“What would you rather speak of?”
Here it was, the perfect opening for his proposal. He stopped walking and turned to face her. There, not far behind her, was another gardener, trimming the dead flowers off a rhododendron bush. He sighed and began walking again. In a few moments they would be out of hearing—and out of sight.
“I would rather talk of you,” he said quietly.
“And which of my particular charms would you like to enumerate?”
“I may start with your beauty,” he said. “I do not think I have yet told you how lovely you are, but I have thought of it every day for months, if not years.”
She had not been prepared for a serious answer from him, and she looked away, embarrassed at his praise.
“No, no,” he said, “you must let me tell you the truth. Listen, Emma: you are beautiful, and I could look at you forever.”
She raised her eyes to meet his. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Next I will praise your compassion,” he went on. “For anyone in need, but particularly for your father. You are the most devoted of daughters.”
“But you,” she said, cutting short his discourse, “You are as loving to him as a son would be, even when he has no claim on you. Well, he does now, I suppose, but he did not before. I have thought about that day at Donwell so many times since—how you arranged for his comfort and his amusement—so kind in you! And he was not as eager to get home as he usually is. Of course,” she added with a smile, “when he returned home and was safely back in his chair by the fire, he felt as if he ought to be given a medal of honour for travelling so far from home.”
His heart sank at the truth of her words. She was only too right: Mr. Woodhouse would not be easily persuaded to change his home. It was one of the fixed laws of his universe: Mr. Woodhouse belonged at Hartfield. Knightley had been nonsensical in thinking that Mr. Woodhouse could survive such a thing as transplantation with his happiness intact. Emma would know this as well as he, and she would not agree to marry him unless he had a reasonable idea ready for her to approve. He ought to go home now and devise such a plan.
“Mr. Knightley?”
He started and looked at her. “Yes?”
“Am I not allowed to praise you? I want you to know that I am sensible of your merits, however much you disclaim and deny.”
“To hear you say so is—precious, Emma. I have often told myself that it was no wonder you did not love me—so prosaic and plain and…old.”
“Old? I never thought you were old. I have always thought you in the prime of life. And as for looking plain… I may as well tell you what I thought of you when I saw you walking around at the ball at the Crown—that there was not a man there to be compared with you.”
He stopped walking again. “Truly, Emma? You think me handsome?”
She looked into his face with a teasing smile. “I wonder at your astonishment. Have you no mirrors at Donwell?” Her face was tilted up at a very inviting angle, but the snip of gardener’s shears somewhere nearby checked the impulse to kiss her. And they were not engaged yet, after all. But soon, he promised himself. Very soon.
“I must be off in a few minutes,” he told Emma.
“So quickly?”
“Yes—I’m sorry. But if I go away now, I may return later this afternoon.”
“All right, then,” said Emma, turning back toward the house. “But I will think of you every minute until your return.”
“And I will think of you more often than that.”
He was nearly home when he happened to see Larkins at a distance, just entering Donwell’s sweep-gate. This would never do; he needed to be thinking about his future—his and Emma’s—and he could not bear to be closeted with Larkins now. He would not go into the house; he would go directly to the lime walk and do his thinking at once. Larkins would probably not wait for long. And when he had thought of a solution, he would go back to Emma and unfold it all to her.
He paced the lime walk for an hour, and then, needing a change of scenery, he started down the path to Langham. He devised one scheme after another—Mr. Woodhouse gradually making the transition over to Donwell… Mr. Woodhouse staying with John and Isabella in London… Mr. Woodhouse spending his days at Donwell but his nights at Hartfield—but all these ideas were found wanting and ultimately impracticable. Mr. Woodhouse would probably not survive any change of abode, and Emma would never leave her father.
He would not give up, however. There must be a way. Having gained Emma’s heart, he was not about to spend his days for the next several years spending more time than he ought at Hartfield, by Emma’s side, loathing the moment each night when he would tear himself away… But why should he? Why could he not go to Hartfield and live there? It was so simple! He would move to Hartfield himself and stay there as long as Mr. Woodhouse lived. It was the perfect solution.
No, not perfect. He was disappointed that his dreams of Emma living at the Abbey would be postponed. He would not be master at Hartfield, and would be little able to arrange things the way he liked. But the other arrangements were easy to plan. He would go back and forth between the two houses every day—that was not much of a change. He would continue to meet with Larkins at Donwell and visit the tenants there, and on sunny afternoons he would bring Emma with him to walk in the gardens. He could still occasionally steal kisses beneath the fairy oak. It was settled now in his own mind, and after he returned to Donwell to eat his midday meal, he would go back to Hartfield and ask Emma for her hand.
He found Emma alone in the morning room—her father was in the garden taking his daily exercise.
“My dear Emma,” he said, and it was the most natural thing in the world to take the hands she held out to him and kiss them.
“I have a letter for you to read,” she said before he could embark on his own topic. “Mrs. Weston gave it to me, knowing that I would want to read it—from Frank Churchill, explaining his conduct.”
“I shall be very glad to look it over, but it seems long. I will take it home with me tonight.”
“No, that will not do. Mr. Weston is to call in the evening, and I must return it by him then.”
He sighed and summoned what patience he could from the depths of his character. “I would rather be talking to you, but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done.” Hardly had he read the opening words, when he stopped and said, “Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman’s letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such indifference.”
The letter explained Churchill’s conduct, even if it could not quite exonerate it; to his credit, Frank did own he had been at fault at several points, although Knightley did not think he felt the weight of his crimes as he ought to have done. On the other hand, he did seem genuinely attached to Miss Fairfax, and he was able to assure Emma, after he finished reading the lengthy epistle, that he thought Frank capable of improvement, especially with the companionship of a woman like Miss Fairfax. But time was pressing on, and Mr. Woodhouse might soon appear.
“And now,” Knightley said decisively, “Let me talk to you of something else. I have another person's interest at present so much at heart that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill. Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject. You must know I want to make you my wife, but I have not yet asked for your hand because I was deliberating how to do so without attacking your father’s happiness.”
“While my dear father lives, any change of condition must be impossible for me. I could never quit him.” She spoke with a sort of serious determination—she must have been thinking of the question herself for the answer to come so readily.
“I know you could not—and you should not. I would never think of dividing you. However, having won your heart, I am not going to sit by for some indefinite time—years, perhaps—before obtaining your hand. I have been thinking it over deeply, intently. I had first thought of inducing your father to live with us
at Donwell; it seemed the most natural way out of the difficulty. But upon further reflection, I determined that it would not do. To transplant your father would be the loss of all his comfort, so much so that he might not even survive the experiment. But I have another plan, which I trust, my dearest Emma, you will not find in any respect objectionable—it is that I should be received at Hartfield. So long as your father’s happiness—in other words, his life—require you to remain living at Hartfield, it shall be my home, too.”
“Oh!” It was evident from the look on Emma’s face that such a thought had never occurred to her. “You are very good. But it would not be comfortable for you, I am persuaded. Your independence—your hours—would all be curtailed. You would not be the master of this house, and there might be many things which would vex you but would not be in your power to change.”
“I know it, but I do not think I would find it so very dreadful. I would do far more in order to be married to you. Will you not consider it? I will not give up, you know.”
“I will think on it. You had better think on it a little more yourself.”
“No, I have done all my thinking already. I am convinced that no amount of further reflection will alter my wishes or opinion on the subject. I have given it long and calm consideration. I was walking away from William Larkins this whole morning in order to have my thoughts to myself.”
“Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for. I am sure William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you ask mine.”
He laughed at her. “William Larkins is the very last person I would consult. But you will marry me, won’t you?”
“I will.” She looked at him with a sweet seriousness that took his breath away.
“And you will think on my plan of moving to Hartfield after the wedding?”
“Yes, I will.”
“And you will allow my pleading looks at this moment to influence you, will you not?”
“No doubt I will.”
“And the fact that my hand is resting on yours?”
“That will probably influence me as well.”
He leaned toward her; their faces were close together now. “And—”
A sound outside the door startled them, and they had only time to sit up straight again before the door was opened to admit Mr. Woodhouse, back from his three turns in the garden.
“Ah, Mr. Knightley. Emma said you would come again in the afternoon, but I did not know you were here already. I am sorry I was not here when you came in. I stayed out of doors too long and am a little late.”
“Not at all, sir,” said Knightley with a wry smile. “If anything, you are a little early.”
Larkins was waiting in the library as soon as he had finished breakfast the next morning.
“Hello, Larkins.”
“I have been waiting to talk to you, sir, since yesterday.” There was a note of rebuke in this statement, but Knightley smiled blandly at his steward.
“Happy to see you, as always, Larkins. What is it you needed to say?”
“It’s the trouble in Langham, sir.”
“Is there trouble in Langham?”
“Yes. I think you should know, Mr. Knightley, that there is a bit of a scandal there—the serving-girl at the Crow’s Nest.” He paused.
“Yes, Larkins? The Crow’s Nest? What about the serving girl?”
“She’s with child, Mr. Knightley. Several months along, by Simon’s reckoning.”
“Not married, I presume.”
“No, Mr. Knightley.”
Knightley’s face became more grave. “And the father?”
“Unknown, sir. She won’t say. Rumour is, though, that it’s Cooper—landlord of the place, you know.”
“But he—”
“—is married,” finished Larkins. “I know it. But Mrs. Cooper has been seen to be unhappy in recent months, and that seems to confirm...”
“Yes, Dr. Hughes once told me something of the kind.” He wondered if Mrs. Hughes had seen Mrs. Cooper again, and if she really was being ill-treated by her husband. He wondered if Emma had heard anything…no, Langham was too far away for that sort of gossip to reach her ears. She would hear things from him after they married, of course—he couldn’t imagine keeping everything from her, although there were some incidents so sordid that he thought she would prefer not to know. He ought to talk to Dr. Hughes to see if there was some rule by which he decided what things to tell his wife. It helped, of course, that neither Mrs. Hughes or Emma were the sort to break a confidence…
“Mr. Knightley?”
“Yes, Larkins?”
“I said, I thought you ought to be told, and I wanted to be sure of speaking with you before you go off to the quarter sessions next week.”
“The quarter sessions…next week…Oh, Larkins, I do not think I will be attending the quarter sessions this time.”
“Not attending, sir?”
“Not this time.”
Larkins stood rigid. “Are you ill, sir?”
“No, not in the least. Never felt better. I must, however, excuse myself now; I have an urgent need to speak with Mrs. Hunt.”
“But the accounts, Mr. Knightley!”
“Oh, the accounts will wait for us, Larkins. We must not be rigid in our habits. Another day will do as well.”
Mrs. Hunt was most grateful to hear of the plans going forward for the asylum. Her sister was about the same, she thought, or perhaps slightly worse—she had taken to sleeping in the daytime more than at night.
“It fair worries me,” she said. “I try to keep an eye on her, but I can’t be always running after her. I’m an old body, and she’s younger than I. If she does anyone a harm…”
“I think it unlikely,” said Knightley, “But if you wish, she could be put into gaol until the asylum is ready—for her safety and your peace of mind.”
“No, Mr. Knightley. She’s my sister and I won’t banish her to such a place. I’ll look after her—I’ll find a way.”
He honoured her sentiments, but wondered how long she would be able to bear up under the strain. He spoke cheerfully, however, and gave her what encouragement he could before taking his leave. He was coming through the gate outside the cottage, carefully keeping the geese inside the yard, when Spencer appeared in the lane.
“Mr. Knightley—I only just heard that you had returned. I am happy to see you, sir.”
“And I, you.”
“Are you—have you—That is, you were not away long.”
“No, there was no reason to stay longer.” He was conscious of a reluctance to share his news with Spencer. The curate would not begrudge him his happiness, he was sure, but he knew it had been a comfort to both of them that they were not the only ones in the parish who were suffering from unrequited love. That particular bond of fellowship was there no longer.
“You do not seem unhappy, Mr. Knightley—am I right in supposing that something has occurred…?”
He had no choice—he would have to tell him. “Yes, something has happened—something to give me the very greatest happiness.”
Spencer looked astonished. “You have spoken to Miss Woodhouse?”
“I have—and been accepted.” He could not help the smile.
“Oh Mr. Knightley, that is very good news indeed! May I offer you my most sincere congratulations!”
“You may, although I am a little ashamed of accepting them from you. You are the first to know, and perhaps the pain of being still a bachelor may be a little mitigated by the pride of knowing yourself to be the only one who is aware of our engagement besides Miss Woodhouse and myself.”
Spencer’s quick smile removed his worry. “Please do not apologise, Mr. Knightley. I understand your feelings—and have no doubt that I would feel the same in your place, but I am truly delighted for you!”
“Thank you, Spencer. It will remain a secret for a little while yet—our engagement dates only from this afternoon—and I am thankful that you know how to hold your tongue.�
��
“Of course. But I am still amazed at the sudden change in your circumstances.”
“Come to Donwell, Spencer, and let me find you something to drink. You may as well hear the whole story.”
7 July
Brunswick-square
Dear George,
In your haste to depart yesterday you neglected to bring away your absorbing book about agriculture. Although I have known you for thirty-two years and am well accustomed to your powers of quick decision, I have rarely seen you act so precipitously. I do hope all was truly well.
The children were dismayed at your hasty removal, and hope that you will return very soon. I had some ado to convince Bella that the letter which seemed to prompt your departure did not contain any bad news about Madam Duval. I comforted her with the thought that although you have the utmost affection for the creature, and would doubtless do anything to assure yourself of her well-being, the chances were that you would not have spoken of a calamity involving the cat as “business to attend to.” Her mind was set at rest by this reasoning. She was further relieved to know that we will be making the journey to Surrey about the second week of August, so that even if you do not return to London in the next week or two, she will see you before long.
Yours in equal parts perplexity and affection,
John
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He did not expect, when he visited Randalls the next day, to find Emma there. He had felt himself noble and self-denying to go to Randalls first instead of Hartfield, and was rewarded with a half-hour spent in her presence. Better still was the walk back to Hartfield with her as they dawdled on the road that was, miraculously, devoid of fellow-travellers.
“Mr. Weston is most attentive to his wife, is he not?” said Emma.
“Indeed. I hope I may follow his example.”
“I hope you may, too,” said Emma. “Of course, Mrs. Weston is a better wife than I shall be—not nearly so headstrong and impulsive, and not at all meddlesome.”
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