Elizabeth looked confused, willing to please at least one of the party, unwilling to displease any – in this she shared the characteristic of her sister – but clearly with no knowledge of an expected visit.
‘We must return home, at least—’ Emma spoke firmly. The last thing she intended was to sit watching Mr Knightley lost in admiration as Harriet played the busy mother and housewife. Her heart still retained a reflected glow of that look Knightley had given her when she had expressed a desire to live at Donwell; it was a fragile flame and would not stand Harriet’s strong attractions. Oh, how far she had sunk! thought Emma in parenthesis, when she could be thinking of Harriet Martin as a real rival to herself!
But the argument was not over about who should go where, with whom and when. Emma remained adamant for Hartfield, Mr Weston for Randalls, Mr Churchill for Abbey-Mill, but Miss Martin merely gave her time to trying not to look at Mr Tidmarsh with too much attention, an activity he was also engaged in, although with much less success; Mrs Elton took first one side and then the other, each time with an equal assurance of her making the right choice; Mrs Tidmarsh laughed and looked at the sky and said, ‘On such a day as this it hardly matters where one goes!’ – a point of view which earned her a vexed frown, quickly disguised, from Emma; and Mr Knightley who had the authority to make a decision, stood by, silent.
Eventually, he did move, to take Emma’s arm, ‘I will have the carriage come to the nearest part of the lane.’
She nodded; it was her wish; but where would he go? He was on horseback – free and independent. She could almost believe that the horse had been chosen for just that reason.
I have things to do here. I shall stay.’ He answered her thoughts and her pride made her refrain from asking whether he might not just take refreshment at Abbey-Mill.
Knightley left; the carriage appeared; Mr Weston and Mrs Elton escorted Elizabeth Martin to Abbey-Mill where their carriage waited and – as Emma had dreaded – she, the two Tidmarshes and Frank Churchill were together in the carriage.
The top was opened under Frank’s exhortations and with Emma’s agreement for, at least, it lessened the sense of intimacy, and soon James was making as much speed as his careful nature allowed, while Frank recommended new horses, a different way of harnessing and eventually likened their progress to a funeral procession.
It was a merry ride for three out of the four occupants, and even Emma’s spirits rose as she watched the much-loved environments of Donwell and Highbury pass by. Soon came the turning to Randalls.
‘Shall we take you up, Frank, or do you prefer to walk?’ asked Emma politely.
‘I live in Highbury, you know – in the lovely Bates’ apartments,’ he joked.
‘At least you have my harp for company,’ smiled Mrs Tidmarsh.
‘But I thought you ate at Randalls,’ said Emma.
‘Indeed I do, when I can find enough leftovers from the nursery! I do believe those babies eat more than a grown male – but I had thought you could bear my company another half-hour and I would come to Hartfield – I may walk back to Randalls from there.’
He was insistent; Emma could do nothing more without making her feelings too distinct. Mr Churchill stayed.
Chapter 33
‘So Mr Churchill came back with you and stayed,’ was almost the first sentence from Mr Knightley when he returned later to Hartfield. ‘On no invitation from me,’ said Emma who was very concerned with straightening her sash, twisting and turning in front of her bedroom glass.
‘You know I do not consider him a man of rectitude, yet you continue to show him all signs of your greatest affection. Private conversations.’
‘That is too much, Mr Knightley! You are not looking with eyes to see.’
‘No?’ he had his gravest face on, the one that before their marriage when he had been more teacher than lover, had often sparked Emma into rebellion.
‘No!’ Why should she say more? An image of his cantering away in the direction of Abbey-Mill was in front of her eyes.
Mr Knightley bowed and gave her his arm so that they could descend to dinner.
That repast was made lively by the good spirits of Mrs Tidmarsh who so engaged Mr Woodhouse with a mixture of cajolery and good sense – or at least that which he would see as good sense for it included pronouncements on the danger of marriage, leaving home, altering the status quo, mixing with your inferiors and over-indulging in rich sauces – that he, whose anxieties usually lent a constraint to the proceedings, was reduced to nothing but a series of tranquil nods. Miss Bates was equally silent, though she looked much; Mr Tidmarsh spoke twice, both times in heartfelt tones, but since on the first occasion he used the Latin language and on the second the Greek, with, moreover, no translation following (a thing he usually remembered to do and which showed an abstraction of spirit), his contribution to the conversation was decidedly minor. Mr Knightley did talk a little, in his usual measured tones, about a case of cattle-thieving that had come before him in his role as local magistrate; the thief had facilitated his escape by setting light to a barn which, although only partly filled with hay given the time of year, burned merrily enough for some hours.
‘And what will be his sentence?’ asked Emma, in trepidation.
‘It is not yet pronounced; but damage to property is a most serious offence. He will be lucky if he is only to be transported to Botany Bay.’
At this point Mrs Tidmarsh began a laughing reference to the benefits of forced travel which, having been elaborated in all detail, were then most thoroughly denied for the benefit of Mr Woodhouse.
The subject, therefore, of fires and damage to property, was not revived, and a connection to the destruction of Jane’s pianoforte at the Abbey, which Emma had dreaded, not forthcoming.
The evening, however, did not pass entirely without further reason for her discomfort. She was in her bedroom preparing for sleep when Mr Knightley, jacket off, came to her.
‘I believe that you have a duty to warn your friend against Mr Churchill,’ he began without preamble. ‘She is clever, she has been married, but she is a lady almost on her own – for, much as I appreciate her stepson, he is not educated in the matters of the world. Mrs Tidmarsh comes on Frank Churchill without the understanding of his nature that we have—’
‘But our understandings differ—’ began Emma; why, she knew not, since she had every reason to believe that she knew far worse of Mr Churchill than anyone in Highbury – except for Mr Weston, who did not believe it.
‘I once had occasion to call Mrs Tidmarsh a flirt,’ continued Mr Knightley, standing four-square on his still booted feet. ‘It may be only that on her side; she may be as light as he – but, I repeat, as her hostess and friend I feel it your duty to give her warning!’
His pronouncement over – like a judge in a court, he was so solemn, Emma thought – he seemed prepared to leave for his room without any reaction from Emma. She could not let this be.
‘Philomena is a lady of sound good sense who has seen far more of the world than I – and probably than you also. How could I presume to warn her?’
‘I have given you my opinion.’ Mr Knightley kissed her hand, a brief touch of his lips, and was gone.
***
At eleven the next morning Emma and Mrs Tidmarsh found themselves together in the upstairs parlour reading lines to each other from Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. At the line ‘Call me but love and I’ll be new baptiz’d … ’ Emma put down the book and moved closer to her friend. ‘I must warn you. It is my duty. I have seen your feelings for Mr Churchill, your pleasure in his company—’
‘My dear!’ interrupted Philomena with a startled look of amusement.
‘Please – it will not take a moment – you must forgive the presumption – but there are things he has done, things I know or suspect that make him hardly eligible for society!’ She stopped, with a gasp. Was
this indeed true?
‘That is serious indeed. May I ask what are these things? Such an accusation cannot be fired wildly without reason or it becomes slander.’
‘Slander?’ inquired Emma, rather put off her stride. ‘Yes. Yes. But for the sake of Mr Weston, his father, I cannot reveal all I know – or suspect—’
‘This “suspect”? What does “suspect” mean? People always use the word “suspect” when they are not certain and a man’s reputation must not be ruined without certainty.’
Emma had never seen Philomena so severe. The interview was not proceeding at all as she had expected; it seemed she must say more, however unwillingly. ‘He was not kind to his wife,’ she said.
‘Ah!’ Now Mrs Tidmarsh smiled again. ‘He was not kind to his wife. My dear Emma, if that is it, I believe you utterly. A man like Frank Churchill will never be kind to his wife, particularly if she is as docile, sensitive and poor as I gather Jane Churchill was – and, moreover, doted on him without reserve. I must tell you, my sweet Emma, my innocent Emma, that, as a very young bride married to a much older man, I met young gentlemen like Mr Churchill – married young gentlemen – sadly often. Remember, I was sixteen when Mr Tidmarsh chose me and he was nearly fifty. The difference was extreme. My looks were gentler then, very attractive to the opposite sex – I had not such a tart tongue. Men looked at me and thought me captured by a Bluebeard, they wished to take me in their arms and comfort me. I met many gentlemen like that, both here and on the Continent – married young gentlemen, just like Frank Churchill, who loved their wives dearly but who did not have the stamina to stay at home.’
‘That is shocking!’ cried Emma.
‘Yes. It is. The Franks of this world love strongly, very strongly, I do not deny them that, but it is a shallow sort of love which does not hold them rooted. I called Frank “amusing” yesterday. Do you remember?’
‘That you find him amusing is obvious.’
‘He is amusing; he amuses me; I enjoy his company, his youth, his handsome face and charming manners – he is, after all, five or six years younger than I, indeed he is my son’s age, to be sure – but I can see also that he very likely is a scoundrel.’
‘A scoundrel!’ echoed Emma. If Mrs Tidmarsh thought that, then she need give no further warning.
‘So you have no need to worry. If I dance every dance with Frank at the Sucklings’ Ball – if that should ever take place, which I begin to doubt,’ here she gave Emma a cheerful smile, ‘if I danced every dance with Frank, took sherbet in the garden with him and drove home with him alone in a closed carriage, it would still mean that I found him amusing but knew him to be a scoundrel!’
On this note their conversation on the subject of Mr Churchill was closed. Emma was made fairly easy and was able to inform Mr Knightley, somewhat coldly, that she had delivered his warning to Mrs Tidmarsh who had received it as something of which she was already apprised.
‘She likes him because he is amusing,’ Emma asserted. To which Mr Knightley responded in an ironic tone, ‘I had thought Mrs Tidmarsh too clever to be satisfied with what is merely “amusing”.’
***
The days that followed were rendered flat by the arrival of a letter from Mrs Elton – delivered by Mr Elton in person – regretting that, owing to her own indisposition, she had had to put off the Sucklings for a fortnight but with the news that two weeks on Friday was fixed for the ball. Mrs Cole had assured her that the weather being that much finer in the month of May – as it would be by then – would make it possible to open the doors to the terrace which would ensure greater space and dignity to the proceedings.
Unfortunately this was read out in the hearing of Mr Woodhouse who could hardly believe his ears and held up all conversation for some time with his admonitions to Mr Elton on opening doors to a garden sure to be damp. Mr Elton was so concerned with describing the depths of Mrs Elton’s affliction which combined headache, heartburn, sore throat difficulty with breathing, that it eventually diverted Mr Woodhouse from the subject of doors. Such symptoms in one generally known throughout Highbury as stronger than a dray-horse so surprised Emma that, after Mr Elton had removed himself from the house with a parting shot of, ‘—her pain so intense that we could not receive the Sucklings, however much they might plead—’ she turned to Philomena with the comment, ‘I do suspect it is the Sucklings who have cancelled and Mrs Elton’s dreadful illness is entirely because she cannot bear the shame of admitting she has been spurned yet again.’
‘I believe you have hit on it, my dear. Although I am sorry to see you grown cynical. For my part, I worry our gowns will be quite out of style before this ball takes place! I shall be happy enough, however, for I have vowed to neglect my harp no longer and practise each day for at least three hours. God-given talents must never be spurned.’
Mrs Tidmarsh was as good as her word in the days that followed, and disappeared every day, by foot, to Highbury whence she returned with every symptom of hard musical exercise, and retired to her room for a rest before dinner. Mr Tidmarsh returned once more by post to London – after promising to be back again well before the Sucklings’ Ball (although nobody believed that was his reason for returning) and Mr Knightley was, in his usual way, daily from the house.
Since Miss Bates was as assiduous for Mr Woodhouse’s happiness as ever, Emma was left much to her own devices, and finding her self-respect in need of raising – she could hardly remember the days when she held a very good opinion of herself – she spent many hours in taking succour to the cottagers. The poorest members of the Highbury community were surprised by such sudden eager attention from Mrs Knightley but agreed among themselves that marriage had made her a listless benefactress, although her poor humour did nothing to alter the taste of her potato and mutton soup or the feel of the flannel cloth she brought. The older women gossiped that after one year and six months of marriage – it was the only sort of arithmetic they had mastered – and her such a particularly healthy young lady and Mr Knightley so much older (even if he did not look it) – it was no wonder she seemed wan. ‘Why, any one of us would have popped two little ’uns before she’s even got herself one!’
The not unsympathetic looks of these simple women perhaps conveyed some of their judgement to its subject for, as Emma wandered home on a day that, despite the month of May only just being broached, was almost too hot, she found herself, for the first time, questioning whether her childlessness was due to some internal deficit in her or whether her own lack of enthusiasm and the difficulties that had arisen between her and Mr Knightley (which she could not see clearly and therefore could see no end to) were acting as a natural control. She did not know and had no one to ask. Nor, except that she did not want to live with a sense of failure in any area, did she feel any increase in her desire to be a mother. Consciously picturing Mrs Weston and Isabella, both lost to her under a welter of progeny (and unconsciously seeing the glories of Harriet Martin’s triumphant maternal beauty), she could not think the world needed her to increase and multiply. On the other hand, the cottagers’ looks were pitying and had become more pitying in her imagination as she reached the Hartfield drive. Perhaps, odious idea, they considered her like Mrs Elton who wore her childlessness as if she feared God had taken the trouble to strike her barren – Oh such pompous self-pity!
With such uncomfortable thoughts Emma hesitated to open her own front door. The only good thing, ’she gave a wry smile, was that she had not even considered the problem of Frank Churchill for at least fifteen minutes.
‘Emma! My dear!’
She turned to Mr Knightley’s voice. He was standing by the bench which ran round the large beech tree at the bottom of the garden. He had obviously just risen and stood expectantly. As she went to him, her heart, which sometimes seemed to know things she forgot, beat happy and quick.
Over the bright grass tripped Mrs Knightley, her gown pale as she entered under the s
hadows of the tree, her cheeks rosy, as Mr Knightley, carried away by her beauty, the warm air, or whatever thoughts he had been turning over in his head as he sat on the old wooden bench, enfolded her in his arms.
Peace, perfect peace! They sat and Emma laid her head on his shoulder. If only they could lie like this at night – but then – Ah, there were too many thoughts—
‘I have been at Donwell Abbey today,’ said Mr Knightley, ‘to meet Mrs Hodges and Harry; they have come back in some distress.’
‘Mrs Hodges? Harry?’ murmured Emma, hardly wanting a conversation about such dull-sounding people.
‘My housekeeper and her son who I turned off when I came to Hartfield.’
‘I remember. You found them another post.’
‘Yes. That is just it. Mr Williams, their employer, has decamped without warning – with money owing them. They ask me whether they can live at Donwell or in a cottage for just the price of their keep.’
‘Have you answered them?’ Emma sat up and stared at the dappling light dancing all around.
‘I wished to ask you first for your view. Emma—?’ He broke off but the appeal in his eye told the story. He wanted there to be a way for them to move back into Donwell – eighteen months was enough for him. He wanted his own house, his own servants, his own life. Emma understood him. Yet she looked away – how the light jigged and bobbed! She pictured Donwell, that venerable old house, the room in which they would sleep, the great four-poster, the dark panelling, the long corridors outside, the echoing dining hall with its portraits of Knightleys from centuries before, the old-fashioned kitchen and housekeeper’s room where she would sit with Mrs Hodges – not an easy woman, as few are who have looked after a bachelor for years. She saw the simple shape of Hartfield beyond the shrubberies, its clear lines, quite like a doll’s house, its regular, large windows that let light in at every time of the day. She had lived her whole life there, its simple, unpretentious elegance was part of her, needed no thought.
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