Mr Woodhouse subsided into silence, and Knightley’s attention was drawn back to the conversation of the young ladies.
“I am certain we can find out how to get a telescope,” Emma was saying. “We had one, of course, when I was young, but I was less careful of it than I ought to have been, and it broke. I remember thinking, last time the boys were at Hartfield, that it would have been an excellent amusement for them while they were here.”
“Oh—yes, an excellent amusement indeed,” echoed Harriet.
“Mr. Knightley, do you know how one might procure a telescope, such as would be suitable for children?”
“You do not think John and Isabella would object, do you?”
That idea had evidently never occurred to Emma. Her brow wrinkled for a moment as she answered, “No, I cannot imagine John and Isabella would have the least objection.”
Knightley was not certain of this—he could envision John wanting to provide such scientific equipment himself, even if it were to stay at Hartfield—but he was willing to let it pass. He would not stifle her kindly impulses. If she was trying to find ways to amuse and even instruct their nephews, he would do all he could to forward her design. He was pleased that she turned to him for advice and relied on his counsel in such matters.
“There are available at several locations in London; the best would be Berge’s place in Picadilly. I would be delighted to get it for you.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Knightley! That is very generous.”
“I cannot allow you to be the only benefactor,” said Knightley.
“I?” said Emma, surprised. “I do very little for them, truly.”
Her modesty in the matter was very becoming, thought Knightley. He knew she did much for them.
“My dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “I think perhaps Mr. Knightley will join us for a cup of tea, if you would be so kind as to ring the bell. And then, Mr. Knightley, we might look for that document.”
As Emma went to ring the bell, Knightley reflected on the absolutely perfect opportunity that had sprung from Emma’s own lips. It was a gift that she would see constantly, and so be a silent reminder of him. Yet it would not provoke any suspicion and could not be in the least inappropriate, since it was not a gift particularly for her, but for their nephews. He could imagine John and Henry asking her where it came from and her saying, “Uncle Knightley got it for you—isn’t he a good uncle?”
The nightmare came again that night. This time it was Mrs. Elton who ordered that the lime walk be cut down, in order to make the Abbey look more like Maple Grove. Again, a word from him to the workmen would halt the destruction, but he was no more successful in getting to them than he had been before. As he tried to get out of the house and to the lime walk he discovered that the Abbey had somehow changed: rooms had disappeared or been rearranged. He lost his way again and again in the corridors and bedrooms; for some reason he always ended up in the library. To make matters worse, Elton was following him around (still fluttering Mrs. Whitney’s fan), trying to convince him to give up Donwell and take the vicarage instead. “For you have no wife and family,” reasoned Elton, “and have no need for such a large place.”
Emma was there, too, always leaving a room just as he entered it. He kept thinking that if he could only speak to her, she could get a message to the workmen. Finally he found her standing at the window in the library, and she turned to smile at him. All thoughts of the workmen and the lime walk vanished, and he knew he must declare his love. And then, just as he was reaching for her hand, Mrs. Hodges appeared and urged him to eat breakfast. He thanked her for her concern and dismissed her, but she would not leave. So agitated was she that she began prodding him in the back.
“Mrs. Hodges, I beg you,” he said, “calm yourself!” But she continued to poke at him with a bony finger, and to his astonishment, began to growl at him. He turned to look at her, and her form changed into that of a bear…and then into that of a dog…and then into…
He woke. Madam Duval was walking across his back, purring loudly.
“Oh,” he said with a sound that was something between a sigh and a groan. “Oh, Madam. I almost held her hand.”
Knightley called on Gilbert that afternoon to tell him that Larkins would be happy to mentor Perkins.
“That is a relief,” said Gilbert. “I was a little afraid that he disliked me and would refuse my request; I do not think he has ever smiled at me.”
“Believe me,” said Knightley, “Larkins’ smiles—or lack thereof—are no measure of his regard. I cannot remember the last time he smiled at me—but I am certain he holds me in esteem, if not affection. I am sure he holds you in the highest respect.”
“That is good to hear. I am persuaded that Larkins’ regard is not awarded indiscriminately.”
“By no means. Oh! I meant to ask: have you heard anything else about the Crow’s Nest?”
“No, and I’ve made a point of listening for news. There is something afoot in this parish, however. There have been many thefts, most of them petty, and I doubt any of them have come to your ears. In fact, I’m sure there are a great many that have never come to my ears, either. Still, it seems there is a concerted effort by someone—or perhaps a group of someones—to deprive the residents of Langham of some of their moveable property.”
“Do you think it is connected with Cooper in any way?”
“Hard to say. I told you what the old woman said to my wife—that the scoundrel Finchley was Cooper’s cousin. I do keep wondering if there is some connection between these thefts and those fellows at the tavern.”
“Fellows?”
“Oh, the usual collection of young men that gather there of an evening to play cards and drink. Nothing definitely against any of them, but not exactly men of good repute.”
Knightley wondered if Edmund Gilbert knew anything—surely these were the “lads” he had referred to when they talked at the Coles’ dinner. Perhaps he could have a quiet word with him another time. He had no leisure to find him now, and tomorrow was Sunday. And there would be no time on Monday, either, for on Monday he was going to London to buy a telescope.
12 March
Donwell Abbey
Dear John,
Yes, the new Mrs. Elton is now among us. I imagine that Isabella will soon hear from Emma on the subject, tho’ I think Emma will likely moderate her words for her sister. You will have a fairly accurate picture of Mrs. Elton’s character when I tell you about the call the Eltons paid to the Abbey today as they returned my wedding-visit. You will be pleased to learn that in her estimation, the Abbey compares favourably with Maple Grove, the seat of her sister’s husband. You have never heard of the place before, you say? Neither had I, which now seems incredible, as I gather that it is the pride of Somerset. As Maple Grove has been in existence for, I take it, something less than a century, and is evidently decorated in the first stare of fashion, the only resemblance Mrs. Elton could produce between Maple Grove and Donwell is the air of refinement and—she almost said “wealth”, but replaced it just in time with “prosperity”.
She is much disappointed with the card-parties in Highbury. Her hostesses, one and all, have neglected to serve ice at their gatherings (where does she suppose they will get it from? This is not Bath), and, worse, no one has taken the trouble to purchase new packs of cards for each table. She has evidently not grasped the fact that it is done in the large parties of Bath in order to prevent cheating, not as a proof of elegance. Or perhaps she has understood the reason, and is in fact suspicious of Mrs. Goddard or Mrs. Perry, supposing them to be regularly cheating the other ladies out of a sixpence or two. I could believe either of her.
Harry—you remember, Mefford’s son that I took on as a footman—contrived to drop a loaded tea tray just outside the drawing room while they were here. You would have enjoyed the scene. Baxter was in a state of muted agony for the rest of the visit; Harry became amusingly over-cautious: mincing delicately across the drawing room and warily offering teacups in the manne
r of an infirm old woman. Mrs. Elton was at first aghast, and then, recovering, overpoweringly arch. “These things happen frequently in a bachelor establishment, I understand,” she said. “I beg you would not feel obliged to invite us for a dinner. There is not the least need for it; and as your household is accustomed to very simple arrangements, it would be shocking to tax them with so much preparation and ceremony.” I suppose I might have been affronted if I had not had the felicity of observing Baxter’s face at that moment; the outrage on his countenance was beyond price. I think in future Harry will be spared the duty of serving guests.
Tell Bella that Madam Duval is very well—much better than I am, in fact. This morning she woke me out of a deep, refreshing sleep (complete with a particularly pleasant dream) by walking around on my back and purring in my ear. I have retaliated by hiding all my pencils from her. I fear she will not profit from the lesson, however.
Give my love to Isabella and the children.
Yours,
George
3
The telescope was a thing of beauty. Knightley took it out of its box to marvel at its perfection once again. With its polished dark wood and shining brass it would be admired by anyone who saw it. Emma could not fail to be fascinated by the instrument, and she would no doubt urge their nephews to use it often while they were at Hartfield. And she would think of him every time she did so.
The library door opened.
“Mr. Spencer to see you, sir,” said Baxter. “Shall I show him in?”
“Certainly, Baxter.”
Baxter disappeared and Knightley carefully set the telescope back in its box.
“Good morning, Mr. Knightley.”
“Good morning Spencer. I hope I see you well?”
“Tolerable, thank you. I called to see you yesterday, but Baxter said you had gone to London.”
“Yes, I went to get this”— he gestured toward the telescope—“for Hartfield.”
Spencer came nearer to look at it. “It is beautiful. Is Miss Woodhouse to deliver it to Mrs. Goddard, then? Mrs. Goddard is extremely grateful for your patronage. I may say that I had not expected you to purchase a telescope of the highest quality for the use of a small country school—but I ought to have known you would give nothing but the best.”
Knightley looked blankly at Spencer.
“Mrs. Goddard’s school? I don’t understand. The telescope is for my nephews.”
“Is it?” said Spencer in some perplexity. “The story I heard was that Miss Smith told Miss Woodhouse that the school needed a telescope, and Miss Woodhouse asked you where one could be got, and you offered to procure it yourself. Was that not the case? Miss Smith told Mrs. Goddard, of course, who told it to the Bates’, which is where I heard the news. Was Miss Smith mistaken?”
“Do you mean to say,” said Knightley slowly, “that Emma was only asking on behalf of Mrs. Goddard?”
“That is what I understood.”
“But they were talking about my nephews only a moment before…” Knightley looked at the curate helplessly. “I suppose they might have turned the subject while I was talking to Mr. Woodhouse, and—oh, mercy. They all expect it to go to the school.”
“And you thought it would go to your nephews?”
“I thought Emma wanted one to keep at Hartfield for the amusement of the little Knightleys,” said Knightley, heavily. “I cannot think what I ought to do about it now.”
“It seems to me that nothing need be done; no one but our two selves know of the mistake.”
“But I wanted—” Knightley stopped. There was no way he could say what he wanted.
“You wanted it to go to Hartfield…to Miss Woodhouse…as a sort of gift.” There was a faint smile on Spencer’s face.
Knightley stared at him. A dozen responses whirled through his head: denials, protests, excuses…but what he blurted out was, “How did you know?”
“I have known for several months.”
Knightley felt as if he ought to sit down. “Several months?”
“Yes. You did not know it yourself then, I believe.”
“But when…how…”
“You told me of a young lady who had said you were no judge of anyone’s character, and who, according to you, persisted in defending the indefensible conduct of a young man.”
“I remember now. But surely you could not have deduced the state of my affections from that!”
“No. I inferred it from your reluctance to tolerate the idea of her marrying the fellow, even if he turned out to be very respectable. In fact, you said that if he was, after all, a worthy man, it would be worse, for then there would be nothing to stop her marrying him. I could think of no reason for you to wish her single rather than married to an estimable man unless you wanted to marry her yourself. However, you did not seem to be aware of the logical conclusion to be drawn from your statement.”
“No, I was not. I have been partial to Emma as a friend for many years, and I suppose that blinded me…And did you know of whom I spoke? I cannot believe that I said her name.”
“Oh, no, you said nothing about the lady’s identity, other than her being a connection of your family’s. At one time, I thought it might be Miss Fairfax—you seemed to admire her. I even asked you if she was a relative of yours. But you said she was not.”
“And, of course, you learned that Emma is.”
“Yes. But I did not immediately guess her to be the one—she is much younger than you are, and you did not seem to be pursuing her.”
Knightley gave a short laugh. “No. I could hardly have behaved less like a lover. So what was it that enlightened you?”
“Mr. Churchill. Not only did he fit your description of a captivating young man, but you seemed very disinclined to praise him, or, in fact, to discuss him at all. If someone mentioned him, you seemed always to introduce a new topic. Most unusual for you. And one day I saw him and Miss Woodhouse and Mrs. Weston walking through the town, followed at a little distance by yourself. The look on your face…”
Knightley sighed. “I wonder how many other people have guessed the same thing?”
“I have no way of knowing, of course, but I would be greatly surprised if anyone else is aware. I would not have realized it myself if I had not known you were in love and been looking for the lady.”
“I hope you are right. I am now inclined to say nothing at all to anyone, lest I let something slip unawares.”
Spencer grinned. “I hardly think you can avoid talking completely. Perhaps, however, you ought to stay away from the topic of tender feelings—yours or anyone else’s. In fact, when we spoke of my tender feelings not long ago, you made another comment that confirmed to me the state of your heart.”
“You are making me more alarmed by the minute.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“No, it is good of you to put me on my guard.”
“You are not prepared to say anything to her now, I collect.”
“No.”
“Profiting from my example?”
“In part.”
Spencer nodded. “I daresay you are right to wait.”
Both men were silent for a moment.
“Well, it is still a very fine telescope,” said Spencer. “The school will be very grateful.”
“I will be glad when they have it. I confess, I don’t want to see it any more.”
“Perhaps…shall I deliver it to the school for you?”
“I would be most grateful, Spencer.”
A week passed before Knightley had time to visit the Donwell rectory. He found Dr. Hughes in the garden, sitting in the sunshine among the daffodils that were finally blooming.
“A very pleasant day for the month of March,” said Knightley.
“Yes, indeed. I believe it is the finest weather we have had yet this spring.”
“And your gardener has been busy, has he not? There seems to be a new flower bed just beyond the gooseberry bushes.”
“Yes. It is to be a
bed of roses, larkspur, and hollyhocks. Mrs. Hughes is particularly gratified, as Miss Fairfax says that the illustrious Campbells have hollyhocks in their magnificent garden.”
“You have seen Miss Fairfax recently, then?”
“She and her good aunt were here not two hours ago. It was very good to see them again, particularly as there is a possibility that Miss Fairfax may be leaving Highbury again soon.”
“Oh? I had not heard anything of that.”
“No—I believe it was only yesterday that a letter arrived from the Campbells, inviting her to join them in Ireland.”
“And she is thinking of going?”
“Miss Bates spoke as if the matter were undecided, but Miss Fairfax seemed to indicate that she would not. She seems not to want to leave her aunt and grandmother.”
“A very praiseworthy inclination.”
“Indeed. And she may be reluctant to leave her friends in Highbury so soon; according to Miss Bates, a deep and sudden friendship has blossomed between Miss Fairfax and the new Mrs. Elton.”
“Ah, Mrs. Elton. You have met her, I presume?”
“Oh, yes, we had the Eltons to dine last week. At that time she was full of talk about her friendship with Miss Woodhouse, and their plans for a musical club.” Dr. Hughes’ eyes twinkled. “I confess I could not imagine Miss Woodhouse presiding over such a thing.”
“My dear sir, do you imagine that Mrs. Elton would allow anyone else to preside over anything in which she was taking part? Oh—I beg your pardon, I ought not to have spoken so freely.” Dr. Hughes should not be forced to listen to the derision of the wife of a fellow clergyman, even if the couple in question were the Eltons.
Dr. Hughes chuckled. “No, I suppose you ought not. Still, I suspect you have assessed her accurately. From Miss Bates’ conversation today I gather that Miss Fairfax has gained the ascendancy over Miss Woodhouse in Mrs. Elton’s esteem and friendship.”
“Yes. I have heard much of their intimacy in the last week.” He was about to add his own opinion about why it had happened, but checked himself. Dr. Hughes was a keen enough judge of human character to surmise the truth on his own.
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