Lend Me Leave

by Barbara Cornthwaite

  John

  “Poor John,” said Knightley to Madam Duval, as he folded up the letter. “His one full day at Hartfield is the very day Emma is giving her dinner party for Mrs. Elton. He will not be pleased to be thrust into company like this.”

  The cat twitched her ears at his voice, but continued to lie curled in the corner of one of the library chairs. The firelight illuminated her white fur, making her almost glow in the dark room.

  “I wish I might somehow use John’s visit to my advantage in my quest for Emma’s hand,” continued Knightley, “but I can think of nothing about the circumstance that would help my suit. It is maddening to think that with so many advantages—living nearby with free access to the house and a close family connection—I still can think of no way to attach her.”

  He got up and went over to the window. It was a cloudy, moonless night, and he could not even see as far as the gravel walk. It did not matter; in his mind’s eye he saw Hartfield, with all its inhabitants serenely sleeping.

  “Almost I am tempted, Emma, to ask you outright if I might be allowed to try to win you. Almost.” Lately the thought had come more and more frequently: presume upon their friendship so far, and no farther. Refuse this notion of wooing by stealth and make his efforts open instead of secret. But then…the faces of Spencer and Robert Martin were always there, reminding him of the risk in doing so. The consequences of a refusal would be devastating.

  “I think there is no hurry,” he told Emma, coming to the same conclusion that he always did. “Churchill is gone, possibly never to return. He cannot win you from a distance. Unless—”A sudden fear contracted his heart, and he swallowed before going on. “Unless it already too late. Unless he has already engaged you—secretly!”

  It was an absurd notion and he knew it, but it took hold of his imagination and would not be dismissed. He paced away from the window and then back again.

  “Perhaps before he left for Yorkshire he asked for your hand. Yes, I can see him doing it, full of eloquent flattery and expressions of utmost devotion! You would have demurred, of course, from being engaged to him—on your father’s account, at least—and he might have persuaded you –he is just the sort of fellow to do such a thing!—to consent to a secret engagement.”

  He allowed his forehead to lean against the cold glass of the window pane and let his mind run through the possibilities. Emma already lost to him. Emma willing to leave Highbury forever. Emma now carrying on a clandestine correspondence with Churchill. Perhaps even at this late hour, instead of sleeping, she was writing him a letter, assuring him of her love! And perhaps Churchill, while attending his aunt, was also covertly making Enscomb ready for its new mistress.

  “No, Emma,” he whispered. “No. You would not. You could not. I know you; you love your father too much to do such a thing. You are too honourable.”

  He raised his head to look again out the window. He could see almost nothing in the blackness, but once more the vision of Hartfield, with all its elegance and stability, came to his mind. He took a deep breath, and slowly the pounding of his heart eased.

  “Oh, Emma,” he said. “If you knew how often I fall prey to foolish fears—silly, fanciful, preposterous fears—you would laugh at me, I think.”

  Knightley was not at Hartfield when John and the boys arrived, but they did walk over to Donwell to see him the next morning. After the first boisterous greetings with his nephews were over, and John, faithful to his promise to Bella, oversaw the decoration of Madam Duval with a blue satin bow, the boys were taken outdoors by Mrs. Hodges to see the fish ponds. Knightley took John into the library to show him the proposal for draining the land around the Fisher farm and creating another smallholding. The work was set to commence within the month, and he wanted to know John’s opinion about altered boundaries and about how many buildings should be erected on the new farm. John was not one to approve anything without full understanding, and his insight was valuable.

  “I suppose you know by this time,” said Knightley after the plans had been thoroughly talked over and put away, “that there is a dinner party at Hartfield tonight.”

  “Oh, yes. It seems my visit was exquisitely timed. It is evidently to be a large party—for Hartfield.”

  “Yes: you and I and the Eltons and Mrs. Weston—Weston is in town, you know—and I assume Miss Smith will make the eighth.”

  “You are mistaken in that assumption, dear brother; it is Miss Fairfax, not Miss Smith, who is to complete the company.”

  “Oh!” So Emma had taken his rebuke to heart and was making efforts to give more attention to Jane Fairfax. He was ridiculously pleased about it.

  “I do hope you will not add to Emma’s burdens tonight,” said Knightley.

  “Burdens? What burdens?”

  “If you do not yet understand the vexation Emma must be enduring in hosting a dinner for the Eltons, you will after this evening.”

  “I see. And how is it that I could I add to the burden of such a dinner?”

  “Oh, by making no secret of the misery you feel in being subjected to such a very difficult ordeal. You are hardly a convivial guest at these gatherings, John.”

  “True, I suppose. I very much dislike—Well, never mind.”

  A noise at the window drew the attention of the two men. It was Henry, tapping on the window and waving at them.

  “Little monkey,” said John, waving him off. “I suppose I ought to go and rescue Mrs. Hodges; it is time to be going back to Hartfield, anyway. Those clouds look like rain.”

  Knightley was a little surprised to find that his admonishment to John about being agreeable at the dinner party had been heeded. He found John in the centre of the room, talking pleasantly with Jane Fairfax. Content to leave them to their friendly chat, he found Mrs. Weston standing alone and went to greet her.

  “I hope you are feeling well?” he began. He reckoned that her baby was about three months from making its appearance, and although he could not allude to that fact directly, she would understand that he would know from Isabella what the last months of pregnancy were apt to be like.

  “I am very well,” she answered, “A little tired now and then, but no more than is to be expected.”

  “I am very glad to hear it. And I may say that I have never seen Weston look so well and happy. You have done him good.”

  A slight blush coloured her cheeks as she thanked him, and then said, “And is not Emma looking well?”

  He glanced around to find her; there she was, talking to her father. “Looking well” was hardly the term he would have used. Beautiful… radiant… lovely… perfect… any one of those words expressed his views more accurately. He tore his eyes away from her.

  “She is; and Mr. Woodhouse, too. He was remarkably free from illness this winter.”

  “Yes. I think Emma has taken greater care of him than ever since I was married. I do not think I have ever seen a daughter—of her age, at least—so devoted to her father.”

  “Nor have I,” said Knightley. It was this view of Emma that had calmed his fears the week before when he had wondered if Emma had entered into a private understanding with Frank Churchill. Emma cared too much for her father to embark upon such a disgraceful alliance. Mrs. Weston’s words could not but strengthen this comforting opinion.

  “My dear Jane!” came Mrs. Elton’s voice, clear above the low murmurs of the other guests. “What is this I hear? Going to the post office in the rain! This must not be, I assure you. You sad girl, how could you do such a thing? It is a sign I was not there to take care of you.”

  “I assure you, Mrs. Elton, I have not caught any cold.”

  “Oh! do not tell me. You really are a very sad girl, and do not know how to take care of yourself. To the post-office indeed!”

  This would be interesting, thought Knightley. Mrs. Elton would not like to concede defeat, but Jane Fairfax, for all her gracious patience, had iron at her core and would not be easily moved. He wondered what the outcome of the contest
would be.

  “Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like?” said Mrs. Elton. “You and I must positively exert our authority.”

  Thus appealed to, Mrs. Weston entered the lists.

  “My advice I certainly do feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks. Liable as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly careful, especially at this time of year. The spring, I always think, requires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two or even half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough again. Now do not you feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable. You look as if you would not do such a thing again.”

  Poor Jane, thought Knightley. She had now not only the overbearing Mrs. Elton, but also the kindly Mrs. Weston and inevitable common sense arrayed against her wishes.

  “Oh!” said Mrs. Elton, on the attack again, “She shall not do such a thing again. We will not allow her to do such a thing again. There must be some arrangement made, there must indeed. I shall speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning—one of our men, I forget his name—shall inquire for yours, too, and bring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties, you know; and from us, I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to accept such an accommodation.”

  Knightley saw John roll his eyes at Mrs. Elton’s manner of speaking about the servant—as if the Eltons had such a vast number of menservants that she could not be expected to remember his name!

  “You are extremely kind,” said Jane, still fighting valiantly, “but I cannot give up my early walk. I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can. I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an object; and upon my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad morning before.”

  Miss Fairfax was holding her own. She made a good point, and was demonstrating that all the sound reason was not on the other side.

  Mrs. Elton, however, refused to acknowledge any advance made by her opponent. “My dear Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is”—she paused to give a little laugh— “as far as I can presume to determine any thing without the concurrence of my lord and master. You know, Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I meet with no insuperable difficulties therefore, consider that point as settled.” It appeared that Mrs. Elton was going to employ Napoleon’s method of crushing the enemy by main force.

  But Jane refused to be crushed. “Excuse me, I cannot by any means consent to such an arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it could be done, as it always is when I am not here, by my grandmamma's—”

  “Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do! And it is a kindness to employ our men.”

  It began to look as if Mrs. Elton read Seneca and agreed with him about never admitting defeat.

  Jane, however, had a different tactic to employ: a strategic withdrawal to distract the enemy. She turned back to John.

  “The post-office is a wonderful establishment!” she said. “The regularity and dispatch of it! If one thinks of all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!”

  “It is certainly very well regulated,” said John. It amused Knightley to see him contribute to the diversion. By now the whole party was listening to the conversation.

  “So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears!” Jane went on. “So seldom that a letter, among the thousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom, is even carried wrong—and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost. And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad hands, too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder!”

  John, aware that this new topic, once firmly established, would terminate the previous one, launched into an explanation of the skill of the clerks at the post office. Mr. Elton, unconsciously contributing to the cause, said that he could never have been any good in that position, as deciphering the correspondence from members of his own family gave him much difficulty. Mrs. Weston observed that poor handwriting was frequently caused by haste, and that the less time one took in writing a letter seemed directly proportional to the amount of time needed for the reader to make sense of it.

  “I have heard it asserted,” said John, now interested in the topic for its own sake, “that the same sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master teaches, it is natural enough. But for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females, for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. Isabella and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their writing apart.”

  Knightley could never have mistaken Emma’s writing for Isabella’s. However, it would not do to flatly contradict his brother.

  “Yes,” said Knightley slowly, “there is a likeness. I know what you mean—but Emma's hand is the strongest.”

  “Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,” said Mr. Woodhouse fondly, “and always did. And,” he added with a melancholy smile, “so does poor Mrs. Weston.”

  “I never saw any gentleman's handwriting—” said Emma, but Mr. Elton began to say something at the same moment, and Emma, noticing that Mrs. Weston was listening to the vicar, fell silent.

  What had she been about to say? Knightley wondered if perhaps she had been on the point of saying something about his own handwriting. She had seen it often enough. He felt confident that she would be complimentary in her description. He usually took pains to write carefully and clearly; he had no need to be ashamed of his hand.

  Mrs. Elton ceased speaking, and Emma began again.

  “Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentlemen's hands I ever saw.”

  She was praising Churchill’s writing? He could not let it pass unchallenged. “I do not admire it. It is too small—wants strength. It is like a woman's writing.”

  “Mr. Knightley! For shame!” said Emma, looking indignant. “It does not by any means want strength!”

  “No indeed!” added Mrs. Weston. “It is not a large hand, but it is very clear and certainly strong.”

  Knightley was troubled; Emma looked more annoyed than he cared to admit. And how was it that she was so familiar with Churchill’s handwriting? Was there any chance that she…? No! He had already decided that they could not possibly be corresponding.

  “Have you any letter of his about you now?” Emma was asking Mrs. Weston.

  “No; I have heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, I put it away.”

  “If we were in the other room—if I had my writing-desk,” said Emma, “I am sure I could produce a specimen. I have a note of his. Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to write for you one day?”

  “He chose to say he was employed—”

  “Well, well, I have that note, and can show it after dinner to convince Mr. Knightley.”

  There were many disturbing things about this statement, but Knightley chose not to explore them immediately.

  “Oh! When a gallant young man like Mr. Frank Churchill writes to a fair lady like Miss Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best.”

  There was no time for the ladies to make any rejoinder. Dinner was announced, and the guests, with Mr. Woodhouse and Mrs. Elton leading the way, went into the dining room. Knightley’s spirits had plummeted in the last five minutes and it was now almost of no consequence to him that Emma had willingly gone in to the dining room arm-in-arm with Jane Fairfax.

  He was thankful that the party was numerous enough that his silence at dinner was not noticeable. Why had Emma kept that note from Churchill? Obviously, if she was willing to show it to him it could not contain anything very private. The contents must, in fact, be rather trivial. But then why would she keep it? Was Churchill so dear to her that she treasured every scrap that had some connection to him? The whole situat
ion was very disconcerting.

  When the ladies left them, John looked around the table at the four men.

  “Well,” said he, “It was only four months ago that we sat around the table together at Randalls, and already one of the bachelors has taken my advice to get a wife.” He glanced at his brother and said with a grin, “It doesn’t take long.”

  “Not long at all,” said Elton, “always providing that the lady is willing. Some ladies have difficulty knowing their own minds.” It wasn’t the words so much as the bitter tone that aggravated Knightley.

  For mercy’s sake, man, thought Knightley. You’ve got a wife—let the past alone! And to say such a thing at Hartfield, where you are actually dining…

  John seemed amused. “Yes, that is a difficulty. However, you found a willing lady, and secured her. Perhaps you ought to advise George here as to how to accomplish that.”

  “We had better wait for Weston before giving such instruction,” said Elton. “He is coming later this evening, I believe.”

  “I heard only that he might come if he returned from London in time,” said John. “I would not depend upon it.”

  “Oh, I think he will,” said Knightley. “Do not you think so, sir?” He turned to Mr. Woodhouse, who has been gazing absently at the tablecloth.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “I was not attending. What is it that you asked?”

  “I only said that I thought Mr. Weston would be at Hartfield tonight, as he said he would come.”

  “Oh! Yes, poor Mr. Weston, obliged to travel all the way to London! And the roads will be wet, you know, as we have had a vast deal of rain. I believe there was even some sleet today—Emma did not go out of doors. I do hope Mr. Weston will arrive safely. I cannot help but worry a little, Mr. Knightley. It would be a very dreadful thing for us all if there were to be an accident of any kind.”

  “So it would,” said Knightley. “But I cannot think there is any great likelihood of a mishap occurring. By the by, sir, I understand that Mr. Munnings is very grateful to you for having the wall that borders his farm repaired.”