Emma & Knightley

by Rachel Billington

  It was nice to be wanted, Emma acknowledged; to feel the firm press of young flesh gave her joy and lessened the hurt she carried within her.

  Isabella not only brought new life and energy – her staunchness in the face of their change of circumstances commanded her sister’s continuing surprise and admiration – but also two letters for Emma, one from the Reverend Dugobair Tidmarsh, the other from Mrs Tidmarsh.

  They miss you extremely!’ cried Isabella. ‘Philomena has been unwell, but read the letters for yourself. They have been so kind in all the packing up – they and good Mr Wingfield – I cannot imagine how I shall manage without him – but he is a busy man, all doctors are – and I could not be near so neat and orderly without Mrs Tidmarsh and Mr Tidmarsh – I am quite in their debt.’

  Emma took the letters to her room with a sense of unease. She opened Mr Tidmarsh’s first.

  Dear Mrs Knightley, London has been a sadder place without your lively interest; Mrs Tidmarsh and I cannot go to an exhibition, view a bridge or take in a concert without missing the companionship of Mrs Knightley from Highbury, Surrey. I, of course, have my work; although on occasions I find myself in agreement with Pliny,’ – otiosum esse quam nihil agere’ – but this is not central to my argument. I write of my stepmother; she has charitable work – she has musical responsibilities – but her mind is not diverted. Since my father’s death, she has found no companion her equal – apart from myself, if I can commit such an immodest thought to paper, and I am engaged often at St Peter’s. Philomena is a rare woman, her mind as tuned as a man’s, but with no set subject, no object on which to concentrate its intelligence – I ramble. My message is this – Mrs Tidmarsh misses you; she is unwell; I am anxious. Perhaps, when the weather is more clement, I may, on her behalf, take up your generous invitation for her to visit the surroundings of Highbury, about which you have told us so much that we perceive it as a regular Arcady—

  The letter closed with little more ado but the most sensible and grateful anticipations of Mrs Tidmarsh’s future happiness in leaving the smoke of London for the sweet openness of the country.

  Emma, even with Isabella’s words of gratitude and the debt owing to both Mr and Mrs Tidmarsh, could not respond as she would have liked due to an irritable consciousness of presumption by one who was still hardly more than an acquaintance. Instead, she picked up, with a face somewhat set, the smaller note from Mrs Tidmarsh.

  My dear, I could not let the opportunity of Isabella’s removal to you pass without this little missive. With what pleasure I look back on our association – be it ever so short – in your life, so full as it must be, perhaps already forgotten. Yet a friendship outside one’s own circle is always a little special and I flatter myself I provided that interest for you. Assuredly, you gave me much of something I had felt lacking in my life – a freshness, openness, a keen intelligence, without the cynicism which is the curse of our age and shows itself most particularly in a city like London when ambition is equated with labour and success with virtue. You gave me new hope and I thank you. I shall not trouble you further, but, if you ever find yourself at your desk – I picture it made of rosewood and by a window overlooking a park all green and brown and blue sky – and not altogether busy, then think of your London friend and pen me a note – and I shall treasure a breath from a freer, brighter world! Adieu my dear Mrs Knightley – Please convey my respects to Mr Knightley, Mr Robert Martin and to your dear father, Mr Woodhouse who – between you and Isabella – I feel I know enough to send the best of good wishes!

  Emma put down the letter with a mixture of relief and guilt. She sighed – no mention here of illness or of a visit. Yet the voice spoke directly to her in that way she had found so attractive, so unlike any lady she met in Highbury. There was an appeal in it – but only for a moment, about ‘a freer, brighter world’. Sighing again, Emma folded both notes and put them into her desk. Perhaps she would show them to Mr Knightley when he returned and see what opinion he took of them.

  ***

  Another week passed – almost flew by with the house so full – before the two Mr Knightleys came riding into the Hartfield driveway. The sisters, standing at an upper window with their arms full of linen, watched them arrive.

  Took at the colour in John’s face!’ Isabella cried with delight. ‘I do believe he is quite restored.’

  Emma could not keep herself from reflecting that it would be a poor sort of man who could be so quickly restored after causing such damage to those God had entrusted to him to love and care for, yet could not help but be glad at Isabella’s cheerful optimism.

  ‘I should not be surprised if they have not good news!’ she continued. ‘You know John will never settle down here with papa – it would never do. Even in bankruptcy, he must be independent. Mark my words, he has found us a new home!’

  Emma looked at her sister with surprise. Such an easy acceptance of the difficulties between Mr Woodhouse and John Knightley – between two such very important people in Isabella’s life – showed a strength and willingness to face reality with which she would never have credited her sister. She, Emma, although priding herself on a greater understanding in such matters than Isabella, would not have been able to pronounce such words without pain, would probably not have been able to pronounce them at all.

  ‘Come, Emma, let us welcome them!’

  But Emma was looking at Mr Knightley, her Mr Knightley – how easily he swung off his horse, how handsome his face was turned full to the house – and her heart beat hard and quick. She wanted to run with Isabella – even after six children and reprehensible behaviour, her sister still ran to her husband – but she could not. She must walk, she must meet Knightley, already in the hallway, crowded with children and say, with the politest of smiles, ‘We expected you yesterday! I fear your beef will have lost all its pink and look more like leather.’

  ‘My dear, my dear Emma.’ He took her hand and kissed it. ‘I am pleased to be back. I would not care if the beef had turned to wood.’

  No, but my heart is wood, thought Emma, mechanically, before joining the whole party to go into the parlour and greet Mr Woodhouse. ‘Our lives are mostly lived in public,’ she reflected further, ‘and in public we are a loving couple.’

  That night Mr Knightley held Emma in his arms and, as if to contradict her mood, he was affectionate. ‘I have good news,’ he said, ‘the best there could be.’

  ‘Ah,’ thought Emma, ‘he will tell me of the true depths of his feelings for me and cast away this strange shadow that has crept so subtly between us.’

  ‘My brother has found employment and a house in Richmond. A contact through old Mr Churchill at Mr Weston’s suggestion; it is not grand – the fall is still great from what he was before – but it is honourable. John may restore himself to a place of dignity and his family, although much reduced in circumstances, may follow him, if that is what Isabella wishes. She is being told of the circumstances this very moment, I have no doubt, and I suspect that, such is her attachment to her husband, as evinced by her entire lack of reproach through this whole sorry business, that she will wish to be with him, however cramped their quarters. Long holidays at Hartfield may be desirable for the children – they can hardly afford such luxuries as the seaside now – but Isabella will want a home of her own, beside John, I make sure of it. But, tell me, Emma, what is your view? You know her best.’ He turned to her, face glowing with pleasure at all his efforts being crowned with this much success.

  In the dim light of the single candle, Emma could make out his open, eager expression; although asking advice on her sister (about which he had already given a firm opinion), she was reminded more of a schoolboy seeking commendation for work well done. He deserved an alpha assuredly. Yet during his speaking, her heart had grown sad and cold; it was not what she had expected and hoped for. His happiness had nothing to do with her, with them. Perhaps he had not even noticed these days w
hich had been so painful to her as she felt them estranged. Indeed it now seemed likely that any estrangement on his side was entirely because of his total concentration on effecting a new beginning to his brother’s story. Now that it was achieved, he had time for Emma again, warm looks, loving hands that caressed her face and hair. ‘You do not answer, my love. You are tired. So many in a household – so many fewer maids than usual – your father, Miss Bates—’

  He was understanding. He had given up looking for praise; it did not matter, after all, so much to him for he knew he had done right. When did he not act out of the noblest principles with the most practical application? Strangely, this thought of Emma’s which should have made her more loving towards her husband, gave a bitter twist to her mouth. She could not help thinking that this goodness and care for the whole world made him not so especially hers.

  Frank Churchill’s words – spoken in wild anguish – came to her: ‘He is not passionate’ – was that it? And then he had continued on to say that Emma and he, himself, were alike in their nature – passionate natures – his fingers clutching at her body as they stood swaying on the slippery bank. She had felt his passion turned towards herself, before tearing out of his grasp.

  ‘You must sleep, then,’ said Knightley, as Emma closed her eyes. ‘I will just kiss you quietly.’ He did so and the candle was blown out without her making a stir.

  Chapter 25

  Another month or more passed until the occasional black frost alternated with milder days. The snowdrops and crocuses – about the latter in their purple and golden majesty Emma had written a note to Mrs Tidmarsh – were long gone, primroses in full flower and the green shoots of daffodils producing enough show to make believe that spring was round the corner.

  ‘I do declare I have never seen such heads on them so early in the year!’ exclaimed Miss Bates as she, Mr Woodhouse, Emma and Isabella took a turn or two about the garden.

  ‘Every year since I can remember words, I have heard just that same announcement, with the same inflection of wonder!’ laughed Emma. ‘I cannot help thinking that daffodils do always intend to come up in March and it is we humans who expect them later, in order to give us a pleasurable surprise when they come earlier!’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Knightley—’ began Miss Bates, but thinking of no proper compliment, subsided.

  ‘March is the most trying month,’ sighed Isabella, ‘They say it comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb but I think it is as if the two were stabled together, one minute giving a great roar of wind and sleet and the next, like today, so mild I cannot get even the youngest child to keep his hat on.’

  ‘I never uncover my head till June or July and then only when the sun is neither too hot nor the breeze too chilling,’ contributed Mr Woodhouse.

  ‘Poor Mrs Bates quoted me every year when the sun shone bright early on, “Ne’er cast a clout till May is out” but we never could decide whether the May referred to in that wise old saying was the blossom on the hedgerow or the month of the year. We argued more about that, I do believe, than anything else in all our long time together.’

  ‘My dear Miss Bates,’ said Mr Woodhouse with a most enthusiastic look, ‘I believe I may come to your aid – the May in question is undoubtedly—’

  Emma and Isabella exchanged a glance at this point and fell behind, comfortable in the certainty that a discussion about this foolish old saying would keep Mr Woodhouse and Miss Bates entertained for as long as they wished to circulate the shrubberies and probably longer. It was the most felicitous combination of their favourite subjects – health and the weather.

  ‘Another week or two and we will be off to Richmond,’ said Isabella, contemplating the blue sky and new grass. ‘I cannot allow John to be alone much longer; his spirits become depressed and it is not good for his health.’

  Emma knew her sister ached to start her new life and indeed thought it very likely that John Knightley should need a companion, lest he fall into some further misguided temptation. ‘I will miss you.’

  ‘You will miss me and I will miss you and the children will miss you most dreadfully. Mr Woodhouse, however, will take it without much sense of loss, I surmise. Miss Bates is the most enterprising companion. Dear papa is never dull for a moment, scarcely complains, and is in altogether better spirits than I have seen him for years.’

  ‘“Enterprising”, you call her.’ Emma appeared to ruminate on the word.

  Isabella laughed. ‘It is odd, is it not, that poor old Miss Bates for whom we have had nothing but pity ever since we were children, should have such a commanding effect on someone so much her superior – but that is the way of the world, I do believe, or human nature, at least. I hope you will not think of turning her off from Hartfield.’

  Emma did think of this – often – but was too clearsighted and honest not to recognise that the good creature’s presence would be far too much missed by her father to justify such a step. Besides, she could not now wish to go back to those days when it was her primary duty to see to the happiness of her father. ‘No. Miss Bates must stay,’ she smiled at Isabella. ‘Although she must take care not to improve her chess game any further or she is in danger of defeating our dear papa.’

  ‘I think we can count on Miss Bates to avoid such cruelty.’ Isabella also smiled but then paused for a moment in their walk and turned her full attention to Emma. It was so seldom that the two sisters were together without the presence of children with their constant demands or some essential household activity in train, that Emma found herself surprised by the keen intelligence in her sister’s gaze. They were more intimate than they had been for years – partly owing to John’s downfall and partly owing to the family’s extended stay at Hartfield – but Isabella’s complete preoccupation with her motherly responsibilities had stood between any deep confidences. Yet now she spoke with a determined air, as if the thought had been turned over and prepared, ‘I wonder, dear sister, with papa so comfortable, you and George do not consider opening up Donwell Abbey. It is a sad thing, when the world is so short of houses, that that beautiful old building stands empty. Does Knightley not speak of it? I know he talked of it to John – although only to suggest we might remove there. But that would not do. John must be where he can work and my place is at his side. I do not mean to interfere—’ continued Isabella, faltering a little as she saw her sister’s flushed and frowning face, ‘but I have always seen how Mr Knightley loved Donwell. Now his responsibilities take him there daily—’

  ‘You have said enough! Do you think I do not think of it! My own husband leaving his house for me – but what can I do? You call Miss Bates “enterprising” – yes, she does well enough when I am here – we are here – but to leave papa for ever in the hands of a woman who has lived off other people’s charity all her life – who has no thought in her head but to say the next thing that will please whoever has just spoken before – Would you condemn Mr Woodhouse to such a – such a narrow fate!’

  ‘You are passionate – yes, she is not a clever woman – but then neither am I and our father is happy—’

  ‘Oh, Isabella, how you have changed.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps – my situation—’

  ‘Dear Isabella – I did not mean—’

  ‘No. No. You meant only for the best; and so did I – but it will be forgotten – it is not my place. Dear papa, how he does like us all to be happy! Now let us rejoin them.’

  So the division between the two sisters ended in affection but left behind, for Emma, an uneasiness. What should be done? Was it possible that her sister should see such matters more clearly than herself?

  ‘The day is so fine, I believe I shall take a walk to Randalls,’ said Emma, an hour or two later. ‘And if I am long away, I shall have gone further, to the cottages. I have sadly neglected them this winter. But now I can make a note of their needs.’

  Such combining of pleasure with virtue caused
little stir among the acute activity of Hartfield. Only Miss Bates paused a moment from her reading aloud to Mr Woodhouse – they had both taken a fancy to reports of great personages in The Times newspaper which had come into the house since Mr Knightley’s advent. ‘You would not credit what energetic lives people lead!’ became a ritual exclamation.

  ‘You are so good, Mrs Knightley,’ said Miss Bates, glasses on her nose and finger on a column inch.

  Armed with such unwanted commendation, Emma left the house and began a brisk walk along the path to Randalls. She had not yet learnt the lesson which rules: virtue first, pleasure after, so she went directly to Randalls, noticing, with some surprise, that the distance which she had always assumed a barrier to daily intimacy with her old friend, Mrs Weston, seemed to have shrunk over the last weeks so that its friendly four-square walls were in view after scarcely more than ten minutes passed. ‘I would be there in five,’ the thought flew unbidden into her head, ‘if I were mounted on a horse!’ She smiled at her folly and yet ladies did ride over the countryside. She could have been in Highbury in a flash and at Donwell as soon as Mr Knightley. The only drawback to this plan, she admitted it as she came across Randalls lawn, was that she had never learnt to ride. How could she have done such a thing to Mr Woodhouse? His heart would have given out at the very idea!

  Approaching from the side of the house, Emma only saw the carriage in the driveway as she was close upon it. Mr Weston stood beside it, Mrs Weston behind it with her children’s nurse, all attention fixed, however, on a woman just emerging from the vehicle which had four horses, was much splashed with mud and gave every impression of coming from a long distance.