‘Donwell is in need of a great deal of attention,’ she said slowly.
‘It is – the damp, the fire.’ He hastened on from that, ‘it is becoming a sad place.’
‘Oh, Knightley – I know I said the other day—’ she paused. He would not ask her direct, it was all up to her. She could almost wish that they had gone to Donwell straight away after their marriage. Perhaps everything would have been different. Yet now, to go there now, to be with him alone in that vast gloomy house – Abbey – with the echoes of so much history – to be with him there in the estrangement that was so often between them – to have no one else between them as they sat at either end of that long oak table – she could not do it! It would be too miserable, too lonely—
‘I fear dear papa would never consent to leaving Hartfield.’ Now she had admitted she knew what was in his mind.
‘I had thought – Miss Bates—’
‘Oh, Miss Bates!’ – everything was in Emma’s voice.
‘I see,’ Knightley stood. Turned away from her.
‘But you should take on Mrs Hodges and Harry. It will safeguard the house from any further – intruders.’
‘Intruders. Yes. I will take your advice.’ Their conversation was at an end. They left the garden and entered the house where Mr Knightley took a cup of coffee and soon after left. Later a message came that they should proceed into dinner without waiting for him as he would be back late. However, Emma found he had left a folded paper for her in her upstairs parlour; it was an invitation from Mrs Martin to attend dinner at Abbey-Mill Farm, ‘to inaugurate the dining parlour just completed’.
Ah, thought Emma, for the Martins everything is new, bright and fresh; they can look forward to an increase in happiness every moment of the day. Knowing Mr Knightley would not countenance a refusal to such an event, she sat down at her desk immediately and wrote a most gracious acceptance on behalf of herself, Mr Knightley, Mrs Philomena Tidmarsh and the Reverend Dugobair Tidmarsh. At least she could be content that it would give nothing but pleasure to the latter.
Chapter 34
‘Not a lofty room. The proportions are of the very smallest parlour at Maple Grove!’ Mrs Elton’s voice could be heard pronouncing, as the party from Hartfield were shown through the front part of Abbey-Mill to its recent extension. The carrying power suggested its owner had recovered remarkably in the space of a day from such a severe indisposition as her ‘Mr E.’ had described.
‘Your surmise was correct.’ Philomena nudged Emma.
‘You are too critical, my dear.’ Mr Elton’s voice came now. ‘The Martins have no wish to aspire to the architectural distinction and amplitude of your dear sister’s abode. This room will charmingly fill their – er – smaller needs. Is that not so, Mrs Martin?’
Harriet Martin tried to suggest she thought it a very large room – a church hall of a room – without disagreeing with her guests – a task quite beyond even her powers of amiability so that, after a few false starts of, ‘We are so pleased—’ leading nowhere, Robert Martin continued with, in Emma’s view, polite restraint but nevertheless firmness, ‘We consider the room perfect.’ Then the attention could be turned to the new visitors.
Harriet came up in a rush of nervous excitement. ‘We are so very honoured – I scarcely dared hope – Without Mr Knightley’s encouragement—’
These were the very words to make Emma, whose determination to like and admire had been encouraged by Mrs Elton’s insufferable conceit, nearly forget her resolution. Hiding her discomfort, she turned to the large picture window and remarked with hard-fought-for good humour, ‘You have a most delightful vista.’ Indeed the late-afternoon sun glowed over the apple trees which were carpeted around with pale fallen petals and beyond, she could just discern the river and the trees that hid Donwell Abbey.
‘Yes. It is quite delightful.’ Harriet was grateful and was soon joined by Mr Martin and old Mrs Martin so that they stood in a row surveying the view. Behind them the Eltons could be heard finding new ways of diminishing the proportions of the room, but the Martins did not listen. It was Mrs Knightley’s approbation they most wanted. Mr Knightley had already seen and commended.
‘It is the way up to Donwell,’ recommenced Harriet timidly as Mrs Knightley’s silence became a little pronounced.
Emma turned round and stated with a finality which overcame the Eltons’ imprecations, ‘Your room is a great success, Harriet, I congratulate you!’
‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’ She gazed about her, saw the awkwardness of people standing in a room that had nothing but one table and eleven chairs – somewhat unmatched, as Emma noticed. ‘We must dine at once, I fear, for such a large party will hardly squeeze into any other room.’
‘I think Mrs Martin will not stop with one room,’ said Mrs Tidmarsh to Robert Martin beside whom she was standing. Mr Martin laughed, ‘It is her money so she may do as she pleases.’
The words, spoken quietly enough, happened to fall into a silence as people found their places at table; no one could fail to hear. Harriet blushed deeply, the two Martin sisters blushed lightly, old Mrs Martin who was supervising dishes burnt her finger, although only at seeing Harriet’s discomfiture; Mr and Mrs Elton exchanged glances in which the word ‘vulgar’ was writ in the air between them, Mr Knightley stared ahead with a stoic impassivity and Emma, seated first, stared at her plate as if its poorly executed decoration of a rose in bloom held the answer to the meaning of the universe. Only Mr Tidmarsh and Elizabeth Martin, finding chairs together as if by right, showed no signs of any emotion beyond perfect happiness.
As is so often the case, a disturbing happening such as this was followed by an exuberance of conversation which set off the dinner to a great beginning. The food, though inelegant, was fresh and plentiful and the view from the window remained delightful, as Emma, who was sitting opposite it, continually remarked.
Mrs Elton, seated by Mrs Tidmarsh, remained in critical mood. ‘I wonder they did not invite Mr Churchill to make up the numbers – but I suppose that a table meant for eight that already holds eleven can hardly be expected to fit twelve! Mrs Suckling never sits down less than fourteen. It is her lucky number, she says, but I say everything at Maple Grove is lucky.’
‘Perhaps they sat down one short of fourteen at table on the evening the ceiling fell in on them?’ suggested Emma, who had heard the conversation from the other side of the table.
‘Oh, Mrs Knightley!’ cried Mrs Elton, whose most salient characteristic was an unwavering confidence when anyone else would have felt foolish, ‘the falling ceiling – and wall – was not a question of lucky or unlucky, as I explained to you before, that was an Act of God. The luck was that they all got out safe and sound without a scratch – and Mr Suckling with the sauce-boat aloft in his hand. That was so lucky as to be almost a miracle!’
Admitting herself defeated, Emma listened instead to Dugobair Tidmarsh, who was explaining to Elizabeth the biblical use of numbers as applied to geneíations. ‘You are so very much cleverer,’ he said, ‘than my parishioners who, even after a full hour’s sermon on the subject, still cannot answer the simplest quiz I put to test them. They remained quite bewildered by the inspiring line, “And all the days of Methuselah were nine hundred sixty and nine years: and he died”. I fear St Peter’s is very cold and it dulls their senses.’ The subject of the proper temperature for churches – neither too warm so that the worshippers might doze in their comfort, nor too cold so that their brains no longer functioned – then kept them very animated for long enough for Emma to lose interest as to whether they found agreement, although she was perfectly certain they would.
She turned, therefore, to Mr Martin who was sat on her other side and was informing Mr Elton that they were expecting Mr Churchill after dinner when they were planning some musical entertainment. So Frank’s absence, the chief virtue of the evening as far as Emma was concerned, would not be for
much longer.
‘We will be very squeezed in the parlour, I fear,’ Harriet was saying to Mr Knightley, but the rest of the sentence – a sentence which caused Mr Knightley to smile (how Emma disliked that smile!) – Emma could not catch. Up till now, she had managed to resist thinking about Harriet who, quite properly, had placed her principal guest on her own right. They were not in her eye-line but on the same side of the table, so there could be no repetition of that terrible evening at the Westons’ but, from now on – after that smile she had caught as his face turned – she could not stop herself from trying to catch their every word, entirely commonplace as any she did hear, turned out to be.
Dinner, however, was not long-drawn-out since old Mrs Martin was used to serving busy, active people and had no idea of prolonging a meal for conversation. Soon they were in the parlour and Elizabeth at the piano while chairs brought from the now-christened extension were fitted into every other corner. Meanwhile, almost unannounced, Frank was among them and sitting close to Philomena.
Emma looked at Mr Knightley. Was it worth asking that they leave early and send the carriage back for the Tidmarshes? She did indeed whisper it, as Elizabeth began to play and Dugobair raised his voice in what sounded very like an ode of his own making; ‘O dark lady whose voice is like music, whose fingers are whiter than any key and who holds the key to my heart—’
‘We must give the Martins fifteen minutes more,’ he returned.
So they sat quietly and listened to what indeed was a most touching concert, although Mrs Elton was heard to say with her usual clarity of diction, ‘I do dislike this modern music extremely, it is so painful to an ear as educated as mine!’, and Frank and Philomena began to be very amusing together. Emma had time to look at her friend and think that the cleverness and independence of manner which she had so admired did not look so clever when conjoined with Frank Churchill. Ten minutes had passed when Dugobair stood down and Churchill took his place. It was all done so quickly that Emma could not now take her leave without appearing impolite.
She must therefore listen to Churchill singing, with all self-consciousness for the heroic posture, ‘The Soldier’s Lament’ and ‘Robin Adair’. His light tenor as she knew from before was agreeable enough, but his complacency as to his good impression on his audience, beyond bounds.
‘Shall we go now?’ whispered Emma – too late, yet again.
‘And now I shall sing a special favourite of our hostess.’ Taking up the even more strutting pose of a coxcomb (or so Emma thought, and was quite certain Mr Knightley felt the same, if not more so), Frank struck up with ‘The Yellow-haired Laddie’.
How had he known? It was an insult – a challenge, for he sang the song as a mockery, with a smile on his lips and the words emphasised so that the sentiment became ridiculous.
‘He makes it ridiculous,’ hissed Emma to Mr Knightley.
‘He makes himself ridiculous,’ replied Knightley.
But at last Frank too stood down to such approbation from Mrs Elton that her hands seemed like cymbals. Emma stood; Mr Churchill bowed, smirking for the applause; Mr Knightley stood.
‘You are not going!’ cried Frank. ‘You cannot be offended that I have stolen your song!’
‘I own no song,’ said Mr Knightley quietly, although there was a bustle now of Harriet ordering tea and Elizabeth being besought by Dugobair to return to the piano. ‘You are superior to us all, Miss Martin.’
Above it all, Frank raised his voice, ‘I have heard Mr Knightley has a fine singing voice, although it has not been my good fortune to hear it. Perhaps he may be persuaded?’
‘I am afraid we must leave,’ said Knightley, but since he would not deign to lie with an excuse, his words did not have much force.
‘Mr Knightley sing!’ cried Mrs Elton. ‘That would be a joy indeed. May I ask if you are a bass? I am sure you are a bass!’ Eagerly, she scanned his face as if the sign of the bass note were there instead of an excellent straight nose.
‘Baritone, ma’am,’ said Knightley.
‘Mr Knightley has the most perfect baritone in the world,’ said old Mrs Martin coming into the room from one of her forays.
‘Perfect baritone, is it!’ exclaimed Frank Churchill, with a jeering face, and Emma, pink and pale by turns, thought she heard a laugh from Philomena, although when she turned, her face showed nothing more than polite expectancy.
‘What do you like to sing, Mr Knightley?’ asked Mr Tidmarsh, who seldom felt atmospheres and was genuinely interested in what his admirable new friend would choose. ‘Elizabeth will play for you.’
‘As she has before,’ said Mrs Martin proudly.
‘I never sing in public,’ said Knightley shortly, looking for Emma so that they might leave.
‘I never thought to see a Knightley show the white feather,’ said Frank Churchill to the one nearest to him who happened to be Robert Martin, who moved away at once. But his tone was only a pretence of confidentiality and was perfectly audible, in the little parlour, to Mr Knightley and to almost everyone else.
‘Do, please, Mr Knightley, let others hear your voice!’ cried Harriet, and just at that moment, Mr Knightley took a step towards the pianoforte.
‘Just one,’ said Knightley, looking at Elizabeth who came to him at once.
‘Capital!’ cried Mr Elton.
‘Cara sposa, be seated!’ ordered Mrs Elton, the Italian in her rising to the music. They all took seats – Mr Churchill with such a look of smugness that a cat would envy.
Mr Knightley and Elizabeth conferred; a place was found in her book. Knightley took up a position where his eyes, as Emma could see, rested on the view over the river which the small window in the parlour also overlooked. ‘I shall sing,’ he said, “Oh the Hours I Have Passed in the Arms of My Dear”.’
There came an inelegant snort from Mr Churchill and an elegant ‘Bravo!’ from Mrs Tidmarsh; and the piano took the tune.
Emma, whiter than the mist stealing over the river, clenched her fists so hard that the nails cut into her palms.
She had never seen Knightley look more romantic, more handsome, but how would his voice be? Surely he would not have answered Frank’s silly challenge unless he was sure of his powers?
She had not long to wait. Mr Knightley opened his mouth and the only fear that remained about his musical ability was that the beauty of his singing would make the tears roll down her cheeks. His voice was indeed perfect, strong, warm, clear; Frank’s light tenor seemed insipid by comparison, as shallow as the man himself.
‘If only’, thought Emma, and now the room was utterly still as everybody listened – even Frank kept quiet – ‘if only I could be certain that he had decided to perform before Harriet asked him to!’
The song finished. Dugobair roused himself first. ‘It is pity you are a gentleman, or you could have been a singer.’
Mr Knightley smiled and put Emma on his arm. He took the compliments that accompanied their departure modestly. ‘I sing once a year,’ he said, ‘but when I was eighteen, nineteen, twenty, I took it very seriously. As I fell away from my best, I grew to dislike the sound of my voice.’
That is often the case with talented musicians,’ agreed Mrs Tidmarsh. After all, the party was breaking up and they would all travel to Hartfield together.
Churchill was off, particularly quick to leave, making as excuse his ride back by horse and the darkening sky.
The carriage came – more thanks – more politeness – farewells – and through it all Mr Knightley’s voice, so melodic, so moving, sang in Emma’s head.
The journey to Hartfield which Emma might have wished to spend alone with this new husband she had discovered, was passed by Mr Tidmarsh closely questioning Mr Knightley on his musical education and discovering that, for light relief, Mr Knightley had always had a particular fondness for Irish airs, one of which he had sung that night. Emma said
nothing; Mrs Tidmarsh said very little which, for her, was less than nothing; and so they arrived back just as the sky finally became black.
To their surprise Mr Woodhouse met them in lively form. ‘You should not have stirred. I have often told you that home is the most agreeable place, have I not? And tonight, by stirring yourselves, you have missed a visit from Mr John Knightley!’
Mr Woodhouse was triumphant; Mr and Mrs Knightley were duly sorrowful; and Mr Tidmarsh and Mrs Tidmarsh were politely regretful.
Chapter 35
Tea was brought in, biscuits too, because the Martins would not know about biscuits as thin as wafers – and no one could go to bed until Mr Woodhouse had told them every detail of Mr John Knightley’s news which amounted, in Emma’s view, to very little, beyond the happy assurances of close-fitting windows and doors and a cook who made excellent egg puddings. However, he did let slip that John had brought a letter from Isabella for Emma and from that moment she longed to be quietly in her room. A sister’s voice – a sister, moreover, who, with fewer natural resources of mind or spirit, had faced far greater difficulties than she, Emma, was ever likely to – must be just the accent to put her own troubles in proportion. Mr Knightley would not go bankrupt, was never ill-humoured and loved her to at least some degree – as a sensible, affectionate older brother perhaps; Frank Churchill would – must – leave Highbury sooner rather than later; at some time she and Knightley would remove to Donwell; it was inevitable, as inevitable, she thought with a lowering of spirits, as her choosing to become Mrs Knightley; – but of her own feelings she did not wish to take account.
At last the party broke up and Emma immediately took a candle and the letter to her upstairs parlour.
My dearest Emma, John’s visit gives me the excuse to write; I shall find the time for a long letter, knowing he will be away for a day or two and I can catch up with my tasks. I am lucky, perhaps, that the house is so small, for now that I have only three servants – although the maid of all works does enough for three on her own – I am lucky in that too – there is never a moment when I am not called on for some duty or another. But, and I thank God for it, the children here are all very well and healthy – you would hardly recognise the baby, she is so round. I cannot speak about my dear Henry and John who, as you know, have already been a month away at school – thanks to your Mr Knightley’s generosity. I know it was time that they learnt independence from their mamma – John tells me this every day – but I cannot but suffer under such a separation, my only consolation is that the two boys are together and I rely on one to tell me if the other has any illness or unhappiness. You, dear Emma, cannot conceive of the torture endured by a mother when her first babies –
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