Emma in Love (15 page)

Mrs. Elton spoke of the seaside, and of a journey she intended to make there: she and her party from the Vicarage were due to set out in less than a week, and to stay several more; the destination was none other than Lyme – whence, as Emma had with difficulty extracted from Jane Fairfax, the Baroness had been discovered and brought first to Weymouth and hence, with the Smallridge children, to Highbury.

“The Sucklings have taken a house there, just above the Cobb, with the Bragges, you know! Indeed, it is a house which has been in the family of Lady Carinthia Bragge for many generations. Will it not be salubrious – the air is so fine there, so I am told? And the
chère Baronne
– she informs us her own very dear maman and papa were accustomed to visit Lyme, before the –
ah, hélas
! – Baronne, forgive me, do!”

Mrs. Elton's mention, as Emma presumed of the Revolutionary terror and thus of the cruel method of death suffered by the parents of the Baroness, caused her to look straight across the table; which resulted in the
discovery that Jane Fairfax and the Baroness looked at each other behind John Knightley's back, before resuming a serious contemplation of their forks and spoons.

“Mrs. Knightley – you will make such a difference to the party if you consent to come,” cried Mrs. Elton. Her husband gave a sound which was a conjunction of a growl and a whine: it was probable that he did not know the degree of sincerity of his wife's remark. “Please,
chère Baronne
persuade our lovely hostess to accompany us to the seaside! For she will give the greatest pleasure to poor Jane, if she consents: and I do believe also, that Mrs. Knightley may have visited the outlying estates of Donwell Abbey an hundred times, but she has never seen the sea!”

“It was I who prised that information from Mrs. Weston,” put in Mrs. Smallridge. “When I went to her to ask for the loan of school books to replace those left by you at Weymouth, Jane, is that not correct?”

“Yes, and I thank you, Mrs. Smallridge,” replied Jane Fairfax in a low voice.

“So must we ask Knightley if he will not make up for the loss of a wedding journey to the seaside all of four years ago?” demanded Mrs. Elton. “Can Knightley not spare a day or two away from the management of his estates? We have heard a great deal of this lake, just returned to the family lands. But no expedition has been
promised us there. Why, when my
caro sposo
and I visit Maple Grove, we are never without a trip here or there, at least every two or three days. Is that not so, Mr. Elton? Philip, dear, we await your reply.”

The vicar, who had been halfway between a growl of corroboration and bark of disparagement at the lack of pleasure trips on the part of the Knightleys, ended with a coughing fit. Mrs. Elton poured him water from a jug.

“I fear I shall not be able to go,” said Mr. Knightley. “I have business here. The ‘new lake', as you phrase it, Mrs. Elton, is in need of dredging, before any trips, of either a sporting or of a purely pleasurable nature, may take place there. It is, besides, my brother John Knightley's property: I know he invites you all, when the lake is cleared, to join him at a boating party: most of Highbury will be invited.”

“Then we will not be amongst them,” said Mrs. Elton lightly. “We like to think of ourselves as more exclusive than
that
. No, we shall make do with the sea; and I would in any case far prefer a sailing boat and to go out on the brine, to being on inland water in nothing better than a punt.”

“Punt,” said Miss Bates in a very loud voice. Emma glanced at her, concerned; but her thoughts were too much on the invitation to Lyme in the company of the mysterious Baroness, to permit her to fret over Miss Bates.

However, Miss Bates was now set off, and could not be stopped. “My dear Mrs. Elton … how you are right. Why, the seaside is quite, … Yes.— You must ask dear Jane. She has taken the children to Cromer. It is fairyland. Oh, so she says. It is in— Oh dear, I have quite forgot. Jane – assist me here, I beg you—”

“Norfolk,” said John Knightley – as he had not uttered a word for some time, and had even permitted that his brother should issue invitations on his part, the table turned to look at him in surprise.

“Isabella would go there, when Mr. Woodhouse wished her to visit Southend,” said Mr. Knightley, smiling. “And he takes his children to Cromer still. You do not object?” – this to John – “that we speak of Norfolk?”

“Fuck,” said Miss Bates.

Long and loud were the repercussions of this recent discussion of seaside resorts suitable for widowers, with their children, and of the beauties and advantages of the coast of Devon, over that of the flat lands of Anglia (for such was the hubbub subsequent to Miss Bates's habit of repetition, that everyone spoke at once; and Mrs. Elton, for the first time in her life, was quite drowned out).

Some time elapsed, therefore, before Emma could reasonably suggest the adjournment of the ladies to the drawing-room, and thus declare the meal at an end. However great her desire to do so, it would seem too much of an escape from table – and as Miss Bates was as apparently unaware of her speech as any child might
have been, to perpetrate a final cruelty on the very daughter and mother for whom the party had been intended, seemed unnecessary indeed. This decision did not, on the other hand, prevent Miss Bates from continuing with her garrulity: the unaccustomed number of people at table, in addition to the very evident difficulties experienced by old Mrs. Bates on encountering a meringue, had kept her unusually quiet until now.

“Yes, Jane has written to me from Norfolk,” Miss Bates continued in a blithe tone – as she did so, many at the table shrank back from a reprise, and Emma rose to her feet, and signalled that the ladies should take their leave. Port would be brought in by the footman; Mr. Knightley and his brother, and Mr. Elton would be the only company left in the dining-room. “She was there with the Colonel and Mrs. Campbell,” said Miss Bates, who now found herself assisted to her feet by Mrs. Smallridge. “The Colonel, as Jane wrote to me, had taken a pleasant house, as near the sands as you can imagine. The children were so happy—”

“My children do not expect anything less,” said Mrs. Smallridge in a tone which demonstrated her awareness of a lack of gratitude on Miss Bates's part, for helping her to her feet. She then went with an officious expression to aid Mrs. Bates – but the old lady, deep in reminiscences of the past with Mr. Knightley, refused to move. “There was. Yes. Oh, Emma – Mrs. Knightley,
my dear – I do hope you will ask Jane to play the pianoforte here this evening. She performed for the Colonel, you know – and there was quite a party. Yes. It was sublime. But I say, you have not forgot, Mr. Knightley, I do hope?”

Emma repeated with some emphasis that the ladies must accompany her to the drawing-room. She saw that Mrs. Elton had taken the decision to show offence, at the turn the evening had taken: it would be disagreeable indeed, if the Vicar's wife were to circulate in Highbury unpleasant gossip on the subject of Miss Bates's latest difficulties of articulation.

“It is not safe to keep a pianoforte by the sea,” Mrs. Elton however contented herself with. “The keys become damp. It was on the occasion of the Bragges' and the Sucklings' giving a musical evening at Lyme, I may say, that Mrs. Suckling's diamond ring was found to be missing. She was attempting to repair the piano herself, you know – and we all concluded the ring must have fallen down inside! These are the perils of presenting a musical evening at the seaside, Mr. Knightley. You are well advised to stay at home!”

“And only. Yes. Such a host of friends! Oh, there is not anything but the finest dry air in Norfolk, Mrs. Elton—”

“Dear Miss Bates, do accompany us to the drawing-room,” said Emma hastily. “I shall ask you to write out
your requirements for Donwell apples, this year. Mr. Knightley tells me he sends either too few or too many—”

“Apples and pears! Why, Emma, I dreamt I saw them. On the stairs.” Miss Bates here pointed dramatically at John Knightley, and then burst out laughing. “Mr. John Knightley heard my Jane, indeed he did! Is she not a wonderful performer, Mr. Knightley? Indeed!”

John Knightley looked away, and Emma saw that he and Jane Fairfax exchanged glances; but, as disgust was uppermost in her brother-in-law's expression, she had time only to conclude that Miss Fairfax's extreme reserve, coupled with John Knightley's evident dislike of the young woman, had not made it probable that either would make mention of a previous meeting, at Cromer.

Now I know they have already met, the mutual loathing is easier to explain, thought Emma, as she recalled the ill-assorted pair at her first sighting of them on the drive at the Abbey. It is very like Jane Fairfax that she will not confide even this, to one who has her best interests at heart. And not for the first time, Emma wondered at the governess's lack of gratitude towards her. She need never have gone to the trouble of marrying Mr. Knightley's brother and Miss Bates's niece. They hated each other very cordially already.

The drawing-room was finally entered; and here Emma was confronted with a recurrence of the agitation
which had possessed her, earlier— for the Baroness, smiling, came to sit at her side – and all the jumping up and settling of old Mrs. Bates; all the offering of lemonade or tea; and all the music-sheet turning in the world, could not prevent a blush from spreading on Emma's cheek and reaching down to her bosom, where she felt a constriction that was almost too painful to bear. There was only one thing to be thankful for; and that was the absence of Mr. Knightley from the room. The gentlemen lingered over their port. Was this not the opportunity for which Emma had yearned? She could ask the Baroness as many questions as she liked.

But Emma found, to her alarm, that she was as dumb as Miss Bates was full of speech, on this important occasion. The Baroness, of whom no enquiries could be made, due to this unprecedented shyness on the hostess's part, sat wordless herself at Emma's side. Finally, as the door opened and Mr. Elton, his confidence and powers of expression restored by Mr. Knightley's port, strode into the room, the beautiful young Frenchwoman turned to Emma – who was, in turn, aware of dark eyes fastened on her with an impish humour, and black brows very strong above them, which lent a note of gravity to a teasing air. Mr. Knightley, following hard on Mr. Elton, entered the drawing-room at this point and looked at the two women on the sofa: they were far from the pianoforte, where Jane Fairfax played, and
well removed from Miss Bates, who now sat by her niece in a reverential hush.

“You will come to Lyme?”

These were the Baroness's only words: Emma knew she must treasure them, and investigate and explore their underlying meaning later, when she was alone in bed. Mr. Knightley, who had come up to them with his habitual alacrity, came to stand before his wife and her companion, as if about to deliver a sentence on both ladies; while his brother, with all the force of the legal profession on his side, stood nodding just behind him.

“I would prefer that you do not accompany Mrs. Elton and her party on this expedition, Emma,” said he; and John Knightley, placing his hands behind his back, strolled around the sofa where his sister-in-law and the Baroness were placed, as if they were two felons in the dock. “There is much to be done at the Abbey, to keep you here at this time of year,” continued Mr. Knightley – who did not, as Emma saw, dare to look her in the eye. “I have informed Mr. Elton just now that you will not be amongst those setting off for the coast in the near future. But my brother and I have agreed to postpone the boating party on the lake to a date agreeable to Mr. and Mrs. Elton – and to allow her the pleasure of picking the guests for John, as he has no wife to do it for him.”

“It is well summed up,” said John Knightley with
satisfaction, as Emma looked in astonishment, and increasing anger, from one brother to the next. “Though I allow there is a strong probability of stormy weather, by late September. Indeed, I am sure of the equinoctial gales, as evidence has accreted over the centuries—”

Emma rose. She did not cast a look behind her, as she crossed the room, and went to stand by the pianoforte. Despite her own confusion and rage, she was able to note that Jane Fairfax was very pale, and her throat was congested.

The performance was announced to have come to an end. John Knightley, in a whisper that was only too audible, declared himself delighted to hear it. Emma, as she bade her guests farewell, thought him second only to Mr. Knightley in being the most odious man she had ever had the misfortune to know.

Emma went to her room. She sat a long time at her dressing-table; the maid did not come; and it was after unclasping the pearls from her throat and letting down her hair, that a knock was heard at the door. Her misery prompted her to call out that it was too late: she was in need of nothing; but that same unhappiness kept her silent. Emma was mortified: she had been exposed as chattel and child together, by Mr. Knightley, before a woman of high birth – to which Emma was ever susceptible – and of a degree of sophistication unknown to Highbury society. Emma and her husband were provincial gentry, laughable figures in a landscape peopled by other fools and dimwits. She would rather be discovered insensible, than
have to confront the Baroness d'Almane again.

Yet, after tapping once more, it was the Baroness who stood in the doorway; and who advanced. Her dark eyes were wide in apprehension; her gown, of a deep red silk, seemed to burn with the force of fire, as she came to Emma, helpless before her as the prey of a predatory bird must find itself, on a dark and moonless night.

There was no question now, of asking of the Frenchwoman's past life. The present – captured in a long, unalterable minute by the turning of the key in the lock, by her nocturnal visitor – sufficed for Emma. The cool hands, of which she had thought – and then dismissed the thought, or fretted on behalf of “poor Jane” at the touch – descended to her shoulders. In the mirror, the black brows, as masculine as the soft cheeks and graceful neck were a woman's, looked back, poised above Emma's own.