Lend Me Leave

by Barbara Cornthwaite

  I have determined to make the best of it, however. I hope to induce Mr. Woodhouse to come, as well as Emma and Harriet. He would enjoy the outing, I believe, and it would do him good on such a warm summer’s day. He could stay indoors all the time, except for a short walk in the garden, and I could set out all the displays of the various collections which our father laboured to complete. The Westons and Miss Bates and her niece will complete the party, if all agree to come.

  In spite of the presence of the Eltons, I am in more anticipation of the event than I would have imagined. I suppose the thought of giving pleasure to good friends is responsible for that. I will send you a report of this event when it is all over, but now I must consult with Mrs. Hodges about a menu.

  Your somewhat beleaguered but equally sane brother,

  George

  Each visit to Hartfield now seemed a thing to be cherished; he felt as if he were living in a golden age which could not last, but which would always be treasured in memory. When he was an old man, he thought, he would reminisce fondly over this very scene. Mr. Woodhouse was sitting by the small fire, glad to see him; Emma and Harriet were sitting together with embroidery in their hands; there were the usual solicitudes about his health and the weather, and the standard inquiries about there being any news from Brunswick-square; everything was commonplace and ordinary—a disinterested observer might even label it all very dull—and yet he rejoiced in it just the way it was.

  When the preliminaries were past, Knightley turned to Mr. Woodhouse and said, “I wonder if you would, perhaps, do me the honour of visiting me at Donwell one of these mornings, with a few other of our friends.”

  “Oh! In the morning, then?”

  “Yes. My strawberries are getting very ripe, and I thought it a good excuse to invite a small party of friends to help pick them, and enjoy the gardens and eat a cold luncheon in the house when they are hungry.”

  “Oh, Papa, that would be the very thing, would it not?” said Emma. The quick interest in her eyes pleased Knightley immensely.

  “The Eltons and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax are coming,” he added, “and I believe the Westons will be there as well.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Woodhouse meditatively. “Dear me, I do not suppose I have been at Donwell for two years. Some very fine morning, Emma and Harriet and I could go very well; and I could sit still with Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls walk about the gardens. I do not suppose they could be damp now, in the middle of the day.”

  “It sounds very delightful!” said Emma.

  “I was hoping you would come on Thursday next—Midsummer Day, you know. If any day would be warm and dry, it would be that one.” He glanced at Mr. Woodhouse, and Emma smiled her understanding back at him. It was the best inducement he could think of, and Emma knew it.

  “I think it is a lovely scheme, do not you, Harriet?”

  “Oh! Yes, Miss Woodhouse. And Midsummer Day is my birthday, as well.”

  “All the better!” said Emma. “Nothing could be more appropriate for a birthday than an al fresco party with one’s friends!”

  “I should like to see the old house again exceedingly,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “and I should be very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and any other of my neighbours. I can see no objection to the plan, Mr. Knightley. Emma and Harriet and I can go some very fine morning, as you have said. It is well done of you to invite us—very kind and sensible. Much cleverer than dining out. I am not fond of dining out.”

  Mr. Weston, an hour later, was even more enthusiastic.

  “An outing to Donwell, eh? Capital idea! What do you say, Anne, my dear? We hoped to taste those strawberries!”

  “It sounds delightful! And you say Mr. Woodhouse has agreed to come?”

  “Yes, and I rather think it was his idea that you would sit with him, Mrs. Weston, while the others were out of doors.”

  “I would be pleased to do so. I confess I would rather not join those gathering strawberries; if I sat down on the ground I do not think I could get up again.”

  “I would carry you, if it came to that,” said Weston with a teasing look very like Frank’s—and for a moment, Knightley could have believed it was Churchill teasing Emma. Mrs. Weston blushed—evidently it was some private joke between them—and pang pierced his heart.

  “Frank!” said Mr. Weston, as if he had read Knightley’s thoughts. “I will get Frank to join us. It would be just the sort of thing he would enjoy.”

  It was only with the greatest effort that Knightley managed to tell him that he would be very glad to see Churchill. Even so, if Weston had not taken it for granted that everyone wanted to see his son, he must have found his friend’s looks completely at odds with his statement.

  “I will write to him this very day,” said Weston. “I am certain I can persuade him to join us.”

  “I am sure you will,” said Knightley, and wondered if a private asylum could possibly be built in time to receive him before he lost his last shreds of sanity.

  A note from Randalls was awaiting him when he returned from a visit to Kingston the following Tuesday, telling him that the lame carriage horse had recovered, and the excursion to Box Hill would take place on Friday, the day after the strawberry-picking party at Donwell. Further, Weston had heard from Frank—he would be pleased to join them all at Donwell for strawberry-picking. Weston was sure he could persuade Frank to stay overnight at Randalls and join the Box Hill expedition, as well. He would, in fact, mention the matter to Frank as soon as he saw him, so Knightley need not worry about Frank being left out.

  “You know,” remarked Knightley to Madam Duval as he crumpled the note, “The bloodshed in the parish may not involve Miss Castleman after all.”

  11

  It was not, perhaps, surprising that Knightley should wander through the Abbey the evening before the strawberry-picking, wondering how it would look to Emma’s eyes and what she might say about it. It had been more than two years since she was there. Her last visit had been in company with the John Knightleys, and her attention then had been primarily engaged by her sister and the children. This time she would be more free to look and examine and enjoy.

  He could imagine her walking the length of the corridor, standing in the middle of the drawing room, passing through the breakfast room, walking out to the terrace… Would she survey it with a scornful eye, thinking it all hopelessly ancient and unfashionable? No, he knew her well enough to feel certain she would not. She would tell him how much she approved of the Abbey, and he would have those words to remember always. In the dark, lonely days ahead, he would take them out, like old gemstones, and polish them. No, no, he was getting maudlin. And Churchill might make a fatal mistake that revealed his true character during this Highbury visit, which would prevent Emma’s ever marrying him. He must not give up all hope quite yet.

  Emma’s judgement of the Abbey was not the first to fall on his ear the next day. The other guests were eager to tell him their own opinions, and he listened to them patiently while he waited to hear the only one that mattered to him.

  “My dear sir,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “you are very good. Yes, I am most comfortable—a small fire, just the thing on a day such as this. It was warm in the carriage; Emma put one of the carriage windows down as we came, else it had been a little too warm. I think everybody ought to sit down here, out of the hot sun. There is no danger of damp in this room. A very admirable place, and just as it should be. Mrs. Weston, you ought to sit here in this chair; you are very tired, I am sure. You ought not to have walked all the way from Randalls.”

  Mrs. Weston’s praise was warm without being fulsome: “I always think, Mr. Knightley, that Donwell Abbey is the finest example of an old country house…solid and comfortable and a model of good taste.”

  Miss Bates, of course, was not lacking words: “Oh! Mr. Knightley—so kind of you to send the carriage! In very good time—delightful weather—just what one would expect—Midsummer day—Jane, is it not perfection itself? So pleased to
be at the Abbey again. Such roses! The colours—the monks who lived here in ancient days would hardly have imagined such splendour! Never come to the Abbey but I think—seat of a gentleman—such a delightful day!”

  Mrs. Elton hardly paused as she walked through the house in her eagerness to get to the kitchen gardens and the strawberries. She was dressed as she had promised, with a large bonnet on her head and a basket on her arm. “Such a delightful aspect—I perceive that this part of the house was the cloister of the old monastery. Oh, the refectory, was it? Well, it is nearly the same thing. The gardens perfectly complement the house! Those hydrangeas, just there, rather remind me of Maple Grove. I must say, Mr. E., Serena had better not be brought to the Abbey before she sees the vicarage—she would see at once the difference in taste—the vicarage is so obviously decorated in an inferior style, and by an inexpert hand.”

  Mr. Weston gallantly made the appropriate contradiction: “My dear Mrs. Elton, the vicarage is a perfect jewel of its type—I don’t believe I know another one furnished with such taste. Ah, here is Miss Smith coming out—Miss Smith, have you seen Miss Woodhouse? Or is she lost in the depths of this great mansion? I’ll wager you’ve never seen so large a house as this one, hey?”

  “Oh, no, sir. It is very large indeed—very large and grand. I do not know where Miss Woodhouse is, but Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax are just coming now.”

  “I’ll see where she is,” said Knightley. “It seems we are all assembled here but for her.”

  “And Frank,” added Weston.

  The Abbey was cool and dark in comparison with the bright heat outside. Knightley could hear the murmured voices of Mr. Woodhouse and Mrs. Weston as they looked together at one of the trays displaying a collection of shells. He did not want to call out Emma’s name; the Abbey seemed almost a hallowed place now that she was in it. He walked quietly from one room to another, searching, but each was empty. At last he came to the library and stopped in the doorway. There was Emma, just by the window where she had been in his dream when he had been about to declare his love. She was even more beautiful now, her hair illuminated by the sun coming in the window and the side of her face visible to him showing that she was amused by something outside.

  He stepped back into the corridor, into the shadows. He had never imagined her coming into the library. More than any other room in the house, that place was his. To have Emma in it was somehow to expose himself to her; it almost seemed as if she would know the secrets of his heart if she lingered there. She was walking slowly around the room now, looking at everything, and the expression on her face was neither awestruck or scornful. It was admiring, but there was more contentment there than wonder. She looked… satisfied. He could not have wished for a better commendation of the house from her; he found he no longer needed to hear the words. He remained where he was, watching her move from the bookshelves to his desk. She brushed her fingers over the filigree box she had given him so long ago, a brief smile lighting her face. She moved toward his favourite chair, and bent to stroke a sleeping Madam Duval.

  Emma belonged at Donwell. Anyone who saw her just now would say as much. If he only had the power to stop time, now, while she belonged to the Abbey—belonged to him. Knightley felt the moment slipping away from him like sand in an hourglass. The scene was engraved on his mind, his heart. Whatever happened in the future, this moment would be another little jewel to take out and polish now and then.

  Baxter's footsteps at the end of the corridor signalled that the hourglass had dropped its last grain of sand. He stepped into the room, clearing his throat.

  “Oh!” said Emma. “Am I wanted?”

  “Very much,” said Knightley, before he could stop himself.

  “Mrs. Elton is eager to begin, is she?”

  “Yes—yes,” stammered Knightley, thankful that his words could be taken with the meaning she gave them. He offered his arm and she took it, and they went out to the gardens together.

  “Ah, here is Miss Woodhouse,” said Mrs. Elton. “And now we lack only Mr. Frank Churchill’s company.”

  “I expect him at any moment,” said Weston.

  “I do not think that such a chivalrous young man would wish us to stand about in the heat waiting for him,” said Mrs. Elton. “Why should we delay? Let us commence with the work!”

  The company obliged, kneeling by the strawberry beds and beginning to pluck the ripe fruit from the neat rows of plants. After only fifteen minutes, Knightley reflected that he much preferred labourers who worked silently. If there had been conversation between the workers, it might have been tolerable, but instead they had an interminable monologue from Mrs. Elton about strawberries, interrupted only once by Mrs. Weston coming out to see if Churchill had arrived and to express concern about his horse. Knightley was a little afraid of Churchill becoming the new topic of the discourse, which was not any more to his liking than the lecture on agriculture. He need not have worried: Mrs. Elton did not want to shift the topic of conversation to Frank Churchill, and she resumed just where she had left off, with a comparison of the most notable strawberry varieties.

  At last Mrs. Elton declared herself too hot and tired to pick any more, and expressed a desire to sit in the cooling shade of some tree. There was no withstanding her determination, and the rest of the party obediently gathered up their baskets and followed her to the edge of the gardens proper. The Abbey had no completely shaded arbour for the amateur gardeners to rest in, but there were benches under the young beech trees, which permitted only dappled sunlight to fall on the group. They sampled the strawberries as they sat there, and all agreed that they were worth the effort of picking.

  Knightley’s eye was caught by Rooker standing at the edge of the kitchen garden; he gestured to Knightley, who left his guests to see what the gardener wanted.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Knightley, but there’s a lot of strawberries left to be picked. Shall I have Stevens get to work on the rest, or will the ladies and gentlemen wish to gather more later on?”

  “You’d better wait a little while, Rooker. I don’t think Mrs.—that is, the guests—will wish to harvest any more themselves, but there is no telling. We ought to wait until they leave, I think. And it will be cooler later in the afternoon, too.”

  “Very good, Mr. Knightley.”

  Knightley took the opportunity to look in on Mr. Woodhouse and Mrs. Weston, and then wished he had not; Mrs. Weston was disappointed that he was not coming in to announce the arrival of Churchill, and Mr. Woodhouse urged him to stay with them and rest himself. It was with some difficulty that he extricated himself and left them to the tray of medals they had been examining before he came in.

  He arrived back to the beech trees as Jane was saying, “But as I have said, Mrs. Elton, I do not wish to engage myself for any position at the present time. The Campbells will return, and I wish to consult them—”

  “Now, Jane! This is a golden opportunity—too good to miss. You must allow me to write and accept this offer on your behalf by tomorrow’s post.”

  “I beg you, Mrs. Elton,” said Jane, and there was an edge in her voice, “Please do nothing of the sort.”

  “Ah, but I will!” If there was anything more remarkable than Mrs. Elton’s obstinacy, it was her gleeful manner in displaying it. “You are too young to make decisions of this kind.”

  “I do not wish you to interfere,” said Jane, more vexed than Knightley had ever seen her. He glanced at Emma—her face was all compassion for Jane Fairfax. He knew she would pity her situation.

  “Oh, as to interfering,” said Mrs. Elton archly, “Married women are always authorized to interfere when they deem it necessary for the good of their protégés.”

  “Should we not walk? Mr. Knightley, would you show us the gardens—all the gardens? I wish to see the whole extent.”

  “By all means,” said Knightley. “Will you come this way, Miss Fairfax? You may like to see the oldest tree on the estate—we call it ‘the fairy oak’ and there is
an old stone bench beneath it.”

  He offered Jane his arm to prevent Mrs. Elton taking charge of her again, and they moved away toward the shrubbery, letting the others follow or not, just as they pleased. Miss Bates and Harriet were soon close behind them, as the good-natured chatter of the elder lady made apparent. Her voice, and the occasional comments of Miss Smith, were the only sounds as they strolled across the garden; he and Miss Fairfax were silent. Miss Fairfax seemed out of spirits, which could not be wondered at, and Knightley was glad that it was in his power to halt Mrs. Elton’s persecution, at least for a little while. He was gladder still that although he did not know where Emma was—walking in another part of the gardens, presumably—she was not walking with her hand on Churchill’s arm.

  He was content for the moment. After all, he had hoped to give a day of enjoyment to his friends, and it seemed to be a success, at least where Miss Bates and Harriet were concerned. Of course, they admired without any real knowledge or discrimination, but it was refreshing to hear their honest appreciation, unclouded by any ulterior motives.

  “My dear Jane!” said Miss Bates, “Do look at the lavender here—so fragrant!” She paused and stooped down to touch the blooms and breathe in the scent. “We had lavender in our garden when you were very young, Jane—do you remember? You picked great handfuls for me to dry—such a little thing you were.”

  “I love a garden,” said Harriet. “I used to—that is, I once stayed at a place where I could go out in the morning and look at the flowers in the garden and pick those I liked best to put in my bedroom.”

  A small sigh accompanied this statement, and started Knightley wondering. Was the sigh for the flowers or for Abbey Mill Farm? Surely that was the place she was speaking of. If it was the farm she missed, there might be some hope for Martin. If he could convince Martin to ask again, might he not receive a favourable reply? Obviously, it would all be for naught if Harriet’s heart was engaged to another man—and if it was, that was no doubt the fruit of Emma’s labours. It could be that Harriet only missed having free reign in a garden, and would not welcome another chance to become Mrs. Martin. But this would only be, he thought, if she was in love with someone else. She was not the girl to resist entreaty from an honest heart if her own were free. There must be some way to discover if this was the case. Harriet was open and guileless, and would not play flirtatious games. Of course, a blunt question would be inappropriate—even from himself, a man more than twice her age—but a more carefully worded query might give him enough information to make a reasonable deduction.