had, we would not have needed to be introduced in company – but just to be near—’
‘You must not blame yourself.’
‘But I do! I cannot help it! I apologise – Mrs Knightley – so, so kind…’ She could not speak more. Her silence gave Emma a moment to cogitate and to find consolation for the sorrowful creature in front of her. Eventually she ventured, in words more heartfelt because she truly believed them, ‘You may be right in some points but I am sure you are overlooking the great love that Mr Churchill bore for your niece. After all, he risked his inheritance to become engaged to her. A young, handsome, well-educated gentleman who could have formed a connection with any lady in the land, chose Jane Fairfax, whose undoubted elegance, virtue and talent,’ Emma forbore to mention her humble origins, ‘shut out any other young lady. He loved her with single-minded passion. That alone is enough to make any young wife happy. That he could not change his nature, I can believe, but that he ever stopped loving her, I cannot!’
‘Oh, Mrs Knightley.’ Miss Bates sniffed and composed herself. ‘You are so good – you cannot conceive – however, I will say no more. He did continue to love her in his way, I believe you are right in that.’
With such consoling agreement, the two ladies left the little rooms – scenes of such happiness and such misery – and set off to find James and the carriage at the Crown.
However, before they could dash away to Abbey-Mill, Emma had to put up with one more conversation she would rather have avoided.
‘Mrs Knightley! Such London style and elegance!’ Mrs Elton, shopping basket over her arm, came like an eager bloodhound along the pavement. ‘I would have seen the difference in the dark.’
‘I am dressed entirely from Highbury,’ protested Emma. ‘I did not go to London for shopping.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Mrs Elton’s voice lowered to a knowing whisper, particularly annoying to Emma. ‘Mr Elton has been most concerned. He has offered prayers in church, more than once, mentioning no names, of course. When do the Mr John Knightleys arrive?’
Heartily did Emma wish that Mr Knightley had taken her advice and not even hinted at any financial falling away in his brother’s situation. A hint, for the Eltons, was as much as a clarion call to anyone else. ‘They will be here as soon as Brunswick Square is closed. Mrs Knightley and the children first. We are all very satisfied that they come to us before Mr Knightley takes them away to his new post.’
‘New post!’
‘Oh, yes. In Putney, I believe. Or Chiswick. The details are not quite fixed. But somewhere further out of London – for the children’s sake, you understand.’
‘I see – I misunderstood.’
‘Indeed.’ Emma bowed, ‘London is not the best place to bring up six lively children.’
‘Six. Yes, I must congratulate—’ Mrs Elton’s voice became depressed; unconsciously she smoothed her hips, as gaunt as ever.
‘The air – so unhealthy.’
Mrs Elton rallied, ‘But I have always heard from Mr Woodhouse that the air is so particularly fresh in Brunswick Square – quite unlike the rest of London.’
‘The air is very fresh – for London; but nothing like so fresh as in Richmond or Chiswick or even Putney. The air in those places is very nearly as fresh as in Highbury. Now, I am afraid we must take our leave—’
‘Of course, Mrs Knightley. I merely wished to welcome you back, after so long – and dear Miss Bates, such a worthy companion for Mr Woodhouse.’
Seeing escape at hand, Emma could not resist one final barb. ‘We were all most sympathetic to the trials of Mrs Serena Suckling. Falling houses is one of the risks of London but I have never heard it occur to a properly built house in the country. Please give my condolences to your sister.’
‘Mrs Suckling is taking the opportunity to build two more chimneypieces,’ began Mrs Elton but Mrs Knightley had made her curtsy and left, followed by Miss Bates, like the longboat bobbing in the wake of the cutter.
Chapter 23
It was after midday by the time James drew up the carriage in front of Abbey-Mill Farm. It was a flat, grey day and the whole area, river, garden, apple trees, was no longer bathed in the golden glow that Emma had admired on her last visit. She could not help thinking that its low-lying position must make the house and its surroundings very damp in the winter. She said as much to Miss Bates as they descended and made their way to the garden path but Miss Bates could not agree, having always found Abbey-Mill one of the driest, cosiest places she had ever been in. Mr Martin called it paradise in his friendly way and she had never been one to disagree.
At this point, she saw Emma’s frown and, misreading its cause, started on a eulogy of Hartfield which she was surprised to find only deepened Emma’s frown. Luckily for her peace of mind, the path was not long and the door was already open before they reached the end of it. There stood the same cheerful maid who Emma remembered from her last visit, with the message that her mistresses awaited them in the parlour. Emma saw the change from the mistresses welcoming them in person on the doorstep, and allowed her cloak to be removed with an irritable shrug, before she schooled herself into better humour.
Indeed they had not reached the parlour before a great many Martin ladies had come to greet her, only Harriet lingering behind a little.
Congratulations on the baby – the reason for her visit – were dispensed with real goodwill. The baby himself was then produced – no wet-nurse for him – and, although his face was mostly hid by a vast white cap and he was disinclined to wake beyond a wide-mouthed, lolling yawn, Emma was able to pronounce him a fine, large child who did both his parents justice. If Miss Bates could not restrain a few sad looks, everybody understood the reason, forgave her easily and, out of consideration for her feelings – she who had never yet seen her only living relation – took away young Robert to another room.
‘Now I know Mrs Knightley likes chocolate,’ said old Mrs Martin kindly, ‘but I must admit that we usually take something a little more substantial at this time of day. Harriet tells me it is not the proper thing to do but Robert has been used to a plate of cold meat or suchlike – it is hungry work looking after a farm.’
Emma bowed her head graciously, Miss Bates nodded and smiled again and Harriet, well, Harriet was so pleased with her life, so pretty and cheerful and felt her good fortune so obviously, that nothing could displease her and, it must be said, it would be an uncharitable person who could be displeased by her.
Emma sighed; she could not be that person. Harriet in the flesh was not the threat she had become in the veiled regions of her imagination. She was Harriet as ever, simple, good and affectionate; even her pretensions were so transparent as not to offend.
‘We had thought, perhaps, of extending just a very little,’ she began timidly, under Emma’s questioning. ‘I would so value your advice in the matter. Mr Martin—’ she stopped for a blush.
‘My son will do everything for her,’ finished Mrs Martin. ‘Now here he comes!’
With a mother’s ears, she had heard her son’s arrival before anyone and had them all nicely seated round the table before he came in, breezy from his walking, proud to see the visitors.
‘Mrs Knightley. Miss Bates.’ He bowed, gentlemanly, and took his place at table.
As Emma, who declined to eat anything more than a biscuit, looked around at the happy faces, all deferring to the man in their midst who in his turn listened to whatever they might say when he was not too taken with consuming what seemed to her prodigious quantities of food, she could not help but contrast this scene to that which Mr Knightley found at Hartfield: a querulous foolish old man, an ignorant old maid, and a wife who gave him no heir and scarcely concealed an unquiet heart. Moreover, this circle was soon to be added to by the sum of a brother who had brought discredit to the name of Knightley, a sister-in-law who was nearly as foolish as the father and six children who, much as Mr Knightley might love them, were not his own. No wonder he had the habit of stopping in at Abbey-Mill!
Such admirable clear-sightedness lowered Emma’s spirits considerably. It did not hinder her from uttering all the polite civilities that are normal on such occasions or from advising Mrs Martin that her plan for a room facing south would perhaps lead to a shade too much warmth in the summer but would amply compensate for this effect by its beneficial aspect at all other times of year. ‘Hartfield’s aspect is all southern, I do believe!’ interposed Miss Bates. But during the entire visit, Emma carried on a dialogue within herself which, in summary, went like this: ‘Mr Knightley loves me; Mr Knightley is a good man; Mr Knightley has much to put up with; Mr Knightley is deserving of much sympathy, in particular from his wife.’ So far it was all statements; but then came the questions: ‘So why cannot I who have felt such an easy rush of feeling for him from the first moment he declared himself, why cannot I provide him with the loving that he merits? Why, instead, do I feel a coldness towards him? Why do I feel constrained in his presence?’ No answer came to these painful questions and, at last, Emma forced herself to smile and put them away.
She must take Miss Bates and go and find poor James and the horses standing in the cold. But no, Mr Martin had found room for them in the stable and even now James held a steaming mug in the kitchen. At this further evidence of good order, Emma’s spirits sank even lower, and she insisted she must not stay another minute or Mr Woodhouse would be made fearful of their safety.
This was understood by all to be sufficient reason to hasten their departure and – with such warm farewells to make Emma feel thoroughly appreciated – they made their way to the front door. It was here, as they stood waiting for the carriage to reappear, that Emma caught a look in Mr Martin’s regard which surprised her and made her uncomfortable enough to take Miss Bates’ arm as if for protection. What was it? Disapproval? No, that was too strong. But a puzzlement – a knowledge of something about her that concerned him. It was indeed a repetition of that look he had given her on his first arriving at Brunswick Square.
‘Thank you, Mrs Martin, Harriet—’ She turned her face away and, chiding herself for too much sensitivity, took her leave. She had visited Abbey-Mill as Mr Knightley had asked her and now she must return to her own home and prepare for the onslaught of the John Knightley family.
It was a measure of how much Emma felt her situation altered for the worse that an arrival that had in previous years always been looked forward to with joyous anticipation now was contemplated by her with something approaching dread.
Chapter 24
New Year passed, marked by no more festivity at Hartfield than a dinner attended by the Westons and Mrs Goddard. Mr Woodhouse was able to make up a quiet table of cards, for both Emma and Mr Knightley were unwilling players and seemingly unable to play as a pair. Mr Woodhouse’s expectation of the imminent arrival of his older daughter, which had reached fever pitch a day or two before New Year – ‘They will wish to be here, comfortably, with their family, I make certain of it—’ subsided. He turned once more to Miss Bates for company and revealed to Emma that ‘Miss Bates showed a remarkable aptitude for jumping her knight and a firm hand with the queen’ – high praise, indeed.
A week or so of dull blustery weather passed, in which Emma sat at the pianoforte more often than she had in a year; she was determined to bring at least one piece up to a standard that should please her ear, but this ambition seemed curiously evasive: if she conquered one awkward run of notes, a chord previously quite within her grasp dissolved under her hands. Eventually she overheard Miss Bates whispering loudly to her father, ‘Dear Mrs Knightley – how she does work! I feel I know that charming little piece quite by heart.’ The complaint behind the compliment was only too clear. She shut the piano a
nd picked up her square of cambric – at least that was silent.
‘It is nearly arranged.’ Mr Knightley announced at last. ‘I shall go to Brunswick Square tomorrow with James and he shall bring back Isabella and the older children the day following, and another carriage will bring the younger children, the nurse and the remaining maids. I shall stay for a day or two to finish closing down the house and make a few further arrangements.’
Hurt that this announcement should come as soon to Mr Woodhouse and to Miss Bates as to herself, Emma stabbed out yet another false cross in her embroidery and put it away. She said nothing, however, neither that evening nor that night and bid Mr Knightley goodbye the next morning with a fond admonition to keep his collar up against the wind. For a moment she saw a bright warmth in his eye and then he merely bowed and called to James. Lips pursed, Emma watched him go, watched the slick wheels spinning up the gravel and the leafless chestnut trees dashing their branches about in the wind. Shivering, she turned and went briskly back to the house; there was still much to be done in preparation for Isabella’s arrival.
There is a special quality in a family home – lived in from childhood – which has the ability to make for the greatest comfort or the greatest pain. Emma who had in the last weeks, almost unknown to herself, begun to look on Hartfield as the cause of much of her dissatisfaction, watched Isabella’s unaffected happiness at being once again in her dear old surroundings, with a surprise bordering on jealousy. It seemed months, years, a whole age, since she herself had arrived from London with just such exclamations of recognition and delight – ‘Dear old round table!’ – ‘Sweet little buttoned chair!’ – ‘No curtain has ever been prettier than this!’
Emma watched her sister through the veil of her own anxious humour and found it only truly swept away – for a little time at least – by the affectionate antics of her nephews who, under threat of being sent away to school (when the money could be found, Emma presumed) were in particularly high spirits, whirling her into energetic games of cup and ball – at which activity she could be certain to excel – or forcing her out into the cold garden to play catch. Little Bella, too, had grown very fond of her aunt during her stay in London and, recently separated from a favourite nurse who had been turned away, attached all her affections – and her stubby little body whenever possible – to Emma.
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