The young man remained stubbornly silent.
“I can question your father…”
“No!” The young man looked up with a greater anxiety on his face than he had yet shown.
“Edmund, it is too late. I collect you have done something your father would not approve, and you are doing all you can to prevent his knowledge of it. But there is no concealing it any longer. I know you lied to me once, and I will dig the truth out if I need to question the entire population of Langham. Make a clean breast of it now, and it will go better for you.”
The young man’s shoulder sagged, and Knightley watched the fight go out of him. It was not an indication of humility or repentance, Knightley thought, just hopelessness.
“What do you want to know?”
“What were you doing in that field tonight?”
“Waiting for someone—to give him money.”
“Money you lost at cards?”
“No, money I was paying him for—for his silence.”
“Silence about what?”
A deep sigh came from Edmund, and then, “There’s a girl at the Crow’s Nest—a serving girl. I—she—there was some connection—she entrapped me.”
“She’s with child.”
“Yes.”
“Yours?”
“So she says.”
“How did she entrap you?”
“I was drunk one night. She invited me upstairs…”
“She did? You are certain you made no suggestion? You used no force?”
“Mr. Knightley! You cannot think that I would—!”
“You would not be the first gentleman’s son to do so.”
“But I didn’t! You must believe me!”
Knightley had little reason to, but somehow he thought that this, at least, was true. “The night you were drunk—how long ago was that?”
“In December.”
Knightley paused to reckon up the months. “Seven months. I wonder I did not hear about her condition sooner. Seven months is a long time to hide such a thing.”
“Well, she has not been in that condition for seven months—only for about five.”
“And still she names you as the father? Seven months ago…five months along...”
“I’m afraid that was not the only time I…went upstairs.”
“A regular thing, was it?”
Edmund sighed again. “More or less.”
“Are you going to assert that she entrapped you each time?”
“N-no, but she certainly started it. And I believe she had it in her mind for this to happen all along.”
“It never occurred to you that such a thing could happen?”
“I thought—she seemed so fond of me—I suppose I didn’t think…” Edmund trailed off. Evidently he had done little thinking at all.
“And she informed you of her condition when, exactly?”
“About two months ago. She said I ought to marry her. I cannot, of course, and I don’t think she really thought I would. But she cried and carried on and threatened to tell my father—”
“Ah, your father.”
“You know—well, you can imagine what he said to me when he learned about the card-playing. What his wrath would be about this other matter, I can hardly bear to think.”
“He might cut off your allowance, too. And just when you were going to leave for Oxford.”
“Yes.” He seemed more afraid of these consequences than hurting his father. Knightley could not but contrast Richard Hughes’s attitude with Edmund’s. His voice grew more stern. “So you told the girl you would pay her—provide for her, that is—as long as she said nothing.”
“Yes. And she kept her word. Luckily, I hear Cooper is blamed for it; no one has suspected me.”
“You think it lucky that an innocent man should be blamed for your sins?”
“He’s hardly innocent. He may not have done that, but he’s no innocent.” Knightley’s ears perked up at that, but he let it go for the moment.
“And his wife? You think the rumours do not hurt her?”
Edmund was silent.
“So, you had arranged to meet the girl in the field?”
“No, I—That is, yes.”
Knightley lost patience. “Tell the truth, Edmund! You are paying other people for their silence as well, are you not?”
“Someone has told you.”
“No—only I know a poor liar when I see one. And remember that I am a magistrate and my brother is a barrister. I know how things happen.”
Edmund groaned. “I am ruined.”
“You and the girl both, then. Who else are you paying?”
The answer came reluctantly. “The lads I play cards with. They could guess whose the child was. And if they didn’t guess, Ellie probably told them. They were quick enough to demand money, anyway.”
“And what will you do now?”
“Now? Keep paying them all, I suppose.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “It is a horrible position to be in. I haven’t done anything to deserve it.”
“You make very light of your offence. You will not marry the girl—all right. What will you do for her? And the child?”
“You think it’s my responsibility?”
“Well, if it isn’t yours, whose is it?”
“Hers! She sought to entrap me—and it wouldn’t surprise me if Tom put her onto the idea. He’s always one for making money.”
“And you thought you would just go on paying indefinitely?”
“Well—I didn’t know what would happen. Babies die sometimes—born too early, or some such thing. I didn’t think I would have to pay forever.”
“And what will you do when you go to University in the autumn?”
“I don’t know, exactly. It’s been worrying me. I thought I would make a payment to them when I came back on holidays.”
“You know that you are legally responsible for the child, if she names you. If you fail to support him, the mother can have you arrested on a justice’s warrant and you would be put into prison until you agree to do so.”
Edmund’s mouth hung open. “But a person of quality—surely they would not dare—”
“They might. And in any case, would you care for the public exposure that would result from such an event?”
“Well, I have paid already for silence—of course I would pay for support rather than go to prison.”
“See to it that you arrange for it, then. Now, about this other thing—I asked you once if you knew anything about these thefts at Lanham, and you said you knew nothing. But you do know something, don’t you?
“Not much, Mr. Knightley. In fact, I have no more than a suspicion. But whispered conversations seem to be the pattern at the tavern.”
“You said before that Cooper was not innocent—were you referring to the thefts?”
“To many things—watering down beer, letting people cheat at cards, obtaining rum from who-knows-where…”
“I wonder you are tolerated at the Crow’s Nest, since you know so much.”
“I don’t know it—only there are too many signs pointing that way for there to be nothing in it.”
“And they can expose you at any time they please—and you are young. Perhaps they think you pose little threat.”
“Perhaps. I confess I have acted like I understood even less than I did. Those people frighten me.”
“Then why did you play cards with them?”
“I wasn’t very frightened at first. It seemed no more than a lark.”
“I see—you liked going to a place your father wouldn’t approve, in order to do something he wouldn’t like—to prove your independence.”
“I suppose.”
There was silence for a moment.
“You won’t really bring me up on trespassing charges, will you?”
Knightley looked at that young man thoughtfully. He was young yet. Not a hardened rake. Perhaps he was beginning to see vice as the ugly thing it really was, and not the exciti
ng, grown-up adventure it had appeared at first. He did not seem so much repentant as lost, but his help in this case might be valuable.
“No, I think I will not, if you will help me.”
“Help you what, sir?”
“Catch these thieves—and Cooper, for whatever crimes and misdemeanours he may be responsible for.”
“And how shall I?”
“Play the innocent, but keep your wits about you. If these men, or some of them, are responsible for the thefts, they must be keeping the goods somewhere, at least temporarily. Not all the thefts have been consumable goods, and many of them would be recognizable to their owners. They must be being taken out of the community for disposal elsewhere. Probably they are stored somewhere for a little while before being transported. If we could find the stash—likely on the property of one of the thieves—we would have enough evidence to bring a charge against them.”
“Why do you not send a man to search their homes, Mr. Knightley?”
“Someone needs to request a warrant to search; and if we do not know where to look, random searches will only warn the thieves of our suspicions, and that will be the end of the evidence.”
“I see. So I will continue on as I have been and report to you if I hear anything?”
“Not exactly as you have been. Tell your father about the serving girl. You aren’t the first young man of your station to do such a thing, and I daresay he will not be as surprised as you think. You may find his wrath mitigated by your efforts to put things right—as far as you can. Stop bribing the men at the tavern for their silence. Own your responsibility in the matter, and ease Mrs. Cooper’s mind, at least.”
The sullen look was back on Edmund’s face. “It is hardly fair I should be put through this,” he muttered.
“You have odd notions of justice,” said Knightley. “It is entirely fair. But whether you concur with me or not, you have little choice in the matter. You are not the sort of man I would choose as an agent, but I have little choice in the matter. You will turn spy for the sake of law and order, and you may find some satisfaction in being useful, for once.”
19
“And so you have returned from the wedding, my dear, and Mr. Knightley, too.” Mr. Woodhouse looked with fond melancholy at the pair. He had been sitting with John and Isabella while Emma and Knightley attended the Martins at their wedding. “And poor little Miss Smith is now married,” he went on. “So quickly, too! It seems but a week or two ago when she would come and sit with us, and I am sure she had no more notion of being married then than you did, my dear.”
“She is Mrs. Martin now, Papa, and very happy,” said Emma. “And she was very grateful for your kind good wishes. You need not feel sorrow on her account; she will have a better home with the Martins than she did with Mrs. Goddard.”
“Well,” said her father reluctantly, “she will have a bigger bedroom, I suppose. But our house is very large, and we were always happy to see her here. She will miss us all very much.”
“Yes indeed,” put in Knightley, “She will always think of your kindness to her with great affection. But Mr. Martin is an extremely good man—you liked him very much when he was visiting here two weeks ago, remember.”
“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “He was most solicitous about my health—quite alarmed lest the fire be a little too warm for me. He does not know me, you see, and was unaware that I generally have a fire here. But he was very civil, to be sure—very civil indeed.”
“He will take good care of Miss Smith, you may be sure,” said Isabella, “and his mother and sisters love her dearly, and will see that she wants for nothing. There is really no need to feel sorrow on her account.”
“You must be right, my dear; still, I think she will miss Hartfield dreadfully.”
“I will talk with her, Papa, when I make a wedding-visit,” said Emma, “and I will give her your greetings. Perhaps the Martins will visit us, too; therefore Harriet cannot feel herself neglected.”
“To be sure, my dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “She will enjoy seeing us very much—if only you think that it will not make her pine for former days when she stayed so often with us.”
“Never mind,” said John with a touch of impatience, “I believe her husband will be able to comfort her in that event. But you have not told George and Emma about Miss Bates, sir.”
“Ah! You are very good to remind me,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “I have been remiss in not passing along her greetings. Emma, my dear, Miss Bates called while you were at the wedding. She had a letter from Miss Fairfax, and she was so good as to read it out to me. Jane is in Town, you know, with the Campbells. The letter said that Mr. Churchill is in Town as well, with the elder Mr. Churchill. Jane’s wedding will be in November.” He sighed. “Poor Miss Fairfax—she would have been a very good governess.”
Emma smiled affectionately at her father, then took a deep breath and said, “Papa, you know that November is the month that Isabella and John must return to Town; that is why Mr. Knightley and I wanted to marry in October.”
The change in Mr. Woodhouse was immediate. His face fell, his spirits became depressed, and he seemed to shrink within himself. “Yes, my dear. So you said. October.” His fingers plucked restlessly at the blanket draped over his knees. “Well if it must be, it must be, I suppose. I do not know why it must be so soon. There is all the time in the world. But I suppose there is no help for it.”
Knightley glanced at Emma; she was close to tears. Her tender heart was wrung, he knew, by her father’s misery.
“Perhaps we ought to take our exercise now, Papa,” said Isabella. “I had promised to accompany you on your three turns, and the weather is fine now; it may not be as clear later. Shall we go out now?”
“Ah, yes, my dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “I believe you are right. This is a very good time for our exercise. And when we return, Serle will have our gruel ready for us.”
Isabella took her father’s hand as they left the room, and the three left behind watched them go.
Emma brushed her hand across her eyes.
“My dear Emma,” said Knightley, “you know that when the event is over, his distress will be over, too.”
“Do you think so? I could not do anything which would leave him permanently dejected.”
“Depend upon it,” said John. “You know your father—he soon resigns himself to what he cannot change. He is perfectly happy for Mrs. Weston now, you know, both in her marriage and in her motherhood.”
“Yes; but I am his daughter, and therefore he may not be so easily reconciled.”
“He will always think it too soon for our marriage, my Emma,” said Knightley. “You will prolong his apprehension if you prolong our engagement.”
“I suppose you are right, but I cannot bear to see the forlorn look on his face and know that I am the cause of it.” She stood up with an apologetic smile. “I believe I will walk with him and Isabella.”
“She is so good,” said Knightley, almost to himself, when she had left the room. “I have been often impatient with her in former days, but never on account of her care for her father. Now, I am almost tempted…”
“Loyalty is almost the leading characteristic of the Woodhouses,” said John. “I think women are, in general, very constant, but the females in this family are loyal to an extraordinary degree, and not out of self-interest. It is inconvenient now, I grant you, but you would not really wish it otherwise.”
“No,” said Knightley. “But you are upsetting the balance of things by being sage and wise about the situation. Younger brothers are supposed to come to their elders for instruction, and not say anything worth hearing. Speaking, however, of feminine characteristics, I did want to discover your thoughts concerning one particular topic. How much shall I tell Emma of the evils and horrors I am exposed to as magistrate? I cannot imagine keeping everything locked within my own mind, but I also cannot imagine forcing the knowledge of so many dreadful things on her innocent mind. How do you decide
what to tell Isabella and what to keep to yourself?”
John smirked and said, “I have longed for this day—finally you see me as a mentor worthy of consultation.”
“John—”
“Yes, yes, of course, I will be serious.” He looked thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment before answering. “Emma is very different from Isabella, of course, but I should say that you ought not to tell your wife things that will control her thoughts during the day and disturb her sleep at night. I once told Isabella something about a murder case—involving a child. I didn’t mean to—it was troubling me, and she asked what was wrong and I told her. That was a mistake. It might have been worse because she worries over-much about so many things, but I think any woman, or any man, for that matter, would have been greatly disturbed by it. I know she suffered nightmares because of it, and I felt terribly guilty.”
“As would I. Perhaps I will keep everything to myself.”
“No, you must not do that. Emma is, I daresay, more resilient than you imagine. And you will be surprised how often she will offer up the perfect solution to a thorny dilemma when you unburden your mind to her; Isabella sometimes does so, even though she has no knowledge of laws or due process.”
“I see. Well, that will be a tricky balance to achieve.”
“I doubt you will manage to do it perfectly—at least, I never have. But then you may comfort yourself with the knowledge that Mrs. Elton would not be surprised at your lack of good judgement—you have sunk very low in her estimation by agreeing to move to Hartfield with Mr. Woodhouse. She thinks it is quite a shocking plan.”
“I think it will not be much of a change from what I am doing now.”
“True—I notice that you already eat breakfast and dinner here every day.”
“Yes. But I have to leave again every evening.”
“Bear up, man. It will not be too much longer.”
“We hope.”
They were in the middle of breakfast the next morning when Weston was shown in to the dining room.
“Sorry to burst in on you so frightfully early,” he said, “but I thought you ought to know, Knightley—our poultry house was broken into last night and all the turkeys taken. I would have waited until later in the day to inform you, but I heard from Haskins that they were robbed, too. Several hens missing.”
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