Unnoticed, Emma drew closer and was able to see that the woman, who wore shawl and bonnet of an unfashionable cut, carried a large bundle. The moment her feet were set on the gravel, both Westons, with irrepressible exclamations of excitement, crowded forward and bent over the bundle – from which a loud cry issued. Emma could no longer disguise from herself that by some strange law of coincidence she was witnessing the arrival of little Frank Churchill at his grandfather’s. The greatest curiosity debating with the fear that she might be interfering in a private moment, she hung back, undecided, still however watching closely the scene in front of her.
‘Oh, fair curls – fat cheeks – he does not look sickly as I expected!’ Mrs Weston exclaimed, her usual calm tones raised more than ever Emma had heard them. Oh how she doted on babies!
‘Come, my dear. The day is fine enough, but he is best inside,’
They would have turned and gone inside without ever seeing Emma, had not one of their maids, less occupied, dropped a curtsy, all of a sudden, saying ‘Mrs Knightley, ma’am.’
‘My dearest Mrs Knightley – see what the warm wind has blown our way! What a happy chance you should visit just now! Do you see, it is Frank’s baby! Such a boy!’ Mr Weston’s unaffected pleasure in her joining the welcoming party made it inevitable that Emma should admire the rosy-cheeked baby – just like his father, as everyone agreed at once (and certainly there seemed nothing of the fine lines of his mother there) – and be drawn in to the merry party. In the confusion and happiness, Emma was swept up to the nursery where the Westons’ little Anna jumped up and down shouting, ‘Baby! Baby!’ and where little Frank was unwrapped like a parcel and sat solidly on the floor with his thumb in his mouth. Then downstairs again to the parlour where Mr Weston, beaming with goodwill, felt it right to offer his visitor some refreshment – ‘although the house is all at sixes and sevens with this addition,’ he remarked, with a poor show of regret, ‘and we are as likely to get sieved prunes as a glass of tea!’
Laughing heartily at his joke, he sat closer to Emma than he would usually and asked, as if there were a choice of answer, ‘So what do you think of the boy, eh?’
Emma, who was determined to disguise her emotions at viewing Frank’s child, smiled. ‘Oh, I do not think much of him – a poor creature.’
‘What?’ began Mr Weston, amazed.
‘No golden curls, rosy cheeks, blue eyes, handsome features, no legs, arms, fingers, toes...”
‘Mrs Knightley!’ Mr Weston returned to his laughter.
‘I am so very glad for you,’ Emma found herself able to be more serious. ‘It will ease your worry on his behalf to have him in your own nursery.’
‘It will. It will. Mrs Weston is most convinced it is the right course of action – once we had old Mr Churchill’s permission – although the space is not great, we will manage, we will certainly manage—’ he hesitated.
‘Space must always be of secondary importance where happiness is concerned,’ encouraged Emma and she thought of her sister’s determination to join her husband.
‘Just so, just so,’ agreed Mr Weston, but the air of concern remained. ‘There is one development which I must look on as a further blessing, although it is also a source of disquiet. The manner – the secrecy—’
‘Yes?’ prompted Emma.
‘Frank Churchill was in Yorkshire. Old Mr Churchill had already left for Richmond; Frank came to Enscombe – but only found the housekeeper—’
‘He did not see his baby?’ asked Emma, and then suddenly remembering Frank’s wild designation of the baby as ‘a murderer’ she blushed hotly.
Mr Weston was far too concerned with his own preoccupation to notice his companion’s change of countenance.
‘He did not see little Frank, although that was the object of his visit. The housekeeper told him – indeed, he is the father and has a right to his son – where the wet-nurse lived, where he could find little Frank – but apparently he did not go there. His manner was not calm – I have a letter here from the housekeeper – I have hardly had time to take it in – Forgive me if I have burdened you—’
‘No. No. If I can be of any help—’
‘I think it is poor Frank that needs help,’ Mr Weston sighed. ‘Would that a grown man was as easy to help as a five-month-old baby!’
It struck Emma that this was the best-judged remark that she had ever heard Mr Weston pronounce and she could think of nothing to add to it. An awkward silence fell. The preoccupations that had drawn Emma to Randalls had been overwhelmed by circumstances; it was perfectly clear that this was not the moment to invite Mrs Weston’s views on a removal to Donwell – even if it had been possible to separate her from the nursery, which seemed unlikely.
‘I must not keep you further.’ Emma stood. ‘Besides, I have promised myself a visit to the cottages—’
‘They will benefit from your attention, I have no doubt.’ Mr Weston bowed a little abstractedly.
Emma thought, equally abstractedly, that she might benefit from the visit even more but, as it turned out, neither side had the opportunity – for, just as she reached the end of the driveway, a heavy shower of rain, come out of a cloud racing from nowhere, forced her under the trees, which, being leafless, afforded her but little protection. In a second she was wet, in another wetter. Despite the return of the blue sky, Emma decided there was nothing for it but to return to Hartfield.
The house when she entered, disposing of her outer garments with alacrity, was unusually silent. In the parlour she found Mr Woodhouse asleep but Miss Bates, The Times folded at her side, bright-eyed and expectant, looking at her over her stump-work.
‘You did not reach the cottages, I collect?’
Was Miss Bates suggesting she had failed in her duty? A guilty conscience made Emma frown.
‘It came on to rain, a sharp burst, now over – but it caught me just as I could find no cover.’
‘Mr Knightley is returned too. He has gone to help the boys with their Latin. Poor Mrs John Knightley declared it quite beyond her wits and has retired for a rest. Mr Knightley was most energetic and assured me that it would do his head good to study a well-constructed Latin sentence.’
‘Mr Knightley is good at everything,’ said Emma, repressing her surprise for she had never connected Mr Knightley with the classical writers. She sat down, however, declaring she would not disturb him in such a mission. It had struck her that here was a private opportunity – so rare in this house – for telling Miss Bates of the arrival of her little great-nephew. It would give her time to get over her flutters and settle herself.
‘I found news for you at Randalls – more than news, in fact – an arrival—’
‘Oh, Mrs Knightley – oh—’ her hand was at her heart, her sewing dropped.
‘A happy arrival. Little Frank Churchill has come with his nurse.’
Emma was not disappointed in Miss Bates’ reaction. The depth of her feeling was touching – although Emma found herself not altogether touched – and her reiteration of her poor dead niece’s name eventually produced tears that could not be contained, try as the good creature might. The tears fell, however, with many side glances at the sleeping Mr Woodhouse and admonishments to herself not to wake him.
‘It is happy news, I believe,’ Emma reminded her more than once and eventually this fact overwhelmed Miss Bates’ old memories of sadness and, after fifteen minutes, she was composed once more.
‘I shall put on my little glasses,’ she said, ‘and then if your good father does wake he will not notice anything amiss. But perhaps you will have a cup of tea.’
Emma declined this offer and instead went slowly, stair by stair, to the schoolroom. The interview with Miss Bates had calmed her emotions on the subject of Frank’s baby. Entering quietly, she had time to see Knightley, in his shirtsleeves, sitting between Henry and John at the scrubbed table where Emma had
once studied (though not Latin) with Mrs Weston, then the independent Miss Taylor. Knightley leant from one boy to the other, correcting their work with an eager, good-humoured look, while they questioned him in the same jolly way. It was a scene bound to please the eye, yet Emma frowned.
‘I did not know you had Latin to add to your accomplishments.’
‘Emma! Oh, I am a fraud. The boys have found me out already. Now their father could carry on a conversation in Latin. But he was always ahead of me in matters intellectual.’
‘And much good it has done him,’ thought Emma but a look at her quick-witted nephews taught her to stay silent. She watched still as Knightley set a few more tasks for Henry and John and then together they went down to their own parlour – still preserved for their private use. Emma led her husband there for the sight of him in the schoolroom had reminded her of the nature of the man she had married and, with sudden resolution, she had seen that the news she had to impart – of little Frank’s arrival in their midst and his father’s being sighted in Yorkshire – provided just the opportunity for her to unburden her heart of the secret of his presence last year in Donwell. Knightley was a good, kind man who loved her; she must not shirk this duty another day.
With such admirable resolution, she handed him his coat – for the fire hardly burned – and sat at her little desk, although swung round to face him, where he stretched on the wider chair.
‘I can see you have news. You were at Randalls, I know. Let me guess. Can it be? No! So soon after the last! That Mrs Weston has acquired a third child!’
‘You know already! Oh, Knightley’ – a reproach. Why could she give him nothing?
‘The whole of Highbury knows and most of Surrey. The carriage stopped at the Crown to ask the way – the baby cried – Mrs Goddard was passing by with a train of girls – Mrs Elton met Mrs Goddard further down the street – You see, nothing can be secret in Highbury!’
Emma blushed a little at her consciousness of the untruth of it. Knightley, misreading its meaning, continued, ‘But I left you the pleasure of telling Miss Bates.’
‘I did. It brought back poor Mrs Churchill to her but I left her tolerably ready to revel in blue eyes and golden hair.’
‘You may describe him to me, Emma. I have not seen him, you know.’
But now the weight of what she must confess began to bear in on Emma, and she did not expand more than ‘A stout, healthy child’ – she paused – ‘the picture of his father.’ Now she must continue.
‘His father?’
‘Frank Churchill has been seen – in Yorkshire. He was looking for the baby.’
‘Well, let us hope he does not find him!’ the tone was vehement, the brow dark and heavy. ‘You did not tell Miss Bates, poor lady, of this?’
‘No – I—’
‘You were right. I have come to believe that I was correct in my first estimation of his character. Everything he touches turns to pitch. Poor Jane Fairfax. Poor child. When he was needed, he ran; now that times are more settled, he will come to make problems. If I were Mr Weston, I would ban him from the house—’
‘But – I—’ Emma felt resolution faltering, slipping away; this was passion indeed in Mr Knightley! She tried once more – ‘Surely a man has a natural right—’ But broke off at the thought of little Frank at the mercy of his father’s violent nature.
‘Natural! He has a natural right if he is a natural man but a man like Mr Frank Churchill is as unnatural as—’ A simile failing him, he stopped, looked at Emma’s pale, anguished face and shut his mouth as if clamped. A look which Emma had not seen before, containing, among other emotions, something resembling shame, took hold of his face for a moment, then disappeared again. He stood up, came over to Emma and took her hand. ‘I cannot retract my view of Mr Churchill but it does not do to shout. You are not his keeper – you should not be shouted at – it was not gentlemanly of me. Forgive me, Emma.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes. But I—’
‘Not another word. You will change for dinner and I will return to Henry and John. How fond I have become of those two boys and how sadly I will miss them when they leave us!’
‘I cannot but agree,’ said Emma in a low voice for her heart still pounded, even though she was already facing the certainty that her secret must remain untold. She looked at Knightley and thought, ‘You would like a son, above all things,’ but she did not say that either.
Chapter 26
As the weather became fair and stayed fair for several days, instead of hours, at a time, Highbury – that is, the part of Highbury that could boast a dining-room and a driveway – always closed down to some extent in winter – showed signs of an intention to become a livelier place.
‘This is the third invitation since Tuesday!’ Emma held up the cards to her sister at breakfast.
‘You are quite right, my dear. It is an imposition, a danger to our comfortable circle that must be resisted.’ Mr Woodhouse picked up the butter-knife as if ready to ward off outside forces with any weapon to hand.
‘My dear papa,’ Emma smiled, ‘I was saying it as a source of pleasure rather than pain. I am afraid you will be out-argued now that John is not here to support you.’
‘I am sure Miss Bates will not want to be out at all hours. I expect these are dinner engagements we are invited to.’
Miss Bates, recognising that she might be faced with the choice between disagreeing with father or daughter, became so busy with the teapot that it was clear she could neither see nor hear anything beyond its elegant spout.
‘Besides,’ continued Emma, more for the sake of argument than because she wished to dine out daily, ‘it is the Westons, the Goddards, the Coles – with dancing proposed, the Martins, and now, today, although I believe we should not hold our breaths for this one, the Eltons announce—’
‘The Sucklings!’ Isabella finished for her. ‘I am glad you will have some gaiety when I am gone, Emma. Papa, you must not allow your own disposition for tranquillity to overwhelm Emma and Mr Knightley’s right to company – particularly when Mr Knightley is not here to speak for himself.
‘My dear, but of course Mr Knightley and Emma shall go where they please – it is only myself I speak of. I shall stay quite happily – it will be quite like old times – Miss Bates and I – Miss Bates never wishes to leave Hartfield, I know – nor need she—’
This kind thought was interrupted by a loud noise as Miss Bates dropped the lid of the teapot. Her look of regret and distress must be attributed to that rather than any dissension with Mr Woodhouse over her wish to stay every night at Hartfield. Once the tea stain had been sprinkled with salt, Emma took up Isabella on her plans of departure.
‘You will at least have dinner at the Westons,’ she said, ‘since their dining-room is already built. However, you may be able to avoid the Martins since their room is only four bricks high so that a brisk wind would sweep the food from the table.’
‘You are not planning to eat in the open!’ exclaimed Mr Woodhouse with a look of horror.
‘Only from our waists up – or for Miss Bates hardly below her shoulders—’
‘Emma, you are too high-spirited—’ Mr Knightley had come in at the door. He had been out already – for this was a busy time of year at Donwell – and come back hungry for eggs and bacon.
‘Emma always keeps us merry,’ said Mr Woodhouse and would have said more if Emma had not suddenly risen and moved so swiftly to pull the bell to the kitchen that her sleeve caught her teacup.
‘Oh dear, oh dear – what did I set in motion—!’ began Miss Bates, eager as ever to take the blame.
So breakfast was completed in a very snowstorm of salt, and far too many rearrangements of the table to make Knightley comfortable, and to allow for any more discussion of social engagements or any words at all other than those of politeness, apology and goodwill.
A few hours later
Emma sat at her desk in her parlour engaged in an activity she could not have imagined only a few weeks ago. She wrote a long letter to Philomena Tidmarsh. In front of her lay Mrs Tidmarsh’s last letter; it was not long but told of being sadly disappointed in a visit to Drury Lane where ‘upward of three thousand people laughed at veritable rubbish, but perhaps the odious fumes of the theatre was too much of a strain in my present state of being’. She had admitted under Emma’s close questioning that she had suffered from an indisposition – an old weakness of the lungs which struck her particularly at this time of year – but she had thrown it off enough for everyday life and it now usually left her alone unless a pupil at the harp made ‘the sort of a caterwauling that would make an archangel weep’. Her teaching was now a matter of openness between them and was often the source of human material for Mrs Tidmarsh’s favourite disquisition on ‘the natural superiority of the female sex until distorted by the male’s shameful need to prove them inferior in brain-power, application and organisation’. According to Mrs Tidmarsh, the younger the pupils came to her the higher their confidence and the greater their power of learning. It was her view that by the time they reached twenty, they were ‘sliding backwards down a slope which led them to become willing slaves in a world dominated by their fathers, brothers and husbands – called the stronger sex, but in truth, the weaker since they must subdue women for fear that they might equal or surpass them...’
Such ideas were very new to Emma and whereas, face to face, she might have found them distasteful and unladylike, in a letter – written in Mrs Tidmarsh’s graceful hand, with much wit and many felicitous expressions – she read of them rather as she might a novel, with eager interest and only partial belief. In the letter which Emma had presently in front of her, Mrs Tidmarsh confided her belief that Mr Tidmarsh – her late husband – had chosen her in particular for her youth and that an older lady would not have provided him with the independence of thought he so valued. She concluded the letter by asking, ‘I wonder whether the same conviction persuaded Mr Knightley in his choice of you, dear Emma’ (in correspondence they had returned to first names) ‘when he was looking for his life’s partner? The great disparity must find a cause somewhere; can it not lie here – in your youthful, untamed quality?’
Emma & Knightley Page 19