The Intrigue at Highbury

by Carrie Bebris

  Darcy could not help but turn his attention on her. “Your cousins allowed you to walk about unescorted in strange country?”

  “They were visiting a friend. I had a slight headache and stayed behind. But then it improved, so I decided to meet them coming home. I thought I knew the way. Oh!—That hurts!”

  Elizabeth released her foot. “You must have merely turned the ankle, for I detect no break or sprain. Let us get you to the carriage and transport you to your cousins. What are their names?”

  “Their names?” She winced. “Jones. Jones—just like mine.”

  Miss Jones found she could stand unsupported, but still moaned and complained. Elizabeth was sympathetic to her discomfort, but wished the girl were not quite so vocal about it. To hear her grievances, one would think her entire leg had been amputated.

  Darcy drew Elizabeth aside. “We have no notion of where to find these relations of hers, and Miss Jones herself will be of no help. We will take her with us to the inn at Highbury. Surely someone there knows the cousins.”

  Elizabeth had begun to believe they would never reach the inn. She peered towards the carriage. Darkness yet shrouded it; she could barely discern the vehicle and could not make out their servants at all. “Ben must yet be repairing the lantern, but I see no sign of our groom, either.”

  Darcy frowned. “Perhaps he is assisting Ben behind the carriage.” He called the men’s names, but received no response. The silence was more disturbing than the raven’s cry. Only the horses’ snorts penetrated the stillness.

  He glanced meaningfully at her reticule. “Have you—”

  “Yes. Do you want it?”

  He shook his head. “Keep it at hand and stay here with Jeffrey and Miss Jones.” From the folds of his greatcoat he produced the small pistol he carried with him when they traveled, and walked towards the carriage.

  He left the light with Jeffrey and the women, making it more difficult for Elizabeth to see his figure. Her nerves were taut as she and the coachman watched her husband retreat into the darkness surrounding the vehicle. Miss Jones’s continual complaints did not help.

  “Oh! Where is he going? Can we not leave this place at once? I have heard there are highwaymen about—”

  “Highwaymen!” Elizabeth said. “Why did you not say so before now?”

  “Heavens, I did not want to speak of such people!”

  With now even greater anxiety, Elizabeth turned her attention back to the carriage. She could just distinguish Darcy moving round its side. “Then kindly hold your tongue so as not to draw them to us.”

  Behind her, Miss Jones mercifully lapsed into silence. The horses, however, were restless, and created quite enough noise themselves as they hoofed the ground and shook their harnesses. Elizabeth held her breath, unable to release it until she saw her husband safe again.

  In a moment, Darcy came back into sight, running towards them. He bore grim news. Their servants lay unconscious.

  Their chest was gone.

  Elizabeth whirled round. So was Miss Jones.

  Volume the First

  IN WHICH IS RELATED A SUCCESSION OF CURIOUS

  INCIDENTS ORIGINATING A FORTNIGHT PREVIOUS IN

  THE VILLAGE OF HIGHBURY

  “Ah! my dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretel things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches.”

  —Mr. Woodhouse to Emma Woodhouse, Emma

  One

  “When such success has blessed me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making.”

  —Emma Woodhouse, Emma

  Emma Woodhouse Knightley, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition—a happiness recently compounded by her marriage to a gentleman of noble character and steadfast heart—seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-two years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.

  With two notable exceptions: the Reverend and Mrs. Philip Elton.

  “I am still appalled by their conversation,” Emma said to her husband as they sat in Hartfield’s drawing room after dinner. Her father had just retired for the night, leaving the newlyweds to enjoy an hour of peace before retiring themselves. Emma’s mind, however, was anything but quiet as she dwelled upon the discussion she had overheard that morning, and neither the familiar comforts of the room—the Chippendale sofa and side chairs, the portrait of her late mother above the great hearth—nor the novelty of her bridegroom’s now-permanent presence there, could quell her agitation.

  “That is what comes of eavesdropping,” Mr. Knightley said.

  “I was not eavesdropping,” Emma insisted. “I was tying my bootlace.”

  The lace had come undone as she left the home of Miss Bates, a middle-aged spinster who lived with her elderly mother in reduced circumstances on the upper floor of a modest house. Emma had visited their rooms many times (though perhaps not so often as she ought), but never before had the humble apartment felt so small. The Eltons had called so shortly after Emma’s own arrival that it was some time before she could with propriety effect an escape. “I paused at the base of the stairs to fix the lace. Could I help it that the Eltons emerged from the apartment and began their discussion on the landing before I had done?”

  Mr. Knightley’s expression suggested that she might have secured the half-boot more rapidly had she wanted to. Sixteen years her senior, he had known Emma her whole life, and was as well acquainted with her foibles as he was with her charms. His dark eyes narrowed in doubt, and for a moment she dreaded an admonition delivered in his usual forthright manner. Instead, he rose and stirred the fire. The flickering light shadowed his countenance and silhouetted his tall frame. Though he possessed the maturity and bearing of a man eight-and-thirty, he had maintained the firm figure of younger days, and Emma congratulated herself on having found such a fine-looking husband once she had finally opened her eyes to the gentleman next door.

  He returned the poker to its stand and adjusted the screen to shield them from the heat. “It is fortunate that you managed to exit without the Eltons’ seeing you in the stairwell.” He sat down beside her on the sofa. “To have been caught listening to their conversation, however involuntarily, would not have reflected well on you.”

  The last position in which Emma would want to find herself was that of giving Augusta Elton any room to expand her already inflated sense of superiority. Mrs. Elton’s greatest claim to society was a brother-in-law who owned a barouche-landau and an estate near Bristol. Though the house was named Maple Grove, Mrs. Elton seemed to think it was St. James’s Palace. She also took extraordinary pride in her status as the vicar’s wife, performing her role with pretensions of elegance and a pronounced air of noblesse oblige. Sadly, Mr. Elton, though a clergyman, was nearly as vain and insufferable as she.

  “It is still more fortunate that I did overhear them, for now I can rescue poor Miss Bates from their plotting.”

  “Emma—”

  “Honestly, you should have heard them! Talking about how Miss Bates will surely become dependent upon parish charity after her mother dies.”

  “I doubt that will happen, with her niece marrying Frank Churchill next week. A gentleman who stands to inherit an estate the size of Enscombe will not forsake his wife’s aunt.”

  Emma knew that Mr. Knightley spoke not from conviction of Frank Churchill’s reliability, but from his own principles. Because Mr. Knightley would never neglect a needy relation, he expected all gentlemen to demonstrate the same sense of duty. In fact, he had forfeited his own independence to act rightly by Emma’s father. Upon their marriage, Mr. Knightley had graciously moved into the house of Emma’s birth so that she need not abandon the invalid Mr. Woodhouse or subject the old man to the trauma of leaving his lifelong home to live with them at Mr. Knightley’s more sizable estate, Donwell Abbey. Though the distance was slight—Hartfield bordered Mr. Knightley’s grounds—Mr. Woodhouse suffered
from a nervous disposition and did not bear well change of any sort. The living arrangement left Donwell Abbey without its master in residence, and Emma appreciated the sacrifice her husband had made on behalf of herself and her father.

  The vicar and his wife, however, were entirely capable of more selfish conduct, and therefore anticipated it in others. “The Eltons are convinced that once Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax wed and move so far away as Yorkshire, the Bates ladies will be forgotten,” Emma said. “Mrs. Elton is determined to make certain that Miss Bates becomes someone else’s responsibility and not the parish’s.”

  To be specific, Mrs. Elton had proposed marrying off Miss Bates to any man—gentleman or not—who would have her. Granted, finding a husband for a woman of forty-odd years would prove a daunting enterprise, and Miss Bates’s situation was further challenged by the spinster’s propensity for endless chatter. Emma herself found Miss Bates’s trivial tidings and cheerful effusions tedious; she could scarcely imagine a husband willing to endure them day and night.

  Mrs. Elton, however, had gone so far as to suggest an addlepated local farmer as the ideal candidate, and declared to Mr. Elton her intention of arranging the match. In that, the vicar’s wife had gone too far.

  “She cannot be permitted to proceed,” Emma continued. “Not when I have the ability to arrange a superior establishment for Miss Bates.”

  “You told me, Emma, after Harriet Smith married Robert Martin despite your interference, that you had given up matchmaking.”

  “This is not matchmaking. It is—” She considered her words carefully, for there was no bluffing her husband. Mr. Knightley knew her better than did any other soul on earth. “It is merely taking advantage of an opportunity.”

  “An opportunity to meddle.”

  Now Emma found herself vexed not only at the Eltons, but at her “dear Mr. Knightley.” This latest was a slight vexation—a trifle, really. Well, perhaps more than a trifle. But it was her husband’s fault for willfully misinterpreting her motives for the scheme she had spent all afternoon contemplating.

  “An opportunity to show kindness towards someone to whom you yourself have said I ought to demonstrate greater generosity. You should be pleased that I have taken to heart your reproofs regarding my lack of consideration for Miss Bates, and that I wish to make amends for my previous neglect. Her situation is indeed pitiable. She has sacrificed half her life to the care of her near-deaf mother. Is she to spend her old age either alone in poverty, or with some half-wit imposed upon her by Mrs. Elton?”

  “We can guard Miss Bates from any maneuverings Mrs. Elton might undertake without your trying to orchestrate a match of your own.”

  “Can we? Miss Bates is so appreciative of any attention or kindness shown her that even if she had reservations about the groom, she would wed him simply out of gratitude, or in deference to Mrs. Elton for arranging the marriage. If Miss Bates ever possessed enough quickness of mind to recognize an unfavorable situation when presented with one, years of deprivation have surely worn down her ability to resist it.”

  Mr. Knightley could remember Miss Bates at a more carefree period of her life—before her father, a former vicar of Highbury, had died. As a clergyman’s benefice made no provisions for surviving dependents, Mr. Bates’s widow and daughter had been left to shift as best they could on an income insufficient to support even one of them, let alone two, in moderate comfort. The pair, however, being of naturally content temperaments and possessing enough sense to live within their means, accepted their situation with grace, and made the best of it.

  “Miss Bates never exhibited your cleverness, Emma, nor even an intellect as strong as her younger sister’s. Yet you will not meet a kinder-hearted soul in all Surrey. Leave her in peace.”

  “Her good heart is precisely why I wish to perform a kindness for her in turn. You would merely save her from the evils of Mrs. Elton, whereas I hope to secure her a future happier than her present. Somewhere in England there must be a gentleman—a good, decent gentleman, not merely the first unmarried farmer Mrs. Elton can manipulate—who can appreciate Miss Bates.”

  “It would not be a kindness to introduce hopes that Miss Bates must have set aside long ago, only to have them once more disappointed.”

  “Why do you assume they will be disappointed? She need not captivate the entire Polite World, merely a single man.” Ideally, one in possession of a good fortune. “And the celebration of her niece’s marriage to Frank Churchill will bring more new gentlemen to Highbury than I daresay this village has ever seen at once.”

  Though the wedding would take place in London, where the bride had been raised, Frank and Jane would visit the village before removing to the Churchill estate in Yorkshire. What had initially been conceived as a small dinner party to receive the postnuptial well-wishes of their Highbury friends had burgeoned into an elaborate affair once Mr. Weston, Frank’s father, began issuing invitations. Not only was every respectable family in the neighborhood to attend, but auld acquaintance must not be forgot. Because Randalls, the Westons’ home, had but two spare bedrooms and the Crown Inn could not accommodate everybody, Donwell Abbey would host the affair and lodge many of the out-of-town guests.

  The venue had been Emma’s idea, motivated by her friendship with Mrs. Weston, Frank’s stepmother. Though Mr. Knightley acquiesced, he was not without uneasiness over the thought of visitors—many of them strangers—occupying his house in his absence. He and Emma, therefore, would stay at Donwell while Emma’s visiting sister and her family stayed with Mr. Woodhouse. Emma credited their newlywed status for her successful application on this point, for under few other circumstances could she imagine Mr. Knightley’s being persuaded to go so out of his way regarding an event that honored Frank Churchill. Mr. Knightley thought the young man self-centered and more fortunate in his relationships—especially his betrothal to Jane Fairfax—than he deserved.

  His unexpected role as a host did, however, enable Mr. Knightley to perform a service for the Bates ladies. He proposed that Mrs. and Miss Bates also consider themselves sponsors of the gathering. Through his means, they would be able to give Jane a proper send-off.

  “This affair has already grown to answer more purposes than anyone originally intended,” Mr. Knightley said. “Now it is to serve as a promenade of suitors for your appraisal?”

  “Is that not a tacit component of most social events? The difference is that this time, no one—including the lady herself—will know that this gathering is, of sorts, a coming-out ball. I shall be entirely discreet in my evaluations.”

  “I do not think this wise. Even did I not harbor reservations about the presumption of attempting to find a husband for Miss Bates, one cannot learn much of use about a gentleman at a dinner party.”

  “I disagree.”

  “And should a man whom you judge suitable present himself, what course of action do you intend to pursue in consequence?”

  Emma had not yet settled her mind as to that part of her plan. For the present, merely finding a worthy object was challenge enough.

  Two

  She had been a friend and companion such as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in [Emma], in every pleasure, every scheme of hers.

  —description of Mrs. Weston, Emma

  Hoping for a more sympathetic audience—perhaps even a conspirator—in her plan for Miss Bates, Emma visited Randalls the following day. Just over a year ago, Emma’s dearest friend had married Mr. Weston, and Emma fancied that she herself had brought about the match between her former governess and the longtime widower. Where Mr. Knightley had responded to Emma’s plan with skepticism, surely Mrs. Weston would recognize the merit, the necessity, of the idea, and approve it. Mrs. Weston possessed good principles and sound judgment; if Emma’s intentions towards Miss Bates were indeed misguided, Mrs. Weston would advise her—though with a heart prejudiced by a near-
mother’s affection for the girl, now woman, she had helped raise from age five.

  Emma would listen to Mrs. Weston’s counsel, then act as she generally did: precisely as Emma wished.

  She found Mrs. Weston walking out-of-doors along a path that circled the house. The day was overcast, and a brisk autumn breeze endeavored to dislodge colored leaves from Randalls’s trees. It did manage to catch the brim of Mrs. Weston’s bonnet, freeing tendrils of dark hair as she spied Emma and came to greet her. Rosy cheeks revealed that she had been walking for some time.

  “You are taking your walk early today,” Emma said.

  “I thought I should do so before the day’s tasks overtook me.” The breeze swelled, prompting Mrs. Weston to shiver and cross her arms over the front of her spencer. “We go to London soon for Frank and Jane’s wedding, and there are still countless details to oversee for the dinner party.”

  “Donwell Abbey could not be blessed with a more capable housekeeper. Depend upon it, Mrs. Hodges has everything in order.”

  “I am entirely confident that she does. It is only that . . .”

  Such was the accord between them that Emma’s friend did not need to complete the sentence for Emma to know her apprehension. Though still rather new to her role as stepmother, Mrs. Weston’s affection for Frank equaled his father’s. As a young militia officer with no fortune of his own, the newly widowed Mr. Weston had, of necessity, commended his three-year-old son to his late wife’s wealthy brother and sister-in-law, Edgar and Agnes Churchill, who had raised him as their own while Mr. Weston earned his place in the world. Now that Frank was grown and heir to the Churchill fortune—he had even taken the name “Churchill” upon reaching his majority—there was nothing of a material nature that he needed from Mr. Weston. Frank’s legacy from his father and new mother, therefore, comprised unconditional love: the one asset he had found wanting on the grand estate of Enscombe. Fondness and regard had been shown, but never—particularly on his late aunt’s part—unconditionally.