Emma in Love (8 page)

Had Emma looked back truthfully over the preceding exchange, she might have reproached herself for being cold and distant to the poor governess. Was it not the
case that Emma pitied governesses?— that she did all she could … though to no avail, and here she felt a lack of gratitude on the part of Miss Fairfax that she had not at least shown her thanks to her benefactress for imagining a match between herself and John Knightley, even if she knew nothing of it, and there had been a mutual dislike that was quite remarkable. But she did not think of Miss Fairfax.—

For Emma it was not difficult to steer her thoughts elsewhere. She must remember Miss Whynne; and the rebuke she had administered outside the drawing-room windows at Hartfield had gone quite beyond what was necessary, she knew. “Oh, Mrs. Knightley, I quite understand! Of course there was no arrangement that there should be music lessons here! Yes, I shall accompany the Smallridge children immediately to the Vicarage. I know their mother will be most profuse in her apologies, Mrs. Knightley!”

Throughout all this, Captain Brocklehurst stood very still and looking as fine as a statue, by the tallest shrubs; and Emma fancied he concealed a smile: this enraged and embarrassed her even further to remember, though it was true that Miss Whynne, before relapsing into servility, had shown an almost revolutionary spirit. Emma thought he frowned at the loudness of her voice and gaiety of expression. The Baroness might bring equality and liberty where she pleased, concluded
Emma, as she slowed her pace, the familiar stone walls of Donwell coming into view; but she should not infect the servants here. Miss Whynne was not a servant. Thus replied Emma's sense of fairness, and she paused, dropping almost to a saunter, as she examined her treatment of poor Miss Whynne. Then she picked up again; and walked to the gardens, where late roses appeared to greet her with an accordance of her views, each white bloom bending on a fragile stem: Miss Whynne was in the employ of Emma's brother-in-law; and doubly so, of Mr. Knightley's brother; and it would be unacceptable in the extreme if the governess were to inculcate her charges with Revolutionary songs. And neglect the mathematics!— It was with some embarrassment that Emma at this juncture realised she had brought back with her the book she had intended to leave at Hartfield,
Practical Education
.

A man approached the doors of Donwell, and he stood awhile, as if expecting to be met there, twisting his cap in his hands as he waited.

Emma recognised young Abdy, an ostler at the Crown Inn; she recalled hearing his father, who had long suffered from rheumatic gout, was on his deathbed, and, as so often before, she admonished herself for failing to visit the old man regularly.— Now it was too late. Something told her young Abdy brought bad news. He had received relief from the parish council, had he not?
But Emma knew, with a sinking of the heart, that Mr. Knightley had refused to aid the family directly, and had referred Abdy to the parish, even as his father lay dying. She knew also that there were those who considered Mr. Knightley to lack generosity in the matter.— Mrs. Weston, loved by Emma, was amongst them; and she, who in turn loved Emma, would not give away her ideas on the subject for the world.

However, there was no mistaking them.

All this had at least the effect of banishing Captain Brocklehurst's face, with its bright blue eyes and silky dark moustache, from Emma's thoughts. She paused, as if the very object of being out of doors on this day in late summer had been to pick roses for the house; and she snipped a bloom betwixt finger and thumb; not without pricking herself on a thorn. She stood a moment without any feeling of dismay, as the blood trickled from her finger. The wide doors swung open, and Mr. Knightley stepped out. Still twisting his cap, young Abdy went up close to him. Both set off down the lime walk.

Emma did not at first suffer any emotion other than slight surprise. Surely Mr. Knightley had seen her there? Was it not a demonstration of a lack of cordiality quite outstanding even in one as taciturn and reserved as Mr. Knightley, not to greet his own wife on her appearance at home after an expedition such as she had undergone?
But then, how could Mr. Knightley know what Emma had undergone? And how could she describe it, in any case? She blushed, when she thought of all the unbidden feelings which had come to visit her, in the brief hour since she was last at the Abbey: she had had no chance
other
than thinking of them, but nevertheless, there they were: she had listened to Captain Brocklehurst; she had upbraided poor Miss Whynne in no uncertain manner; she had denied access to her school to the very children she had secretly planned to include there, if her pedagogic plans prospered.

Yet Mr. Knightley had no idea at what hour she had left the Abbey and walked to Hartfield; she had to admit it would be childish indeed to upbraid him for not knowing her gone. She might have been gone ten minutes, or five; she could have turned back, suspecting rain.

It was with a sense of determination which lifted the spirits that Emma resumed her progress towards the house. She did not like the fact that her husband was so reserved – even disgustingly so; for she could, after all, have been gone hours for all he knew; but she had decided that she would not be deterred by this repulsive quality in anyone, whether married to them or no.

Jane Fairfax who was of this same reserved temperament – it was a great deal harder to make a match for
her than Emma had hoped – must meet and fall in love with Captain Brocklehurst. It was this which sustained Emma through the remainder of a trying day.

Dear Emma, I do believe the little matter of our entertaining several people here tomorrow evening is no longer of any concern to you. Can you recall, even, who they are? I confess I need to scrutinise the list again, myself: we decided against Mr. and Mrs. Cole, did we not, on the grounds that they would very likely ask us back, and we could not tolerate an evening in their company, is that not so?”

Mr. Knightley spoke; and, as he did so, as Emma well knew, he teased her. They were in the library; Mr. Knightley sat at his desk, with paper and blotter laid out, as if to adjudicate on the sins of entertaining. Emma stood by the window, aware, in a reflection cast on the
glass, of her slim figure in a white dress, and of a face which could appeal to some, if not to Mr. Knightley. She disliked his teasing extravagantly.

“My belief is that you are prejudiced against asking anyone to the Abbey,” said Emma. “You were used to dine out as a bachelor; or to come to Hartfield, for a meal; and it does not strike you as necessary to invite people to the Abbey, and go to the trouble that involves.”

“Prejudiced? I am not prejudiced. I dream night and day of the pleasures of tomorrow evening. And brother John likewise. He has told me so himself.”

Emma flushed. She could not bring herself to think of a seating plan at her table which would divide John Knightley sufficiently from Jane Fairfax. Safety in numbers were needed: she knew Mr. Knightley well enough to suspect he would say as much when next he spoke.

“We are too few,” said Mr. Knightley, confirming this suspicion. “Should we not invite Mr. and Mrs. Elton, late though it may be in the day? They are owed an invitation – but you are the mistress of Donwell Abbey, dearest Emma. It is not for me to judge.”

Emma had thought exactly the same, but she did not care to own it. The dreadful lack of Mrs. Weston and her party threw them up against the Eltons. There was no escaping it.

The noise Mrs. Elton makes will disguise the silence between the very people whom I had wished to meet and commune in a delight of mutual discovery, thought Emma.

“Yes, I will invite Mr. and Mrs. Elton,” she replied, though in a tone that was far from gracious. “But we shall be obliged to ask Mrs. Smallridge also – and when we do, that will leave Jane Fairfax's French friend alone at the Vicarage. We would be considered inhospitable in the extreme.”

Emma could not confess her lack of desire to see the young woman who had had the audacity to drop in on Hartfield this morning and teach songs and airs to her nephews and nieces. She thought of telling Mr. Knightley about this, but remained silent. All her thoughts were now on a future occasion, when Captain Brocklehurst and Jane Fairfax might see each other and fall in love. She had already determined on fixing a day for the boating party, to be held on the mysterious lake recently included in the Donwell demesne. An outdoor occasion would do best, for the encounter – then Frank Churchill, if he were one of the party, could wander off and thus avoid an embarrassing reunion.

“Emma, you are dreaming again,” Mr. Knightley said. “I have just remarked that I have no objection whatsoever to entertaining the Baroness d'Almane. A charming young lady! And our nephews and nieces
would benefit greatly from speaking French with her, I am sure!”

Emma, who did not like Mr. Knightley's appreciation of the Baroness any more than she had savoured the handsome Captain's description of that person's wild and adventurous past, remained by the window, without a word to give in reply.

“So that is arranged, then,” said Mr. Knightley, closing his blotter. “There is another matter of which I should apprise you, Emma.”

At this swift assumption of domestic convenience, Emma sprang forward, her reticence forgotten. “It is not so easy to arrange as you imagine, dear Mr. Knightley! Mr. and Mrs. Elton; Mrs. Smallridge; the Baroness: five heads more, when we have already Jane Fairfax, Miss Bates and her mother; and—”

Here, to her annoyance, Emma suffered a lapse in memory. There was another guest, whom she did not mention; but no name came to her lips.

“You forget John Knightley.”

Emma frowned. But a point had been gained: she was to be teased again, and there was no getting away from it.

“He was the reason, was he not, for your desire to entertain in the first place?” said Mr. Knightley, smiling. “You expressed anxiety, beloved Emma, at the solitary nature of my brother's existence. You thought he should
meet a young lady – nay, I will name her – Miss Fairfax. You were of the opinion that John would be a happier man if he were to sit at table with Jane Fairfax. You think of her often, Emma. I am only surprised that you have not yet found the time to call on her. She and her friend walked here, after all, several days ago!”

“We shall need to take your mother's table into the dining-room,” said Emma, for she had resolved not to hear Mr. Knightley's jibes on the subject of Miss Fairfax. “And Mrs. Hodges must prepare twice the number of patties. I would not like to see Mrs. Bates go short because of a sudden influx of new guests at the Abbey.”

“Indeed not,” said Mr. Knightley gravely. But the mention of moving his mother's table clearly had irked him: it was now his turn to rise, and walk around the room, nearly colliding with his wife as he did so.

“I said just now there is another matter …” he began.

“If it concerns old Abdy,” said Emma.— She spoke crossly, and quickly regretted it. For death and social bickering were not a suitable conjunction. “If young Abdy came to tell you his father died, I am sorry,” she added in a softer voice.

“Dear Emma, you are always so thoughtful,” came the rejoinder. “But old Abdy has made a recovery, I am happy to say. No, it is a matter which I find difficult to decide upon—”

At this moment the door to the library opened and
John Knightley walked in. He smoked a pipe; he had come in from the garden; and, as was his wont, he was unaware of the smoke and strong odour of smouldering tobacco which preceded and remained with him, wherever he went. Emma walked over to open the window. The day was still and airless: she found her brother-in-law's habit intolerable at the best of times.

“What is it you say?” demanded John of Mr. Knightley. “There is some matter on which my considered opinion would be useful. Is there not?”

Emma sighed. She wondered at John Knightley's ability to come in at the most inconvenient moment, despite his apparently constant ill humour and consequent determination to be left to his own resources.

“Young Abdy was here,” said Mr. Knightley. “He wishes for permission to build up the barn in the garden of their cottage. His sister comes from Bristol, victim of a disastrous marriage; with three children; they have nowhere to go.”

“So they say,” put in John Knightley, drawing on his pipe. “No proof is furnished of the homelessness of the former Abdy girl, I take it?”

“None,” replied Mr. Knightley, looking slightly surprised.

“I'm sure young Abdy would hardly wish to fabricate the story,” cried Emma. “You must give permission—” and she turned to Mr. Knightley; but she knew her voice
to be shrill. The cloud of unpleasantly scented smoke about John Knightley's head accounted for it; she determined to have nothing more to do with the subject, and crossed the room, to the door.

“Emma – you put in a plea and then you leave!” exclaimed John Knightley. “We need you to give your reasons for advocating so reckless a decision on the part of the Donwell Estate. Have you an idea of the precedence which will be set, if brother George gives permission for the renovation of Abdy's barn? The entire village will be up in arms. Half of the populace will decide to add new houses to the most decrepit sheds in their gardens; the other half will object furiously to the privilege accorded to young Abdy. No, if the girl has led a life that is not blameless, then she must suffer the results of her iniquity!”

“More prejudice!” cried Emma. She knew her face had flushed to the roots of her hair. “You cannot call yourself impartial, sir. You do not know the details of the Abdy daughter's life. She is very likely married to a drunkard and a brute—”

“This she should have discovered, before tying the knot,” came John Knightley's reply. “It is not for the Abbey to pay for such mistakes.”