“Whom are you going to dance with?” asked Knightley, bracing his heart against the possibility that it would be Churchill.
She paused for a moment and then said, “With you, if you will ask me.”
His heart turned over. He had been determined that he would not dance with her, but he could not refuse. He offered his hand to her.
“Will you?”
“Indeed I will. You have shown that you can dance, and you know we are not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper.”
The thought was absurd. “Brother and sister! No, indeed.”
They took their places in the set, and the opening strains of “Lady Mary Ramsey” filled the ballroom. They were near the top of the set, and it was not long before they were in motion. He forgot to think of how she might judge his dancing, forgot to think of what damage he might be doing to his own heart if Emma married another. He could only think of how perfectly matched they were. They never fumbled a hand-clasp or a mis-timed a dos-a-dos: they anticipated each other’s movements. For this moment they were in complete harmony. It was the first time they had danced together; it might very well be the last, too, but he would enjoy it to the full. Harriet had smiled while dancing with him, but she had done it for the joy of dancing, and for the relief of being plucked out of disgrace and set in a place of privilege. Emma’s smile was for the pleasure of dancing with him. Her smiles may have been on account of friendship, and his on account of love, but so long as they were both happy to be dancing with each other, he would not ask for more.
Knightley did not dance anymore that evening. He sat down again and watched Emma dance in turn with the elder Mr. Otway, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Perry. He thought she must sense the difference between dancing with them and dancing with himself. The instinctive concord between them could not have been felt only on his side. He was inclined to let himself be sanguine.
His fledgling hopes were crushed, however, by the last dance, the boulangerie. Emma was asked by Churchill, and she consented. To dance twice with the same partner at a ball like this was an unmistakable signal, and all the jealous anxieties that he had dismissed a moment ago came trooping back. Knightley would have liked to slip away—the ball was almost over, and likely no one would notice if he did not remain until the bitter end—but he was seated beside Mrs. Perry, whose garrulity he could not dampen. He turned his eyes away from the dancers, however, and tried to keep his attention on what the good lady was saying.
“And did you hear about that incident earlier with Miss Hutton? No? You see her there with that elaborate arrangement of ribbons and feathers in her hair—not in the best of taste, in my opinion, but a very sweet girl all the same—it was just after finishing supper, and almost everyone had gone back to the ballroom, but Miss Hutton had lingered behind—I believe she was talking to young Mr. Howard—and as she was walking out of the room, she came too near to the lighted candle in the sconce and singed the large feather at the back of her head. It could have been a frightful accident, of course, and the smell of burnt feather is not pleasant—but luckily there was no real harm done. Naturally, the feather was ruined and Miss Hutton found it difficult to remove it without letting her hair down, so Mr. Churchill, who was there also, said ‘I believe Miss Bates may have a pair of scissors—she always keeps such things in her reticule’ and he went away and came back a moment later with a pair of scissors, and snipped the feather off. Such an obliging young man—so good natured and handsome. I tell Mrs. Cole that she ought to be glad that her daughters are too young to break their hearts over him, for it’s most likely that he has already made his choice.” She nodded significantly at the dancing couple.
The dance came to an end at last. Mr. Perry appeared and claimed his wife, and the crowd began to thin. Carriages were called for, and those who were waiting for them gathered in a little knot by the door. Emma’s carriage was one of the first, and Knightley had hoped to escort her to it, but was forestalled by hearing Weston say, “Come, Emma, here is your carriage now. Frank, my boy, will you see to Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax? Ah, Knightley—I’ve called for your carriage, too. All right now, Emma, here we are—mind the puddles—the rain has been heavy during the ball, I think.”
Knightley had no choice, then, but to stay there by the door, close by where Churchill was making himself agreeable to Miss Bates and her niece.
“And of course,” Miss Bates was saying, “in the evenings Jane reads to us—she is a beautiful reader, Mr. Churchill—for we often have our little supper and then sit in the parlour and Jane reads to us—first she read out Camilla—and now she is reading Belinda—such an absorbing book, I think—I suppose you have read it?”
“Indeed,” came the smooth voice of Churchill. “I believe it may be my very favourite novel. I feel a great kinship to Mr. Hervey—and to Mr. Vincent, too, for that matter. They—”
“Oh!” interjected Miss Bates. “As to favourites, you know, I cannot say that it is not becoming my favourite as well…” Miss Bates chattered on happily.
But Knightley had heard what she had not. Churchill had finished his statement quietly while she had been talking, and what he had said was, “They both had secrets.”
7
“He said that he has secrets, Emma,” said Knightley at the library window late that night. “Secrets. I know what he means, of course, and it is no great mystery. If he thinks that his pursuit of you is known only to himself, he is a very great simpleton. Dancing twice with you, talking—flirting—with you between dances, smiling at you entirely too often…he has all the subtlety of a clanging church bell. Everyone must realize that you are his object.”
He paused as he remembered Mr. Weston’s smiles and Mrs. Perry’s significant glance, and heaved a deep sigh. “And I suppose you know it too. You are too intelligent to be blind to such obvious attentions. My dear Emma, don’t be taken in. See though his polished façade to the sort of man he really is. He would not make you happy; no one so selfish as he is makes a good husband. You are clever enough to discover his true character if you desire to. And you can be more clever still, Emma, if only you would—clever enough to discover what I cannot yet tell you. There is one heart, one true and honest heart, that you have captured. It is a willing prisoner, Emma, and for the moment asks nothing more than leave to go on being in thrall.” He meditated for a moment before continuing.
“I think this merits a little more pondering, Emma. I foresee an hour or two spent in the lime walk tomorrow morning. I can think more clearly when you are not here to distract me. I bid you goodnight, my love.”
The lime walk wore its Spring costume for Knightley’s contemplative pacing. He wished Emma were there to enjoy the beauty of the spot and exclaim over its perfections, but then he would be even less able to think. And he desperately needed to think and to make some sort of plan for his actions.
Frank Churchill was pursuing Emma. In this endeavour he undoubtedly had the support of the Westons, and very possibly the Churchills. Mrs. Churchill might be reluctant for him to marry at all, if she thought his doing so meant she would lose her hold on him, but there could be no objection to Emma being the bride. On Churchill’s side, the path was clear.
And now, what was Emma thinking? Was she happy to be pursued? Was she in love with Churchill? He searched his memory of the ball. He had watched her through most of it, and while she had smiled at Churchill often, and spoken to him whenever he addressed her, she had not sought him out. He was quite certain that her eyes had not followed Churchill around the room. As far as Knightley knew, she had never initiated a conversation with Churchill, and had certainly not slyly insinuated herself into his company. He felt these things to be evidence that she was not in love with Churchill, at least not yet.
And what could he do to prevent such a disaster? Short of offering himself as an alternative suitor, he could not think of anything. The very few times he had attempted to reveal Churchill’s faults to her, she had defended the fellow, and he
was afraid that to try it again would have the effect of pushing her into Churchill’s arms.
Should he continue to go to Hartfield regularly? Or was it true that absence made the heart grow fonder? Would Emma love him better if his visits to Hartfield stopped? He doubted it. And, really, there was no point in even considering it, for even aside from the fact that Mr. Woodhouse required his presence often, he knew that he would never be able to keep himself from seeing her. He was never happier than when in her presence, and he could not give it up. He would be very careful; he would not scold her or lecture her or do anything else that might annoy her, but only be a pleasant, faithful friend. And in order to maintain his sanity, he would do his utmost to refrain from speculating about the state of Emma’s heart and be content to merely be in her presence.
It was not a very satisfactory plan—it would require great self-control on his part and would do nothing to keep Emma from falling in love with Churchill—but the alternatives were open wooing or careful avoidance, and he knew he could not follow either of them.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley.” Larkins was waiting in the library when Knightley came in from the lime walk.
“Ah, Larkins. Good afternoon. Sorry to be out when you came—I hope you have not been waiting long.”
“Only a little while, Mr. Knightley, but I thought you should know that there has been a problem with some gypsies in Highbury.”
“Oh?”
“Miss Smith was attacked—”
“Attacked! In Highbury?”
“Perhaps ‘importuned’ would be a more accurate word than ‘attacked’—and it was not in Highbury, precisely, but rather half a mile outside it, on the Richmond road. Miss Smith and another young lady—Miss Bickerton, I believe—were accosted by some gypsy women and children, I understand, begging for money. They became quite impertinent and the young ladies became alarmed. Somehow Miss Bickerton was able to flee the scene, but Miss Smith was left there with them and quite frightened out of her wits.”
“Poor girl—how very distressing for her! And how did she get away?”
“Sir Galahad arrived,” said Larkins with a rare glimmer of humour in his eyes. “That is to say, Mr. Frank Churchill passed by and frightened the gypsies off and escorted Miss Smith to Hartfield.”
“And you say it happened this morning?”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley, not two hours ago.”
“I have always suspected you of omnipresence, Larkins, and now I am certain of it. How else could you hear of it so soon?”
“Miss Woodhouse sent a message to Mrs. Goddard, for there was no knowing what she would think after Miss Bickerton arrived alone, and it was all over Highbury within a half-hour. I believe the message to Mrs. Goddard included a statement to the effect that you would also be informed of the disturbance.”
“I expect there is a note for me at my writing desk, then. Yes, here it is.”
He opened Emma’s note and scanned the contents. “Yes, Miss Woodhouse says much the same as you did. Well, I must go and see about it. Has Burton been alerted in his role as constable, do you think?”
“I do not know, Mr. Knightley.”
“Well, I will see him first, and then visit the gypsy camp.”
He met Burton on the road; the constable was on his way to Donwell to ask Mr. Knightley what ought to be done about this incident with the gypsies. They turned toward the Richmond road together.
“And what do you think of this business?” asked Knightley. He did not know Burton well, but he had a good opinion of his judgement as far as he knew him.
“I don’t know quite what to think yet,” said Burton. “It doesn’t seem that much harm was done—the story I was told, at least, was that Miss Bickerton ran off as soon as a gypsy child came near the young ladies to beg. I don’t say it’s a pleasant thing to be asked for money by strangers, but it does seem that Miss Bickerton’s reaction was excessive.”
“Well, I daresay she was frightened because the child was a gypsy—their reputation precedes them wherever they go.”
“I know it, sir. And also that their reputation is often well-deserved. But not always, Mr. Knightley. Not always.”
“You seem to have some personal feeling in the matter.”
“I knew a gypsy once, sir, when I lived at Sutton. He worked as a tinker and stayed behind when the rest of them moved on. He had fallen in love with a woman in the village, you see. They married and took a house and he kept on working as a tinker for a little while. But he had a hard time of it. Every time something went missing, he was suspected of being the thief. Finally, a horse was stolen, and public feeling was such that he was very nearly taken for it. The real culprit turned up, though, and justice ran its course. But the gypsy took his wife and left after that. He told me he was going to a place where people wouldn’t know he was a gypsy—although I think his face would give him away. At any rate, they left, and I don’t know where they went.”
“That is a sad case,” said Knightley. “I confess I have never made a friend of a gypsy. I see plenty of them, of course; they come before me frequently at quarter sessions—not only as defendants but also as witnesses or victims. There seems to be kind of a culture of crime in that community, and no doubt they do not think their offences so very bad.”
“From what my friend said, they often see the settled people as antagonists, bent on harassing and persecuting them. If someone is cheated or robbed, it seems to the gypsies a kind of justice.”
“But they very often commit crimes against each other as well.”
“True. I imagine the conscience gets hardened a bit when one is in the habit of law-breaking—it was one of the reasons my friend was willing to leave the band.”
“I expect you’re right, Burton.”
The gypsy camp was so recently deserted that the ashes of cooking fires were still faintly warm, but the shallow fire-pits, the symmetrical holes in the ground from the poles of bender tents, the flattened grass between the holes, and the marks left by a horse and trap were the only things visible to show that the gypsies had been there.
“Should we pursue them, Mr. Knightley?” asked Burton doubtfully.
“I think not. I do not consider this incident important enough to bring to the petty sessions, nor would I wish to subject Miss Smith and Miss Bickerton to the discomfort of being witnesses at a trial. It would really be a matter for a local magistrate, and as I am the local magistrate, and the penalty I would assign would be to leave the district, there is very little point in chasing them.”
“I shall return to Highbury, then, and assure the citizens of their safety.”
“And I shall go to Hartfield to do the same.”
“And then, Uncle Knightley, Miss Bickerton was very frightened and gave a great scream, like this: ‘Aaaahhhh!”
Mr. Woodhouse was startled into wakefulness by Henry’s shriek.
“Emma, my dear! What is the matter? What has happened? Is there any danger?”
“No, Papa,” said Emma, getting up quickly to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder and kiss his cheek. “There is nothing the matter, nothing at all. Henry was telling a story, and forgot to speak softly. Henry, you must ask the forgiveness of your grandpapa.”
“I am very sorry, Grandpapa,” said a duly contrite Henry. “I beg your pardon.”
“That is quite all right, Henry, only you must remember that we have all been greatly alarmed today, and that we must speak very quietly, so as not to upset the nerves of the ladies, who are suffering for it.”
Knightley glanced at Emma, who was controlling her smile with difficulty. Miss Smith had been calm for hours, and Emma had never been more than mildly perturbed by the event.
“I think they are recovering well, sir,” said Knightley.
Mr. Woodhouse looked from one tranquil young lady to the other. “Yes, Mr. Knightley. It is a great mercy that their minds are not greatly disordered by this terrible occurrence. Poor Miss Smith—poor Emma—they are so delicate!
I do not think they should go beyond the shrubbery again, unless you are there to protect them. They must stay at Hartfield. Dear, dear—that such dangers should be lurking around Highbury! Nothing of this sort was ever seen in my younger days. All the young ladies must stay at their homes; they will be safe if they do not wander the roads.”
“My dear sir, your kind heart does you great credit,” said Knightley. “I think you have hit upon a very wise plan. All the young ladies should stay in their homes.” He looked at Emma, saw her startled expression, and smiled. It was a lovely idea—that he would be required to be Emma’s escort whenever she left the house! But not practicable, of course.
“Stay in our homes, Mr. Knightley?” Emma’s voice was incredulous.
“Yes. For the rest of the day, the young ladies should stay at home. By tomorrow, the shadow of danger will be entirely past, and they may once again walk freely about Highbury.”
Emma smiled at this method of managing her father’s fears.
“I was hoping I might have the boys with me tomorrow,” continued Knightley. “They have not been at the Abbey much on this visit, and Dr. Hughes would particularly like to see them. May I borrow them for a few hours?”
“You may, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma. “The resulting tranquillity at Hartfield will be most welcome.” She glanced at her father with affection, and Knightley smiled in sympathy. Emma might be unaware of how often the two of them communicated without speaking openly, but he revelled in every instance of it.
The little boys had a glorious day with Uncle Knightley. They were first brought to the Abbey to revisit the fish-ponds and be fussed over by Mrs. Hodges, and afterwards to the Rectory, where Mrs. Hughes gave them gingerbread and Dr. Hughes talked kindly to them and gave them each a shilling when they went away. It was a splendid day for a walk, and the trio ambled down the path to Langham, and then back toward Highbury by way of the Kingston road, in order to inspect the bridge that had given everyone such trouble. Knightley charged the boys with finding any cracks in it, and they undertook the task with a gravity that made Knightley want to burst out laughing. They were on their hands and knees, examining every inch of the bridge, when a young man came walking down the road toward them. Knightley recognized him as Edmund Gilbert, and called out a greeting to him.
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