‘A lack of openness,’ suggested Mrs Tidmarsh, placing her gloved hand (in maroon leather with gold buttons) on Emma’s arm.
Emma looked at the glove askance, but did not see it. How had she said so much to this stranger at her side? How could she be so disloyal to her beloved Knightley as to discuss his faults without use of thumbscrew or rack? A tear came into her eye and she turned an appealing look to Mrs Tidmarsh.
‘I understand,’ Mrs Tidmarsh bowed her head, ‘Your silence tells me all; I see you regret your confidence – the feeling does you credit – but do not fear, the subject is closed. I am a clam – Mr Knightley is as perfectly virtuous as his name. We shall walk on.’
They walked on; the sun continued to shine; Emma’s tear dried and her little act of betrayal began to seem less important. By the time they reached the front of the house, bounded by yellow daffodils like a ribbon round a bandbox, the two bonnets nodded cheerily together like any two gossips on a village square.
‘I saw you approaching from the nursery window!’ Mrs Weston was at the door, her lack of elegance – for she had been supervising the babies’ bathing, if the dampness of the front of her dress were proper indication – made up for by the warmth of her welcome. ‘Mrs Tidmarsh – for I know all about you – will have to forgive my lack of formality; with three babies under two years of age it is impossible to aspire to proper appearances. Come in, come in!’
They did so – Emma most happily and Mrs Tidmarsh with curiosity for she had never been in a home which so combined a high level of gentility with human nature in the raw. She expanded on this to Emma on their continuing their walk to Highbury after half an hour of bustle and childish cries and tantrums.
‘Little Frank Churchill is a noisy baby, certainly,’ laughed Emma.
‘Little, you call him – he seemed a giant!’
‘His father is a tall, well-made man – but narrow rather than broad.’
‘Ah, the runaway father – here is a story out of romance! Has any more been heard of him? I remember when we talked in London, you told me he had gone to Europe.’
‘He is thought to be in England once more – he was seen at Enscombe, the large Churchill estate that he is to inherit.’
‘And his frame of mind? From all that you told me, he is an example of a most passionate man!’
Emma blushed and was glad to find them entering Highbury. Had she really described Frank Churchill to Philomena in such terms, such intimate terms? ‘Now,’ she said briskly, ‘we will find your harp directly; you will be glad to sit down quietly, I have no doubt.’
Faced with her instrument, Mrs Tidmarsh became a different person, Emma thought, as she watched her caress the gold wood surround and lightly ripple the strings. She seemed – how could she phrase it? – complete, perhaps that was the word. And, as she sat in the little room, with its desolate air of unuse, she wondered whether Mrs Tidmarsh’s need for a husband was supplanted by her need for her harp. It was an original idea to her – for in the musical area, Mrs Tidmarsh was modest and did not allow herself any special talent. Yet as her long fingers, released from maroon and gold, tried a few gentle runs, Emma, sitting idly, felt convinced that if Mrs Tidmarsh were ever to be described as passionate, it would be a passion directed not to a person, certainly not to a man, a husband, but to her harp.
‘You have slept!’ Mrs Tidmarsh stood over Emma in mock accusation – ‘and, while you slept, a knock came on the door, and a young man’s head came round. Just for a minute, and then he was gone. A very handsome young man!’
Emma sat up straight. She had been asleep – and dreaming, of the sea, she thought, though the image receded fast enough with Philomena energetic in front of her. ‘You are supposed to be the one who lacks health!’ she smiled.
‘So you are not interested in my visitor?’
‘A young man, you say?’
‘He pronounced, “I heard such music!”, closed the door again and disappeared. I looked out of the window but only saw a parade of burly countryfolk – what can they eat to reach such a size? – and that is when I woke you.’
‘You are a siren,’ said Emma, ‘drawing the soul out of the young men of Highbury – although I cannot think but that you have imagined the “handsome” part, unless it were Mr Elton. Was he very pompous-looking, as if his sermons were printed in good black ink once a week?’
‘Not at all! So it must remain a mystery. I shall tell Dugobair I am the Siren of Highbury – he will be most amused, although in truth it is depressing to think I could not keep you awake, my dear!’
‘I believe it is an inherited family trait,’ smiled Emma, ‘quite impossible to resist.’
‘You refer to your dear sister, Isabella. However, you do not have the excuse of a house full of children to wear you down.’
‘I am shamed. But come, we must return to Hartfield. I do have some household duties and in the country we keep to our dinner hours as if we were on board one of His Majesty’s ships of the line!’
It had been a most companionable day. Emma allowed Merry to dress her hair before dinner with a most smiling visage for her little mirror. Mr Knightley found her thus and showed his pleasure by sitting down to watch the performance.
‘You are not sorry, after all, to have Mrs Tidmarsh in our midst?’ he said.
‘I am not sorry,’ she agreed. ‘Her conversation is stimulating to my mind; it takes me from damp sheets and lardy cakes.’
‘Oh, Emma! Can your husband not do that for you?’ he smiled.
‘He can when he is here but a husband must be out and about.’
‘And have you progressed further with Mr Pope and Dr Johnson?’
Emma admitted that she had not; but she had listened to Mrs Tidmarsh playing and that had been most uplifting; it did not, after all, seem necessary to mention the soporific effect. Mr Knightley expressed himself keen to share this experience and, with good humour showing on both their faces, they descended, arm in arm, to the drawing-room.
Chapter 30
It is remarkable how often the adage, on the face of it quite unlikely to be true – that there must be a lull before a storm – is borne out by events in real life. The particularly happy evening that was spent at Hartfield – Mr Woodhouse charmed by Mrs Tidmarsh who treated him like a man of wisdom and discernment so that he responded with as much gallantry as to be near flirtation (Miss Bates with her nose just a little out of joint); Mr and Mrs Knightley in sympathy with each other and their surroundings so that they drew the curtains on their four-poster with careful hand – all this was violently broken into at three or four in the morning when a loud rapping was heard at the back door, accompanied by cries of ‘Fetch Mr Knightley! Fetch Mr Knightley!’
There was a scurrying of servants both outside the house and within; Mr Knightley’s horse was produced from the stable, wisps of straw still adhering to its mane and its tail tied up inelegantly in a piece of twine; Mr Knightley produced himself, nightshirt tucked into trousers, hair on end, jacket buttoned up wrong. There was a fire at Donwell Abbey! Mr Martin had sent to Hartfield. Men with buckets were wanted; James should follow and anyone else who had a horse or a strong pair of legs.
The word ‘fire’ spread through the house; everybody, except Mr Woodhouse who still slept sound, was at his window. It was a dry, starry night but a wind blew, rattling the panes. A maid thought she saw a red sky in the direction of Donwell but Sterne, monumental in her night-time robe, clipped the silly girl around the ear and said she always did see everything through rose-coloured spectacles. If a glow was visible from Hartfield, then the situation was dire indeed.
Emma, standing trembling at an upper window, was joined by Philomena. Together, their long dark hair trailing over their pale peignoirs, they stared into the innocence of velvet sky.
‘If it were not for the wind,’ murmured Emma.
‘And I have not ev
en seen the Abbey yet!’ cried Mrs Tidmarsh.
Miss Bates, looking very strange with thin greyish plaits like rats’ tails and a selection of threadbare woollen shawls thrown one over the other – despite the circumstances Emma noticed this pitiful lack of nightwear and determined to give her material to make some – joined them with pressing offers of hot drinks.
‘I cannot sleep again, it is certain,’ said Emma. ‘Not till Mr Knightley returns and we hear the worst – if it is the worst!’
‘Can we not be of use!’ cried Mrs Tidmarsh.
‘No. It would not do at all. Mr Knightley would not want it.’ Emma was firm. ‘I shall dress and wait in my parlour. But I cannot allow you to lose your sleep, my dear Philomena. You must return to bed.’ Eventually Emma’s wishes prevailed and she was able to sit all on her own, waiting and wondering.
About three hours later when light was showing in the sky, Mr Knightley returned. One look at his face was enough for Emma. She clasped his hand, ‘You saved it!’
‘We saved it – oh, my dear – it could have so easily – the whole house—’
‘Sit down, let me get you a glass—’
‘I will tell you first – the relief – The fire had started in the very centre of the house, in the fireplace indeed it seems, but then it fell out into the room, looked for further fuel and found Jane Churchill’s pianoforte—’
‘The pianoforte!’ exclaimed Emma.
‘How everything to do with that poor woman does seem to end in tragedy! The piano is now scarcely more than a few strings – If it had not been for the proximity of the river and a chain of willing hands wielding every sort of container – I saw Mrs Martin with a saucepan—’
‘Harriet there!’
‘All the Martins were in the chain – we needed every hand—’
‘Oh.’
‘Were it not for so many hands, Jane Churchill’s piano would have been the match to burn down the whole of Donwell Abbey. At one point I feared it. But, it is saved! Only the room in which the piano stood is damaged, as much by water as flame.’ He turned to Emma, noted her stricken face. ‘My dear, you are exhausted.’
‘And how was the fire begun?’ Emma’s voice was low. Two images were in front of her, both imagined; in one, Harriet Martin, golden curls tumbling, bosom heaving, strove heroically beside Mr Knightley (the saucepan, being an unheroic object, had disappeared from the scene); in the other, Frank Churchill brought out a tinder-box and, with a wild gleam in his dilated eyes, struck a red spark.
‘By no metaphysical agency. Perhaps a tramp – some person warned the shepherd of a fire.’ Mr Knightley glanced with seeming casualness at Emma. ‘Mr Martin tells me you advised him of the possibility of an intruder last year. He blames himself for inattention, although it is not his business. An empty house must always stand at risk of a vagabond. But we must not talk more. As you may perceive by my blackened face, I am in great need of water for a purpose other than anti-inflammatory! Come, my dear. We have had a lucky escape. Whoever was guilty had at least the sense to give a warning. Now, do not stand any longer looking so unhappy; I tell you, the news is so much better than it might have been, that I am almost cheerful!’
The fire was over. Jane Churchill’s piano, some old panelling and certain exhausted persons in the Highbury and Donwell area (although their exhaustion somewhat compensated by the advantage of a good story, for the flames grew higher at every telling) were the only sufferers.
At Hartfield there remained the task of informing Mr Woodhouse who had given evidence of a level of deafness, not previously recognised, by remaining unaroused until his chocolate was brought in to him by a maid whose eyes shone with the heavy duty – much impressed on her – of not giving her master any account of the night-time alarms and excursions; she compensated for this by pulling back the curtains with such energy that poor Mr Woodhouse was almost blinded by the brilliant April light.
Miss Bates volunteered for the task of informing him, and Emma was glad enough to acquiesce; she was pale, she was listless and, when Mr Knightley kissed her before departing to review the damage at Donwell by light of day, she could scarcely manage a farewell smile. It was impossible for her not to believe that Frank Churchill had returned to his old haunt, and finding the pianoforte – such an emblem of the violent love and high secrecy of his engagement to Jane Fairfax – had been unable to restrain himself and set light to it, in the process risking the building in which it stood. Emma felt this must be so and – yet again – castigated herself for not divulging the whole story to Knightley, and – yet again – allowed him to ride away, into a spring morning fit for kings (she noticed it as an added twist to her sorrow) without saying one word more than, ‘Take care, the structure may be affected’, at which he laughed indulgently. ‘Not a bit of it; the structure of Donwell Abbey has been sound for three hundred years and will not be rocked by a little bit of a blaze!’ He took her chin between his fingers, ‘Promise me you will rest this morning and perhaps we’ll have James take out the carriage later and you can see for yourself.’
He left – firm stride – clatter of horse’s hoofs. Emma, for Philomena kept to her room, wandered the house, evading her father and Miss Bates. If Frank Churchill had started the fire – of which she remained utterly convinced – then what might he not do next? Might he not in his wildness – after all these months past, still wild – take his fury out on his little son? No, that could not be possible! For a father to injure his son was unthinkable! Yet she could not help remembering the woeful accusation he had shouted when she had mentioned the baby, ‘Murderer!’ he had cried. What if the months abroad, travelling, without fixed abode or responsibilities, had deranged his mind still further?
At some moments, Emma gave in utterly to her fears and became paler than a ghost and uttered little cries of distress; at others, berating herself for giving in to her old enemy, an over-active imagination – she did not need that now, she was too sensible – she read Pope and Dr Johnson; at other times she managed to compose herself, sit down and, looking out at the sunny garden, assure herself that nothing cruel and horrible could come out of such a harmonious scene.
It was during one of these calmer moments that she saw two gentlemen riding up the driveway. One she recognised easily enough as the burly figure of Mr Weston, sitting his horse as he did his chair with easy confidence; the other was a slimmer figure, a young man, she estimated, and not known to her.
She turned to tidy herself and found Philomena just descended. ‘I hear the fire was overcome without damage to anything but the art of making music,’ she cried gaily. ‘And now I see we have visitors. My dear, how did I ever allow you to persuade me that life is dull in the country!’
‘It is Mr Weston,’ murmured Emma, ‘his companion is unknown to me—’ she paused.
The servant had opened the front door and the two gentlemen could be heard asking for her in loud, cheerful voices – Mr Weston and someone with a lighter voice who pronounced himself, quite audible to the two ladies in the drawing-room, ‘to be nearly as pleased to be back at Hartfield as he had been to be at Randalls.’
‘What is it, dear Emma?’ asked Philomena, seeing her friend’s face of amazement.
‘It is – Frank Churchill,’ she said.
‘Frank Churchill? Ah, the tragic widower – the wicked runaway! My dear, it is better than a play!’ she dropped her voice to a whisper, as the gentlemen entered the room.
‘Mrs Knightley!’
‘My dear Mrs Knightley!’
It was Frank Churchill – but a Frank Churchill very far from Emma’s imaginings or the desolate figure she had last seen under the willow trees along Donwell River. This was a handsome, clean-shaven, clear-eyed young gentleman, nearly a replica of the Frank Churchill she had first met two years ago – were it not for the few lines that creased the sides of his mouth.
Introductions must be ma
de but, while the ladies studied formality with curtsies and invitations to take a seat, Mr Churchill was irrepressible. Even in a stranger’s presence, he did not curtail his tongue – ‘I am back! I am back where I belong! Better still, I am forgiven for my shameful flight – although if you could know how I have suffered – but we will not talk of that – I have seen my son. I can say, without any possibility of contradiction, that he is the finest boy I ever did see!’
Mr Weston looked on indulgently as Frank talked on thus – quite forgiven indeed, it was easy to see. Round the room he went, admiring everything, filled with happiness, joy, satisfaction –
Emma watched this performance, almost too astonished to speak, beyond a few necessary murmurs. One thought came continually: could this Frank Churchill – this gentleman who was all easy affability – possibly be the person who started a fire in Donwell Abbey? It seemed out of the question; and yet the coincidence of his presence was too great for her not to suspect him still.
‘You are quiet, Mrs Knightley,’ said Mr Churchill, coming up for the first time closer to her, although avoiding her gaze.
‘Poor Mrs Knightley was up half the night.’ contributed Mrs Tidmarsh.
‘Ah, yes. Yes. The fire.’ The words came out of Frank’s own mouth and he did not give ground.
‘You have heard what was burnt?’ asked Emma, trying to still the tremble in her voice.
‘We did.’ answered Mr Weston, as Frank was silent. ‘Poor Jane’s pianoforte.’
‘It is so,’ Emma agreed and watched Frank bow his head. As they all seemed to wait for him to speak, he raised his head again and, gazing with clear eyes at Emma, pronounced clearly, ‘It is the last of her, the very last.’
‘Not a bit of it! Dear boy, not a bit!’ Mr Weston interrupted. ‘We must not forget little Frank! What is a box of rosewood compared to a living soul!’
But Emma had received the message from Frank; she had seen it in his eyes. He was the incendiary; he had risked Donwell Abbey out of some indulgent whim to destroy the memory of Jane Fairfax! She understood it all! As self-centred as ever, he had gambled with another’s property to satisfy himself! And, to make it even worse, far from feeling shame – the fear, the danger they had all felt last night – his eyes had expressed a kind of pride. The look had almost been boastful! It was all Emma could do to restrain herself from unmasking him then and there – but this was made impossible by the entrance of Mr Woodhouse and Miss Bates who had been informed of their visitors.
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