“Thank you. I did not know you were here in Highbury.”
“I came only this morning, unannounced, and leave on the morrow. I came to see Miss Fairfax, of course, but I have already been presented with Mr. and Miss Woodhouse as well as yourself—and who knows who else I may see before the end of the day? The Eltons will probably turn up as soon as you leave.”
“Perhaps a long walk with Miss Fairfax will answer your purpose. I beg your pardon—I have neglected to offer you my congratulations on your engagement.”
“I thank you. If it is not an impertinence, I would like to wish you joy on your coming marriage.”
Knightley bowed his thanks.
Churchill hesitated, and then said “With your connection—you may have seen a letter of mine...”
“To Mrs. Weston? I did.”
“Then you know my remorse for my improper behaviour. I have been fortunate in obtaining forgiveness from those I offended; may I ask if I have yours as well?”
“You have it—now. I would have struggled to grant it if I had not secured Emma’s hand. As it is, I am all generosity.”
“Thank you. You are very good.”
“I may tell you that I owe you a debt. It was through your attentions to Miss Woodhouse that I came to know my own heart. I had been a blind fool, and if you had not come with your devious ways, who knows how long it would have been before I knew exactly in what way I cared for her?”
Frank looked at him levelly. “It must have nearly killed you to see me flirting with her.”
“Yes.” He did not care to elaborate.
“It is no wonder I found you a little—stiff and disapproving. I am doubly grateful for your forgiveness.”
“I thought you unworthy for the hand of any young woman; I hope you will prove me wrong. Miss Fairfax is too good for shoddy treatment.”
“She is,” said Frank seriously. “I am not quite so careless as I appear. I have done with my scrapegrace ways, believe me.”
The door opened and Weston came in, followed by the ladies.
“Knightley! I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“I hope my visit is not inconvenient,” said Knightley with a bow to Mrs. Weston and Miss Fairfax. “I wanted to see you on a parish matter—I had no idea you had guests. I can come again later, if it pleases you.”
“Not at all, not at all. Come into the library and unburden yourself.”
“I only wanted to tell you,” said Knightley, when they were alone, “that Burton has found two other men to keep watch with him. He says they plan to begin their watch tonight.”
“I see. Have they determined a location?”
“They will be behind that hedge near the Foster farm, on the road to Langham.”
“And what do you think their success will be?”
“I am not holding out much hope for the venture, but I have been surprised before.”
“It was a good idea to offer the men a small wage for watching and a larger reward if they caught someone. It will keep them diligent, I should think.”
“Yes. Well, let us hope that no one who has any connection with this scheme accidentally lets something slip to the wrong person.”
“Quite,” said Weston. “Perhaps you ought to start some sort of scandal to give the gossip-mongers something interesting to talk about.” He winked.
“I have done my bit by getting engaged to Emma.”
“True. Well, when the wonder of that dies down, you may be forced to improvise some other noteworthy deed.”
“I know it,” said Knightley with a straight face. “I believe I will indulge in a spot of matchmaking—for William Larkins.”
“And what has made you so grave, Mr. Knightley?” said Emma. She had finished writing her letter to Isabella, for which purpose she had remained home while her father made his daily pilgrimage to Randalls.
“Am I grave?” said Knightley. “I did not mean to look so.” He had been thinking again of the question of how much he should tell Emma of the things connected with his work as a magistrate. To be sure, she was trustworthy—he had no fear of rumours beginning at her instigation—but there were bad things, disturbing things that came to his attention, and he wondered what he ought to do about those. He would wish to keep anything unpleasant away from her; she was too good to be exposed to the worst depravities of mankind. But he knew himself: when distressing things were brought to his attention, he was troubled and unsettled, and he would rather share his burden with her than have her think him aloof. Then again, if he did tell her, she would have to keep it a secret from her father—he who was horrified at an open window must not be alarmed by the knowledge of actual crimes—and she might not like that.
“You look thoughtful, at any rate,” said Emma, coming and sitting beside him. “May I know what you are pondering?”
“You may not know all my thoughts, but I will tell you one question which has been in my mind today: where shall we go for our wedding-trip?”
She smiled at the question.
“I have been in correspondence with John,” Knightley went on, “and he agrees with me that we ought to marry while the family are at Hartfield. If we are to take a wedding-trip, this will be our only opportunity, for we cannot leave your father alone.”
“No,” said Emma. “I agree it is a very sensible plan, and it has my hearty approval. I only worry that it is too soon for my father’s nerves. He thinks of us getting married at some far distant date.”
“I know it; but I will not wait for two years for your hand, Emma. When we are married he will be well again.”
Emma nodded, but sighed, and he pressed her hand reassuringly. “But about our wedding-trip...”
“I don’t know—someplace beautiful, I suppose.” Her mouth twitched in amusement. “What about Box Hill?”
He laughed. “That place has no very pleasant memories for me. It was the most miserable day I have ever spent, I think.”
“It was the same for me. I would be happy never to see that place again.”
“I do not think it would make a good location for a wedding-trip, I agree. However, perhaps we should go again, after we are married, just the two of us, to make new memories. It is a beautiful place.”
“It is. A little jaunt to Box Hill for that purpose might be an agreeable thing. But then where shall we go for our wedding tour?”
“What about the sea-side? I was thinking of Worthing—not so noisy and crowded as Brighton, but equally fashionable and comfortable. And it is only a day’s journey from here.”
“The sea!” Emma’s eyes sparkled. “I have so longed to see it!”
“I know,” said Knightley softly.
Emma put her hand to his face. “You are the most thoughtful of men, Mr. Knightley, but I do not require a fashionable spot. I do believe I would be happy enough in a fisherman’s cottage in Portsmouth—if I were there alone with you.”
The noise of carriage wheels on gravel outside the windows announced Mr. Woodhouse’s return. Knightley sighed, kissed her hand and gave it back to her, and repeated “Alone with you. Yes, my Emma, I think under those circumstances I would be contented, too.”
18
Spencer opened the door of his cottage himself to Knightley’s knock.
“Mr. Knightley! How do you do?”
“Tolerable, Spencer, thank you. Is Maggie unwell?”
“No, no—she’s helping at Mrs. Matthews’—she’s ill, and the children needed minding. Come in.” Spencer led the way into the parlour and motioned toward a seat. “Please—”
Knightley thanked him and sat down. “You’ve heard about Robert Martin, I expect.”
“Yes, I heard. He is a fortunate man, and he has my best wishes. May I offer you some refreshment? Maggie is not here, of course, but I am well able to make tea.”
“No, no. I came only to say—I am sorry.”
“Sorry?” said Spencer, and then after a moment added, “No—I will not pretend to mistake you. Martin does ha
ve my best wishes… only I wish his happiness was not quite so near at hand. Once there were three of us disappointed in love, you know, and then two, and now I alone remain.” He smiled faintly at his own words. “I am not despairing, just a little bit melancholy.”
“I would feel the same in your place—worse, I’m afraid. I would be bitter. I would begrudge the others their happiness when I am denied it. But I can see you are not bitter.”
“No. But do not think me more virtuous than I am; I have the seeds of bitterness within me. They would take root and grow if I allowed them to, but I will not. I have many blessings: health and good friends, honourable work—work with eternal weight for that matter… I have already been blessed beyond my deserts—far beyond the ‘food and covering’ that the apostle said we should be content with. What right have I to complain?”
“I hope your conscience does not induce guilt for legitimate grief. You do not think, I hope, that the Almighty would begrudge you a few natural sighs.”
“Not at all—‘He is mindful that we are but dust.’ And I have indulged in sighs enough to satisfy you on that point, believe me. A little time, Mr. Knightley, will remove most of the sting. And poor Martin is not without his troubles; his love is still in London, after all.”
“She will return on Friday with my brother and his family. Oh! And that puts me in mind—Miss Castleman. It appears the arrangements have all been made for her to go to Leatherhead on Friday. Mrs. Hunt has not told her anything about it yet; she and I thought it would be best to give her little warning, in case she takes it into her mind to flee.”
“But how will you break the news to her that day? She may struggle or run away. She is frightened and belligerent as it is.”
“Mrs. Hunt had the idea of telling her that we have found for her a place of safety, where she will be secure from molestation by anyone. The locks on the doors might be presented as means to keeping evil men out rather than keeping her in.”
“I daresay that is the best way. What time will she be leaving?”
“I told Mrs. Hunt that I would send my carriage at noon—far better for them than travelling post. Larkins is going along to help, as well.”
“I would be glad to accompany them, but I fear that my presence would only agitate her. She still thinks me in league with ‘the man.’”
“Yes, I think it is better that you stay here, although the journey would probably provide a welcome distraction to your mind.”
Spencer laughed. “I am invited to supper with Mrs. Green and her husband this evening. It will take all my wits to be a polite guest even while I evade her efforts to extract information from me about others in the parish. That will prove distraction enough, I think.”
Knightley smiled along with him, somewhat relieved to see Spencer managing his trials so competently, but irritated that he should need to. It seemed almost as if he who was best suited to deal with the disappointments of unrequited love must bear the weight of them. Knightley felt keenly that there was some injustice in that arrangement.
It was several days after they had arrived in Surrey before John was able to bring the older children to Donwell. Bella was made perfectly happy to see Madam Duval looking so well—“I told you, Papa, that she would look best with a ribbon around her neck, did I not?”—and the little boys were eager to see the fish-ponds again. Mrs. Hodges took charge of the children, while John and Knightley followed behind them at a slower pace.
“They do you proud,” said Knightley. “You make a fine father of five.”
“Six,” said John, smiling, “come next March.”
“Is that so? Congratulations are in order, then.”
“Thank you. I beg you will not see this in light of a competition, but you are sadly behind as far as progeny goes.”
“Indeed. I must find a way to be married soon.”
“Is there any progress made on reconciling Mr. Woodhouse to the plan of a wedding in October?”
“No, none. It was mentioned once—briefly—but the idea produced so much distress that it was dropped immediately.”
“I read a line in the poet Spencer the other day that made me think of you: ‘Ah! When will this long weary day have end, and lend me leave to come unto my love?’ It was the long weary bit that caught my attention. Waiting seems longer, I think, when there is no end in sight.”
“True. If only Mr. Woodhouse would lend me leave to at least name a wedding day…”
“You could name it, you know. Perhaps you might be able, with your native charm, to convince Emma to marry on that day, and Mr. Woodhouse would have little say in the matter. He will only be unhappy for a little while, of course.”
Knightley shook his head. “I do not think Emma could be convinced. I might persuade her mind, but her heart would be unwilling—and I will not have a reluctant bride.”
“Well, we have a little time. No need to rush into anything just yet.”
“True. Martin was only engaged two weeks ago, and he is likely to be married in less than a month. Simple weddings do not require very much advance notice.”
“He’s a good fellow, I think,” said John. “Seems perfect for Harriet. He told me he needed to find out her parentage. Has he discovered anything?”
“Yes; Mrs. Goddard had the information that led him to Harriet’s father. He turns out to be a prosperous tradesman. He is providing a generous dowry for Harriet.”
“Good. And the mother?”
“Dead these many years.”
“Ah. Well, given the circumstances of her birth, I suppose Harriet will have a better life than anyone would have imagined.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“And now tell me about this watch that has been set to catch a gang of thieves. Didn’t someone catch a thief in Langham? Gilbert, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. The man was just tried at the quarter sessions, and sentenced to a year in prison. The thefts have continued, however, so he must not have been the only thief.”
“And I suppose the watch has not discovered anything?”
“Nothing yet. Burton told me that the other night one of the men thought he saw someone dressed in dark clothes sneaking into the cow-house at the Adams farm. There was almost no moon that night, and the watcher was out near the road, of course, but he could still make out the form of someone crouching down in the distance from that spot. He hastened to get Burton and the other man from their posts, and they converged on the cow-house, ready to trap the thief.” Knightley paused for effect.
“Go on, what was it?” said John. “A servant, meeting his sweetheart?”
“A big black billy-goat,” said Knightley, “devouring the straw on the floor.”
John laughed. “How long are you going to keep up the watch?”
“I don’t know. Elton—whose idea it was—is adamant that we persist until the thieves are caught.”
“Perhaps he reads Horace: ‘Iustum et enacem propositi virum’… what was the rest of that?—‘the man who is tenacious of purpose in a rightful cause is not shaken in his firm resolve’…”
“I think you give Elton far too much credit. It’s more like the old song: ‘Wife a mouse, quiet house. Wife a cat, dreadful that.’”
Two weeks passed before Knightley heard any more tales from Burton, but the next report came in dramatic fashion, after Knightley had retired to bed. Baxter, hastily dressed and carrying a lighted taper, woke him.
“I beg your pardon, sir—sorry to wake you. It’s the constable Burton, with three other men… they say it is most urgent.”
Knightley fought against his weariness to open his eyes—he had only just fallen asleep. “All right, Baxter. Put them in the library. I’ll be with them shortly.”
The candlelight threw weird shadows around the library, and the four men waiting to see him looked almost other-worldly. The watchers were dressed in dark clothing; the fourth man in very rough clothes, like a common labourer. He kept his head well down, not looking at Knightley.
&
nbsp; “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, sir,” said Burton, “But we found this fellow skulking around behind a hedge in a field near the Wade farm. He wouldn’t answer questions, and he seemed to be up to no good, so we thought he ought to be brought to you, sir.”
“Well now, fellow,” said Knightley. “What is it you were doing in that field?”
“Nothin’,” said the man gruffly.
Knightley peered intently at him for a moment, then took a candle and brought it closer to the man’s face. He finally looked up.
“Edmund Gilbert, I think,” said Knightley.
“Not the squire’s son!” said Burton, aghast. “I didn’t know him, sir—I haven’t seen him above a half-dozen times in my life, and with him dressed in this fashion and in the dark…”
“No blame can attach to you, Burton,” said Knightley. “But I think perhaps I ought to speak to Mr. Gilbert alone.”
The watch shuffled out of the room, shutting the door behind them.
“What were you doing there?” Knightley spoke crisply.
“Nothing criminal.” Edmund sounded if he were trying to be belligerent, but was too frightened to be very successful. “You broke your word to me—you went to my father and told him about my playing cards in the tavern.”
“No. I told you I would not, and I did not. However, that watch of yours turned up on magistrate business while your father was present, and as someone else was about to be blamed for stealing it, I had to at least make my hesitations known. Your father is no fool, and deduced things on his own.”
“You ought to have minded your own—”
“I ought to mind my own business? But I am.”
“Then you should be dealing with criminals, not innocent citizens.”
“Innocent? You lied to me earlier, Edmund. You told me you did not know anything about the thefts in Langham, and I think you do. Beyond that, you were trespassing tonight. What is it you are hiding?”
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