by Nina Clare
‘Ah, so she is to be your new pet project, is she?’
‘She is not a pet, nor a project. She is a dear friend whom I have determined to notice and raise up.’
‘Just as I said,’ replied Master Knightley with a disarming smile. Emma was part vexed, part amused.
‘You shall soon see. And you shall retract your ungallant words to my friend.’
Master Knightley generally did allow Emma to have the last word and so said no more on the subject of Harriet Smith. He had only encouraged the nonsense of their argument partly because he enjoyed it as a longstanding habit of theirs, and in part because it was a welcome, if brief, diversion from the concerns pressing upon him. He looked about them, noting the bare branches of the trees from the devastation of the untimely North Wind.
‘If only Mother Goodword were here,’ said Emma. ‘It is unaccountable that she should be away at such a time. I suppose you know that the school is all closed down, and the Sisters have no recourse to any magic to aid them.’
‘Yes. I was at the school yesterday evening.’ ‘Does your little friend have any clue what object of magic has been stolen? I asked one of the other students, but she would not tell me.’
‘Harriet will not say either,’ said Emma. ‘She is silent about some things relating to Godmothering. I understand they make oaths of secrecy on some matters.’ Emma’s disapproval of this was evident. ‘I will speak to Papa again,’ she promised. ‘And I will exert my sensing practise more fully to find some clue as to the thief. If we could only find him, Papa would not need to do anything beyond presenting the thief, would he?’
There was a hopeful note in her voice. Master Knightley did not reply, so she ran on.
‘There must be signs and clues. It is not possible to use stolen magic and it not be noticed in time. I will even call upon persons I take no pleasure in calling upon,’ she said with a noble air. ‘I will call upon as many persons in the village as I can, and exercise my senses on them all.’
Master Knightley’s mouth twitched, as though he were suppressing a smile, but he was quick to subdue it.
‘And I shall continue watching the border,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the time has come to take down the old dragon slayer from above the mantel and polish it up, hilt and blade.’ He smiled, but there was a look in his eye that showed that he was not joking.
‘As if your housekeeper didn’t keep it well polished already,’ said Emma. But she did not return his smile. If Master Knightley was considering taking up the ancient sword of the knights of Donwell, then things were more serious than she liked to think.
20
A Very Handsome Letter
Emma was not one to dwell long on disagreeable things, if she could help it, and not one to shy away from agreeable things, where they proved a pleasant distraction. The concerns of Master Knightley over the darkling bridge were very disagreeable, while Emma’s matchmaking plans were not. Thus, she was glad to continue in her work, all in the name of important Godmothering study.
Harriet’s portrait was completed, and admired, especially by Master Elftyn, who was so smitten a lover that he had volunteered to take the precious painting all the way to town to be framed. Master Woodhouse’s entreaties to him to stay home in the warm and dry fell on deaf ears, Master Elftyn would go. What fear had he for catching cold? None. What was a sixteen-mile ride in wintry cold and mizzle? They were nothing to him. He was a man with a commission for a fair lady. Emma and Harriet stood at the manor entrance and waved him off with the rolled-up painting secured in his saddlebag.
‘How gallant he looks on horseback,’ Harriet said as he trotted down the drive. She glanced at Mistress Woodhouse to see if she agreed. ‘How smart his riding coat is. I always think so when I see him ride by.’
Master Elftyn turned in the saddle to wave one last time, then was hidden by the curve of the sweep.
‘Let’s go in,’ said Emma, turning away. ‘It’s too cold to stand out. We shall warm up with tea.’
Emma allowed Harriet to muse over her happy thoughts of Master Elftyn and his riding coat while they sipped their tea. She was not mistaken in thinking Harriet’s thoughts were of Master Elftyn, but she would have been very surprised if she had known that sweet, artless Harriet was artfully considering the composition of a love riddle, for she had promised to write one for Master Elftyn. He would use it as his next move in gaining the affections of Emma.
Harriet did not find riddles easy, but she was determined to excel herself on this occasion. Her thoughts were interrupted by Emma saying, ‘I can guess what you are thinking of, Harriet.’
Harriet blushed, feeling all the confusion of her duplicity. ‘Riddles,’ she said reflexively.
‘Riddles? Why, Harriet, you surprise me. I imagined your thoughts lay in a more interesting direction. The direction of the road between Highbury and London, to be precise.’
‘I forgot to bring my riddle book with me this morning.’ Another blush of shame. ‘We did say we would work on it today as part of our studies.’
In truth, they were running out of things to do as part of their studies. They had all but given up on the sitting in silence, Emma claiming that it was probably something that ought to be practised in solitude. And Emma had no patience for reading The Godmother’s Book of Proverbial Wisdom; she had tried again that morning and the page had opened to:
Only a foolish soul diverts the path of true love,
A wise woman will let it run its course.
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Emma had said in annoyance. ‘Godmothers shape the path of true love, do they not? Otherwise, what is all their matchmaking about?’
As if in answer, her eyes were drawn to the next lines.
A wise woman works according to good counsel,
Fools rush headlong into fancy.
She had closed the book and was determined to read it no more.
It was too cold to go out visiting and practising sensing for very long. Master Woodhouse grew anxious for his daughter’s health if she were outside in wintertime more than a half hour. The portrait painting had taken up much of their study time of late, but that was all in the service of matchmaking, so that was all very well, but now they must exert themselves to something useful and fill up their notebooks ready to show Mother Goodword, when she returned.
‘I shall run home and fetch my riddle book,’ Harriet said decidedly, thinking that she could compose at least two lines, if not two couplets, on the walk home. ‘I shall be back by dinner.’
‘Very good,’ agreed Emma. ‘Try not to get distracted by the window display at Ford’s.’
‘No, indeed,’ Harriet promised. ‘I shall close my eyes as I step past it and not look once at that delightful little bonnet in the window, though it has silk flowers on the band in the prettiest shade of blue. Just like tiny forget-me-nots. I was once told that my eyes are the very colour of forget-me-nots.’ She laughed and dimpled, and then she looked wistful.
Emma smiled indulgently. She considered Harriet’s great pleasure in nice clothes another sure sign that Harriet was not meant for a future as a Godmother, but as a young bride. Should Harriet gain her acolyte status, she would have to wear the prescribed gown of plain drab. This was a factor that troubled Emma greatly, as she could not see herself in such a gown. She did not think herself vain, but she did consider being well dressed as much of a necessity to life as bread and salt. She would deal with that disagreeable matter when the time came and find a way round it.
Harriet left, and Emma busied herself about the house, checking that all things were in order in the linen chests and the pantries, and that her father was still quietly drowsing beside the fireplace.
How strange life seemed at present, Emma mused, as she walked about the house. It was like living in two worlds. On the one hand, there was this horrible feeling of disorder in the air; a nagging worry, like a troublesome hobgoblin, knocking and banging away in another room. But on the other hand, life went on. People were dissatis
fied with the small magic being wayward – charms failing or turning rogue, but as yet, the problems did not really harm anyone so much as irritate them.
Of course, the villagers were not thinking of the bridge opening. It had not opened in anyone’s living memory. Thus, life continued, very much as before, even if the linen did not return from the laundress quite as white as usual, or the winter turnips were dug up in the shape of long, thin carrots, or the ale at the Crown had an aftertaste of pepper.
‘Such odd days,’ Emma said to herself as she returned to the common sitting room, and stood before the fireplace. She would hang Harriet’s portrait there when it returned. At least one agreeable thing was happening – there was sure to be a wedding in Highbury by Midsummer, if not by May Day.
She could readily picture Harriet in her wedding gown, with as many pink ribbons as she chose on her bonnet, holding a bunch of sweet flowers and showering Mistress Woodhouse – her clever matchmaking Godmother, her best and dearest friend, her kindly patroness – with thanks for all the felicity and joy she now knew as the wife of the best gentleman in all of Highbury. It was a very agreeable picture.
Harriet returned much sooner than expected. She came careering into the sitting room where Emma was still standing before the imagined portrait, lost in admiration of her own merits.
‘Harriet, what is the meaning of this?’ said Emma, turning around, amazed at the flushed cheeks, wild eyes and unruly hair of her friend. After all her efforts to improve Harriet’s looks and posture and manner of walking, and here she was running through Highbury as though chased by the Wild Hunt!
‘Oh, Mistress Woodhouse!’ was all Harriet could gasp out, and she waved a letter in a trembling hand.
It all came out in fits and bursts between sharp administrations from Emma for calm and poise, and a few sips of Master Woodhouse’s becalming wine.
Harriet had returned to the school to discover that none other than Robert Martin had called an hour earlier and not finding Harriet at home had left a parcel for her. This was no very remarkable occurrence, for he often called at the school to assist with something, or to deliver to Harriet a note or gift from his sisters or mother. Inside the parcel were some music sheets that Harriet had lent to Elizabeth Martin, and beneath the music sheets had lain— ‘Oh, what do think?’ cried Harriet, ‘whatever do you think, Mistress Woodhouse! Only think of it – so extraordinary! A letter! A letter from him.’
‘Him?’
‘Master Martin!’
‘How inappropriate. How very forward and unmannerly. No man ought to send a young lady private letters unless they are engaged.’
‘It was a letter, such a letter – oh, Mistress Woodhouse, I thought I should faint on reading it – I never was so very surprised in all my life!’
‘Harriet, please. Calmness, decorum, restraint. What was in this impudent letter of his that has unsettled you so?’
‘A proposal of marriage!’
‘Upon my word!’
‘Will you read it?’ begged Harriet. ‘Pray do. I’d rather you would.’
The letter was duly read with a mixture of disdain and curiosity. To Emma’s great surprise it was well worded, plain and to the point, but expressing sentiments of love most warmly and without anything she could object to, and all was written in a neat, sure hand.
‘Well, well,’ fretted Harriet, watching as the letter was scanned a second time. ‘Is it a good letter? Or is it too short?’
‘Yes, indeed, a very good letter.’ Emma hated to admit it, but she could not tell a lie. ‘So good a letter, Harriet, that everything considered, I think one of his sisters must have helped him.’
Harriet’s face fell a little, and she took the letter back. ‘Well,’ said Harriet, ‘and what shall I do?’
Emma was astonished that Harriet should have any doubts on that score. She was about to state that of course Harriet must write an immediate, clearly-worded reply of decline, when the words of the Proverbial Wisdom book popped into her mind in a most unwelcome manner:
Only a foolish soul diverts the path of true love,
A wise woman will let it run its course.
There is no true love in this case, Emma argued within herself, but she was checked from her initial speech by this interruption to her thoughts, and instead said, ‘I shall not give you any advice, Harriet, I will have nothing to do with it. This is a point which you must settle with your feelings.’
Even while speaking, Emma was suddenly aware to some degree of what Harriet’s feelings were. Perhaps the practise of sensing had been better than she had realised, for she could sense most strongly that Harriet was much inclined to feel favourable towards the impudent author of that wretched letter. She could feel the pulsation of alternate waves of energy from her friend as she wavered between warmth and strong attraction to the writer, and then a halting uncertainty as Emma herself radiated a cool displeasure and disdain. Emma could even detect a strong smell of – was it? – yes it was, it was the smell of roses. This was alarming. All her careful plans. There was no doubt in her mind that Master Elftyn was Harriet’s true love!
‘I had no notion that he liked me so very much,’ said Harriet, contemplating the letter in her hand.
‘I had no notion that you could be so ready to abandon all my… your… plans for the future on such a proposal. You never once said that you actually favoured this man.’
Harriet’s thoughts wrestled within her more strongly, and Emma ceased from trying to sense them; it was too exhausting. Could it be that there was some bewitchment in the letter? That would explain its unaccountable influence on her friend. She owed it to Harriet to speak a word of reason.
‘I lay it down as a general rule, Harriet, that if a woman doubts as to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse him.’
Harriet turned her troubled eyes from her letter to her friend. Emma, seeing the look of turmoil, was indignant on Harriet’s behalf. How dare that young man upset all her careful plans in this way? Handsome Master Elftyn, accepted in all ranks of society, was perfect for Harriet, while plain, uncouth Robert Martin was little above a general farmer – how dare he aspire to her friend’s hand?
‘Marriage is not a state to be safely entered into with doubtful feelings, or with half a heart.’ she told Harriet. ‘I thought it my duty as a friend, and being older than yourself, to say this much to you. Recall your feelings this morning, in this very house, Harriet, when a certain gentleman took up your own portrait and carried it away as though it were a most precious object.’
Harriet’s cheeks flushed, and she looked more distressed than ever.
‘Compare the two young men, Harriet. See them standing side by side. One in his blue riding coat, the other in his brown broadcloth. Who has the advantage? Who has the look of a true gentleman? Who would make the most charming, considerate companion? Harriet, Harriet, do not deceive yourself; do not be run away with by gratitude and compassion.’ Emma refrained from using the word beguilement or bewitchment out loud; it would not do to cast such aspersions without proof. ‘At this moment, Harriet, who are you thinking of?’
Harriet’s confusion remained. She moved to stand by the fire, looking thoughtfully into the flames and twisting the letter in her hand.
Emma sensed the swirl of emotion around her friend. If Harriet were to choose Robert Martin, then Emma would have to accept defeat of all her plans. But it would be a bitterness indeed. She hated failure of every kind, and she would have to give Harriet up. She could not visit a Mistress Harriet Martin of Mill Farm. No indeed! To see her dear, beautiful little Harriet amongst all those coarse-speaking farming persons, surrounded by cows and chickens and presiding over the dairy when she could be sat in the pretty little parlour of Master Elftyn’s cottage, sitting amongst books and ornaments and presiding over tea – it was too horrible!
But Harriet was speaking. Her expression was not happy, and her words were halting.
‘I have now quite dete
rmined, and really almost made up my mind,’ began Harriet. She glanced again at the letter in hand then resolutely turned her eyes from it, ‘To refuse Master Martin. Do you think I am right?’
What a relief!
‘Perfectly, perfectly right, my dearest Harriet; you are doing just what you ought.’
Emma held out her hands to draw Harriet to her, breaking the coolness she had been emanating with a warm smile. ‘Dear Harriet, it would have grieved me to lose your acquaintance, now I am secure of you forever. We will not be parted. A woman is not to marry a man merely because she is asked, or because he is attached to her and can write a tolerable letter.’
The danger was over. The letter of refusal must now be written and sent without delay. Emma reached for the bell to call for fresh ink.
Harriet was still in low spirits that evening at Hartfield.
‘I shall never be invited to Mill Farm again,’ Harriet said at one point as she and Mistress Woodhouse sat together after dinner. ‘I think Mother Goodword would be very much surprised if she knew what had happened,’ she mused a little later as they attempted to play at cards to while away the time. ‘I am sure Rue would also. I do not think Myrtle would think much about it, except to wonder that I should even care about such a thing.’
‘But you do not want to be invited to Mill Farm, dear,’ Emma countered gently. ‘You are too busy here with me here, and our studies and plans. And you are busy at the school, doing whatever it is you do there. What do you do there?’
‘We… work on Godmothering concerns.’
Emma did her best to steer Harriet’s thoughts into the right current, reminding her of her attachment to herself and of all her future hopes of Master Elftyn. But it was a little tiring to be always counteracting every regret and sorrowful remembrance, and it was something of a relief when Harriet went back to the school to her ‘Godmothering concerns’.