It is strange that I, like Jane Fairfax, my tender, tragic predecessor, will leave, as if abandoned, a musical instrument in dear Miss Bates’ apartment (never underestimate the determination of that lady, my dear) – but unlike the first Mrs Churchill’s ill-fated pianoforte, it will not stay there long. I shall make arrangements for it to be sent to Yorkshire as soon as I am settled – at first we will be abroad – Ah, Emma, Mrs Knightley, how do I return your hospitality! You must let your papa think ill of me, it will relieve his feelings. And yet perhaps I have opened your eyes a little to ideas beyond the confines of Highbury – that is not such a bad present to leave behind – Adieu! Farewell! I must go! – Frank pulls at my arm – the sun rises – Oh, Emma!—
When Knightley returned to the bedroom, he was surprised to find Emma still undressed. She picked up the letter and holding it out to him, spoke in a flat voice. ‘Philomena has gone from Highbury with Frank Churchill. I cannot credit it; she has written her reasons; they are all mercenary. She will be very disappointed when she discovers the truth – Mr Churchill disinherited and as penniless as she.’ Her voice changed, ‘Oh, how could she! My friend!’
‘Let me read.’
‘Mr Tidmarsh assured me she had no interest in acquiring a husband or else I would have warned her more fully of Mr Churchill’s bad character – and the punishment he had brought on himself must have come out in the course of our conversation.’
Mr Knightley read the letter; he put it down and sighed, ‘Poor lady – she makes a sad case for herself. And now to be married to Frank Churchill, and Frank Churchill poor! I cannot think to be a teacher of the harp for the rest of her life would be a worse fate!’
‘How could she go like that – under the cover of darkness, secretly – like runaways? They were both free; they had no need to behave like that!’
Mr Knightley sat on the bed. ‘I must tell you, my dear, that, if Frank had not fled in the night, this morning I had decided to reveal his true character. He had masqueraded long enough. It were better the Westons were hurt now than suffer even more deeply later. Mr Churchill is one of those beings who bring nothing but misery, under the guise of good nature and charm. I was determined that he should leave Highbury and never return again. Even his son would be better without him; so I thought and so I still believe.’
‘Oh, if you knew how I feared for the baby!’ interrupted Emma.
‘Indeed, my dear.’ He held her hand before continuing. ‘Mr Churchill would have guessed my intentions. He fled ahead of discovery.’
Emma pushed away the bedclothes as if to get up and then hesitated. ‘I cannot feel sorry for her.’
Mr Knightley smiled. ‘She is not asking for pity. Perhaps, indeed, she may be clever enough to steer Mr Churchill back to his uncle. It may not be too late for a reconciliation. Come, we cannot live others’ lives for them. Until now, we have found it hard enough to manage our own. Today is a day for happiness!’
With such encouragement with more affection, Mr Knightley diverted Emma’s thoughts from the hurt of disloyalty so that they might enjoy the comforts of each other’s company with all the perfection they had won the night before.
Side by side, they descended to the morning-room where together they must break news that must astonish, discompose and sadden all at Hartfield, Randalls, and the wider environment of Highbury and Donwell.
Not long ago, the task facing Emma – to own that her confidante and guest had abused her trust and snatched the gentleman who was still the scion of all hearts (at least those ignorant of his true nature) in Highbury – would have been beyond her. But the events of the last year had strengthened her. John Knightley’s downfall had taught Emma about the possibility of misfortune – nearly tragedy – within her family circle which she had previously considered inviolate. She had learnt about the price of pride from Harriet’s elevation and her own jealousy. She no longer felt omnipotent because she recognised she could only partly understand another and that her judgement would never be the whole truth. Above all, she had discovered the humility to give others permission to live outside her head.
***
This improvement in Emma’s nature combined with Mr Knightley’s love which, although stalwart as ever, no longer tried to protect her as a child, stood her in good stead during the difficult days that followed the elopement of Mr Churchill and Mrs Tidmarsh. She did not gloss the facts or evade them. She sympathised with the Westons – cast down with grief, although the abundance of small children needing attention allowed them little time for concentration on Mr Churchill’s second concealed liaison. She accompanied Mr Tidmarsh to the Martins so that they should not consider the stepson tarred by the brush of the stepmother – nor did they, for Elizabeth Martin was so determined to be an erudite vicar’s wife in London that nothing would have stopped her. Emma informed the Eltons of the news with a set face and only wished that the Sucklings had chosen any other time to visit for she could imagine how their gossip would spread about Bath and Bristol.
She was calm, she was gracious, and at the end of the week was rewarded by Mr Knightley saying, ‘I think there is no need now for me to besmirch Mr Churchill’s reputation as far as the truth. He has admitted his guilt by fleeing; I feel quite certain that he will not dare return and soon nobody will regret his absence.’
Emma was glad to acknowledge the truth of this. No news had been received from him, no news was wanted. And yet she did have regrets. Hesitantly, she opened her heart to Knightley as they sat on the white bench under the beech tree.
‘I miss Philomena.’
‘You miss Philomena!’ Mr Knightley smiled in his astonishment.
‘I do not want her back, of course I do not, after what she has done, but I miss her conversation, her liveliness, her education, the ideas she taught me to think about, the books—’
‘The books are still here.’
‘Unopened. I know. I have no concentration for them, no one to talk to about them – In truth, I find them quite dull—’
‘Oh, Emma, give me your hand.’ She did so. ‘Do you think it is time we went to the seaside? Is that what you are leading to? You are afraid of becoming bored.’
‘It is more serious than the seaside.’
‘More serious than green waves and white birds. My dear, I am terrified!’
‘No. No. It is what we have promised ourselves but I want it to happen now, before the apples are swelling on the trees. I cannot live at Hartfield any more because papa—’ she took a breath, ‘because papa, however dear to me, is a selfish old gentleman and uses my love for him as a weapon to keep me near him, his daughter for ever. I must take up my own life, make my own occupation, as others do. I understand now that Frank Churchill, Mrs Tidmarsh, even Harriet Martin, were all diversions from what should have been my real path. I am ashamed it has taken me so long to see it.’
‘You should not feel ashamed. I have never blamed you.’
‘But that is because you love me. My independence will lie in running Donwell, in opening up the great old house again, in caring for the gardens, in reading the books in the Donwell library. It is strange but it was as I started missing Philomena that I realised this. Tomorrow morning I want to go to Donwell Abbey with you!’
‘You are autocratic!’
‘Do not make fun of me. I wish to go with you and I wish to go on horseback.’
‘Now I shall have to make fun of you for, as I know well, you have never learnt to ride.’
‘I shall begin tomorrow,’ said Emma earnestly, with the sort of beguiling look that would have melted a heart far harder than Knightley’s.
‘What if it should rain?’
‘I shall still go.’
Chapter 40
It did not rain. A brisk bright day saw Emma in a habit borrowed from Augusta Elton (smelling of mothballs since her Maple Grove days) setting out from Hartfield on a hors
e borrowed from Mr Weston, and led by Mr Knightley with James walking in attendance.
Mr Woodhouse, standing at the door with Miss Bates supporting him, seemed speechless with horror, although whether it was horror at his daughter’s foolhardiness or his own at remaining outside for so long without hat or top coat, was not clear.
It is a tribute to the power of the human mind that it may shape and colour the inanimate according to mood and attitude. On the morning that Emma and Mr Knightley visited Donwell Abbey, Emma saw no dark corners, long tables, heavy panelling or unwanted ghosts. It was a warm, golden place, whose antiquity made it mellow and welcoming rather than overpowering. Her hand in Knightley’s, she was struck by the perfectly extraordinary fact that she had never paced the stone corridors or walked up the oak staircase, with only Knightley at her side.
As a child, Donwell had been beyond her limits, as a married woman, it had been poisoned for her by the lurking presence of Frank and the too close threat of Harriet Martin’s supposed perfection. This visit was a new experience – they both felt that.
Nor did the excited arrival of Mrs Hodges, the housekeeper, who was woman enough to guess at once what this quiet inspection presaged, lessen Emma’s confidence in the future she could now foretell for herself.
They moved into the gardens – as splendidly arrayed in pink and lilac and yellow and white as any bridal festoon. The trees were freshly green, the lawns smooth as new carpeting and only a fear of anticipation being the enemy to fulfilment, hindered Emma from sharing with Knightley an imagined picture of children – their children – at least four or five of them (two boys and three girls, she thought) – running merrily across the grass. She contented herself with a single sentence, ‘It is a place for a family to live.’
In such perfect happiness, there remained one matter yet to be settled; its shadow could not be long or dark where there was so much decision, but nevertheless it must be broached. ‘I believe we should tell papa of our plans, as soon as ever I have a glass of Madeira and water in my hand,’ said Emma, placing an early rosebud in Mr Knightley’s lapel, ‘because I certainly will not be able to disguise for very long that my whole heart is turned towards Donwell.’
Mr Knightley being in uncomplicated agreement – his kindness to his father-in-law had none of the guilty fervour foisted on the daughter – there only remained the need for an appropriate moment. To Emma’s chagrin, for at first she accused herself of cowardice, this did not present itself for some days; either there were callers or social occasions which could not be avoided – for the Sucklings’ prolonged visit continued to be the excuse for many festivities – or her father was indisposed or, curiously, for no very good reason, unavailable, even to the extent of being absent from his habitual chair at the habitual times. When he was in the drawing-room, Miss Bates, as generously attentive as ever, made it impossible for Emma to conduct a private conversation.
After a full week had passed, Emma was both impatient and bewildered. ‘I do believe papa is determined to avoid my company!’ she cried to Knightley one night in their bedroom. ‘I can hardly credit such a possibility but this night I saw him hide from me behind the door of the parlour and then scurry away when I had passed!’
Mr Knightley laughed. ‘Perhaps he does not want to hear your news! Or perhaps he has a secret himself.’
‘Papa, a secret! Fie, Mr Knightley. You must keep your imagination under more control!’
Eventually, Emma gave up calm rational waiting and determined on direct action combined with cunning. The next morning she saw Miss Bates lead out Mr Woodhouse for his daily walk to the shrubberies, and she immediately joined them.
‘What a very fine day!’ she cried, eyes bright. ‘I cannot hang over my accounts another moment.’
‘A very fine day – how true!’ echoed Miss Bates, who, Emma noticed somewhat to her surprise, had her bonnet trimmed with a frill that was nearer pink than old-maidenly mauve.
‘I think the wind a little cool – not quite trustworthy, indeed a most untrustworthy wind,’ said Mr Woodhouse, glancing anxiously from one lady to the other. ‘Perhaps I shall go inside—’
‘No! No!’ exclaimed both ladies at once and, taking an arm on either side, they set off down the gravel path.
Direct action having succeeded, it now only remained for Emma to put into practice cunning. ‘Oh dear!’ she began. ‘Oh, Miss Bates, I have forgotten a message for Sterne.’
The words were scarcely out of her mouth before Miss Bates had dropped Mr Woodhouse’s arm – after giving it a most intimate and meaning squeeze, which Emma could hardly avoid noticing – and had positively run back to the house, leaving behind her a trail of, ‘So pleased to help – father and daughter – a fine day – an excellent day!’
She had not, Emma recollected, heard the message for Cook but as it was a perfectly unnecessary instruction about raspberry jelly, that was of no consequence at all. At last she could break the news to her father!
‘Dear papa – I have been trying to talk to you—’
‘Oh! Oh!’ His face was alarmed, pale, quivering.
Emma hardened her heart. ‘Mr Knightley has been living here with us as my husband for too long!’
‘Oh! Oh!’
‘Now, papa, we shall sit down on the white bench and I shall tell you calmly—’
‘The white bench, you say? My dear – the damp—’
‘You are right, not the bench. We will walk.’ Emma’s sense of urgency was increased by seeing, as they turned, Miss Bates appear at a window, although she seemed to be gesticulating towards her bosom, rather than making any attempt to rejoin them. ‘I have something to tell you. My mind is made up. You shall have a room, two rooms, three rooms – Donwell is quite big enough—’ Carried away by her brave telling, Emma did not at first notice that Mr Woodhouse was also trying to speak.
‘My dear – Emma – I, also—’
‘So you will not be too upset if we close Hartfield and remove to Donwell? Dearest papa, you have always desired my happiness—’
‘Oh, no. No. It would not do at all.’ Mr Woodhouse shook his head. ‘Close Hartfield. Oh, no, no!’
‘But papa!’ Suddenly Emma was near tears, a child again.
‘My dear – you do not understand – there is no reason to close Hartfield – I also have news for you – perhaps you will not be surprised – Miss Bates feels sure you have suspected these many months, although at my age, I would never have suspected – your dear mother – happiness – Oh!’
‘Papa? Tell me, what are you trying to say?’
‘Miss Bates has done me the honour of accepting my invitation to become the second Mrs Woodhouse.’
Emma, speechless, stared at her father who wore a glowing look of pride, modesty and a little shy pleasure at making an announcement which could cause his clever daughter so much amazement.
‘I told Miss Bates you would be taken aback. I had been a little nervous, I must confess, of breaking it to you. But now you see why I need not move from Hartfield. I shall have a wife.’
Emma, still struck dumb, also saw why he had been avoiding her and could now understand all Miss Bates’ recent cheerful humour and particularly the pink frill. She was seeing herself as a bride.
‘I have written to Isabella already but the letter is not yet sent. She will be pleased, I believe, at seeing me happy.’ Now the expression was a slightly contradictory mix of complacency and pleading.
‘Yes, papa,’ stumbled out Emma. ‘Your happiness has always been our first thought.’
‘And now you will not have to think so hard,’ said Mr Woodhouse and this time complacency had definitely won the majority of his features.
Emma’s amazement continued. Yet Mr Woodhouse was not in his dotage, however he might on occasion pretend to be, and Miss Bates was a respectable vicar’s daughter, even though lack of financial backing had made
her play a humbler role in society. But since John Knightley’s downfall, money and position no longer meant so much to Emma that she could see them stand in the way of happiness. If she had been able to believe Miss Bates a selfish, scheming sort of woman, she would never have been able to approve of the matter, although it were beyond her power to halt it. But she knew Miss Bates was a good, true woman, properly attached to her father and his family and – whatever scheming she had employed (Emma remembered Mrs Tidmarsh’s advice not to underestimate Miss Bates) – it had led to an outcome which would be of benefit to all, and most particularly to herself.
Mr Knightley, although nearly as thunderstruck as his wife, felt these benefits at once and added another. ‘Since Miss Bates must be considered, despite a penchant for pink frills, past the age of bearing children, we may be sure that little Henry Knightley, although supplanted from Donwell, may inherit Hartfield. All in all I can only commend Mr Woodhouse and Miss Bates for acting with excellent good sense.’
***
There were now three marriages to be talked of in Highbury. One of course was presumed to have already taken place, although nothing was known of Frank Churchill and Mrs Tidmarsh beyond a brief note to Mr Weston in which he was presumed to have announced his intentions. From that day, Mr Weston, usually so fulsomely loquacious on the subject of his son, never raised his name in public again.
The second marriage was to be held in June, between the Reverend Dugobair Tidmarsh and Miss Elizabeth Martin. The awkwardness that might have risen over Mr Tidmarsh’s unfortunate connection with such a disreputable lady as Philomena Tidmarsh was much diminished by his seeming utterly unaware of any difficulty. His only comment on her sudden departure, made to Mr Martin and overheard by Emma, was, ‘Queen Jupiter vult perdere dementat prius.’ But, since he did not translate, it made no one any the wiser. He was indeed radiant with happiness, impatient only for the marriage to be over so that he could take his bride back to London where she could light up the dark corners of St Peter’s. Already, it was established that Mrs Martin’s wedding present would be an excellent pianoforte in just the same style as her own.
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