Emma in Love (12 page)

“And I wish you could come!” said Emma, for she in her own way was as resolute as Mrs. Weston, when it came to choice of a topic between them. That of bringing a child into the world was not a topic ever embarked on or followed by Emma. She could not give the reason— it was very probable that the existence of five orphans of Isabella's whom she felt it right to educate and protect deterred her; deeper reasons she refused at each opportunity to explore. And perhaps the knowledge that Highbury looked to her to provide an heir to Donwell Abbey gave her an added obstinacy on the subject. Henry, John's eldest son, had long been marked down, to succeed as landowner at Donwell; Emma would not disinherit him for the world. This she gave as brief reply to Mrs. Weston, who sighed, and looked away.

“So tell me of the danger to Jane Fairfax, then,” said Mrs. Weston, “for I see your need to confide it, Emma. Why, I do not believe I have seen you so agitated since Old Abdy brought round a dolls' house he had made with his own hands – on your fifth birthday, my dear! Tell me – pray!”

Emma, speaking with many pauses and hesitations at first, began a description of the Baroness, and of the undoubted temptation her company held for Jane
Fairfax, bereft as the wretched young woman was of male company. She had no bright prospect; nor anything more from the suitor who had instead married an heiress, than a bouquet of wilting flowers gathered from the hedgerows.

“I fear the Baroness has designs on Jane,” murmured Emma; at this moment the door to the drawing-room opened and Mr. Knightley came in, and she blushed scarlet. “That is enough, dear friend, let us talk of other things!”

Mr. Knightley came forward, and placed himself in his accustomed wing chair. His mien was grave, both Emma and Mrs. Weston were not slow to note. Emma, who had expected him to tease her, did not know whether to be thankful or sorry to see him so downcast.

“I must make my way to Randalls,” said Mrs. Weston. “I have my little Adelaide awaiting – she must learn her numbers, or she will be as dim-witted as an uneducated child can be.” Leaning down, she patted Emma's head. “Tell me more when next I come to the Abbey, my love – on the subject of your dangerous Baroness—”

“Her name is Delphine,” said Emma; but then she flushed again, for she had not meant to speak further of the Frenchwoman in the presence of Mr. Knightley.

“Well, I am happy to place the charming Baronne next to brother John tomorrow,” said Mr. Knightley; but the
attempt at good humour in his tone failed, and Emma saw he was really angry or sad – the two had a way of mingling, with Mr. Knightley.

“Delphine—” said Mrs. Weston, and she appeared to muse a while, before picking her bag from the table and making for the door. “And what do you say is the life story of this remarkable young woman?”

“She has a fortune, so I am told. I shall certainly place her next to my brother,” said Mr. Knightley, still in an attempt at jocularity. “That is enough for us, I am sure, Mrs. Weston!”

“She did not find herself the victim of a passion for a young man intended for her protégée, a Mademoiselle Mathilde?” enquired Mrs. Weston, her voice by the door so low as to be almost inaudible. “His name Léonce? No, it cannot be.”

“But it is!” Emma leapt to her feet; Mr. Knightley gazed up in mild astonishment at her. “It is one and the same, Mrs. Weston! Tell me more of her – and do you consider I am right – when it comes to Jane Fairfax—?”

“Don't imagine I am happy to hear that there are more concerns over Jane Fairfax,” cried Mr. Knightley; and he gave a loud groan. “Has she not had her share of compassion, Mrs. Weston? Do not you agree? Emma thinks too much of her – is not that the case?”

Mrs. Weston, who appeared suddenly to find that she had over-stayed the amount of time she had permitted
herself at the Abbey, bustled to the door at an unusual speed. She would not look directly at Emma – but crossed the hall rapidly, and opened the outer door.

“Please, Mrs. Weston—” cried Emma; but she knew she sounded as plaintive as the child or pupil of Mrs. Weston's once had been. That she was Mr. Knightley's wife now must stiffen her resolve, not to think further of the danger she felt still all around her. She was mistress of Donwell Abbey and must not comport herself as a young girl would, to whom everything was fresh, shocking and new.

“My dearest Emma,” said Mr. Knightley as they walked back to the drawing-room after Mrs. Weston had taken her leave, “I do not like to blame or censure you. Heaven knows I do not—”

Emma knew the rest. She stood erect; but as she faced the squire, her spouse, she knew in her heart she did not do right to defend her actions of the afternoon.

“As I learnt very lately that you have given leave to young Abdy's sister to occupy the barn, I did not countermand your wishes,” said Mr. Knightley; but he sounded more than ever disappointed and weary as he spoke. “I can only hope my misgivings will prove to be unfounded – as must you.”

And with that, he was gone.

The night which followed was too warm to permit sleep; and too windless to prevent each movement, as it came from Mr. Knightley's room, from being heard; but Emma, drawing back the curtains at the windows and returning to lie with scant comfort on her bed, did not go to him. He might open and close drawers; go to his wardrobe and thence to his writing-table, as often as he pleased. If Emma did not sleep, then nor should he. Only a thunderstorm, when it could be heard to approach far off in the Surrey hills, might bring the comfort both required – though in their very separate ways.

Emma could not forgive Mr. Knightley for what she perceived as his worldly scheme to marry his brother to
a fortune – when the poor man, as even Mrs. Weston, the most matrimonially-minded of her friends, had agreed, must be allowed his period of mourning to continue for as long as he required. If he were to be introduced to a potential bride – why, John Knightley must meet a woman he had known all his life, a person he had seen as a sister but could now learn to regard with growing devotion and respect. The Baroness was totally unsuitable! How was Mr. Knightley justified in rebuking his Emma for the sin of marrying her friends, when he was prepared to act as matchmaker himself, between an heiress from a dubious, Continental source, and his own kin! It was unthinkable!

Mr. Knightley's restlessness, ever a mark of disapproval on his part – this must be ascribed to his annoyance at his wife's open-handed response to a request from the Abdy family. But was not Emma infinitely superior to
him
, when all she schemed was the material improvement of a wretched young woman: she did not connive at marrying a fallen woman from the stews of Bristol, to anyone at Highbury! No, of this Mrs. Knightley was innocent. A daughter of an old man who had long served Mr. Woodhouse, had need of a roof over her head: was it not more practical of Emma to assuage the agonies of a mendicant such as Miss Abdy than it would be to dream of uniting a widower with five children and a foreign baroness who might
well encourage those children to feel love for her, and then abandon them? How would Mr. Knightley feel then, with nephews and nieces on his hands all heartbroken from the sorry mistake their father had made – a mistake aided and abetted by none other than their uncle George? It was beyond anything: Emma would think of it no more.

But all thoughts led back to the Baroness; and as the distant rumbles in the hills increased, Emma found she could think of little else. If only she could discover how Jane Fairfax and this fascinating creature had first met! And how – here Emma sat upright, a bolster balanced precariously against the bedhead, the slender curtains of the four-poster bed moving at last in the first traces of a wind from afar – how could Mrs. Weston know her history? It was inconceivable, that an old friend, the confidante and teacher of Emma's youth, should keep such knowledge from her, in all the days since the arrival of the two young women at the Vicarage. Was it not a romantic, even a disturbing story?— a beautiful young girl, taken as the bride of a Baron, then widowed before she had time even to see herself as wed – then, the generosity, in promising a marriage portion to a girl as far from finding the satisfactions of nuptials as poor Jane Fairfax now – was it not inevitable that the intended groom should fall in love with the benefactress of his betrothed? Would not anyone who came into
contact with the lovely Elise – or Delphine – be as passionately enamoured of her?

As I am, murmured Emma to herself; then, cheeks burning, she leapt from her bed and ran to the open window – for lightning came; and, a very short time after, thunder directly overhead, before the black clouds parted to reveal a full, unmoving moon.

She did not know what she said. She was feverish, it was the abrupt change in the weather which had brought it on. If Emma had known a mother she would have called her now; instead, she resorted to phrases of Mrs. Weston, and she summoned childhood scenes of illness.— For it was true, her body burned now, as her face had just done. She was ill; with an illness that had come as suddenly as the storm that raged about the Abbey. She would not disturb Mr. Knightley, for there was silence at last from his room. He slept amongst his sporting prints, with little to occupy his dreams other than his farm, his apple crop in a month's time, and the books he examined every night, balancing one ledger against its neighbour with all the practice of the landowner who is a working farmer on his land.

The moon was swallowed by clouds again, and gave an impression of fleeing from its pursuers, as Emma fled from a progression of her thoughts. A wind as strong as any that had come to Donwell and its sheltered valley in the month of August followed the thunder and lightning
and grasped the small trees newly planted in Mr. Knightley's orchards, and twisted them so they shook. Haystacks in Robert Martin's fields became frisky; wisps flew in the lime walk; and branches of hazel nut bushes were flung as far afield as the lawn below Emma's window, from the hedge which divided the Abbey from Abbey Mill Farm. The night was wild; there was no place to go, but to return to bed.

This Emma did; and it was to lie as a child might on the occasion of a first storm, hands over her ears. It was not only the return of the thunderclaps which inspired her dread. The voice of Elise now sounded in the whistling of the wind: low, a foreign voice that brought storms to her neck and down her spine; and, wherever her hands might roam to hold it at bay, her very soul.

The next day opened bright and calm. Emma slept late, and was woken by her maid with enquiries from Mrs. Hodges, as to the ability of Mrs. Bates to chew on hard pastry: would not a fricassee be a better dish; the veal was come; would madam kindly instruct?

The sound of Mr. Knightley and his brother came up the stairs to the bedchamber where Emma, unusually tardy in her morning toilet, sent her maid away miserable and sat long at her dressing-table, contemplating in the glass a face she had not seen look back at her since her father's death: pale, wan, pinched with the sadness that had come in the night and would not go away. Mr. Knightley, crossing the hall to the library,
spoke with his habitual evenness, and, it seemed to Emma, louder than was his wont, as if to reassure her that the storms of the night were passed. He called his dogs; she heard him inform John that the water bailiff awaited them, and the lake would need draining before any profit could be got from it, or even personal pleasure and enjoyment.— “Though I hope we will be able to sell the fish we catch there, brother John,” he added, and then the door to the library was closed behind them. Before it did so, Emma thought she heard the mention of roach, and char, and of the stocking of the lake with brown trout, which the good people of Surrey would buy in quantities.

Not for the first time, Emma reflected on the kindness and consideration of her husband; but today, she thought of these qualities from a distance: they belonged to a stranger. Mr. Knightley would do his best for his brother's inheritance. The lake would yield fresh fish, in this inland part of the country.

There would be a boating party: it would be a fine thing, to go on the water— but for Emma, as her thoughts pursued and tormented her, there was no thought but of the sea.

The sea – which Emma had never visited – had surely been the setting for the meeting between the Baroness and Jane Fairfax. The two women were bound one to the other, she suspected – she felt she knew as much by
now; and, just as the truth that had come to her in the night was banished from her mind, so it was replaced by a desire more urgent than any she had ever known, to ascertain where they had first encountered each other.— And, which was as important, indeed essential to Emma's peace of mind, how the story of the beautiful Elise had come to be known to Mrs. Weston. Elise – Delphine – why did the intriguing creature have two names?

Emma, as she sat long at her dressing-table, thought of the marriage she had entered into with Mr. Knightley. She reflected that it was indeed the case that the interests of others had from the very beginning taken precedence over their own. Had they not, at the time of their betrothal, announced they would take a tour of the seaside, a wedding journey, no more than a fortnight's absence from Hartfield? Had not John and Isabella given their word they would come to care for Mr. Woodhouse while Emma and Mr. Knightley, for so many years close to being perceived as brother and sister in the eyes of the world, celebrated their union as man and wife by the ocean, which Emma had never in all her life found the opportunity to see? But one of the Knightley nephews or nieces – indeed, it had been Bella, ever sickly, while little Emma enjoyed the perfect health and bloom of her aunt – had fallen ill in London. The John Knightleys did not come. The wedding journey had
been postponed; Mr. Woodhouse grew nervous, when it was proposed again a month later; Emma and her spouse began and continued their married life beneath her father's roof at Hartfield.