Chapter 12

Knightley was glad there was nothing to take him to Hartfield in the days leading up to Saturday. Almost against his will, his anger at Emma was beginning to ebb away. She had been wrong—very, very wrong—and she would not admit it; he hoped that his steady disapproval might in a sober moment make her reconsider her actions. But he was tired of being at odds with her. He kept thinking of things he wanted to tell her or ask her, only to remember that he was supposed to be preserving a dignified reserve toward her. He was afraid that the more he was in her company, the more impossible it would be to maintain an adequate show of displeasure.

For this reason, he did not come to Hartfield until Saturday evening, to ensure that his brother’s family arrived first. In a room full of people—Mr. Woodhouse, Emma, John, Isabella, the five children and, with any luck, two nursery maids—he hoped there would be no reason to talk much to Emma. He could be grave and civil from a distance.

He was unlucky. When he arrived at Hartfield, he found the drawing room much emptier than he wished it. Mr. Woodhouse was sitting by the fire with Isabella, and Emma was standing near them, holding the baby. Of John and the children there was no sign.

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Woodhouse, rising with Isabella to greet him, “how are you on this dreadfully cold night? I hope you have not caught a chill.”

“I am very well indeed.  And Isabella, it is good to see you again in Surrey.”

Isabella’s smile was full of warmth and satisfaction. “Thank you, George. We are very pleased to be here again. John is upstairs, but I expect he will join us very shortly. And the children, too.”

“They tolerated the journey well, I hope?”

“Oh yes. They enjoyed the ride in the carriage immensely, and have been resting since we arrived.”

“My dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse, seating himself again, “you ought to have rested, too. It is a frightfully long journey.”

“I could not rest, Papa, when I was longing so to talk to you and Emma,” said Isabella, taking her seat as well.

“Well, that may be so, but I fear you will suffer for it. But you said something about Mr. Wingfield a moment ago. Do tell me what it was he was saying to you.”

Knightley’s eyes drifted over to Emma. He thought she had never looked so lovely. “If to her share some female errors fall, look on her face and you’ll forget ‘em all,” he quoted to himself, the aptness of the couplet making him want to chuckle. But no, he must remain steady to his resolution of formality with Emma. He had not greeted her at all yet, and he must do so. And, of course, he did want to see the baby. Mr. Woodhouse and Isabella were deep in conversation and did not mark him as he came over to Emma.

“Good evening,” he said. He hoped there was not too much warmth in his tone.

“Good evening, Mr. Knightley.” She said it without either archness or apprehension; there was only sincerity in her manner.

“Do you think her looking well?” he said, shifting his gaze from Emma’s hazel eyes to those of the baby.

“Oh yes. Does it seem to you that she is eight months old? I remember her birth as being only a few weeks ago. But then, you have seen her more recently than I have. Has she grown much?”

“Yes, very much.”

“I was surprised to see how the other children have changed and grown since I saw them last, though I know that children do grow rapidly and the only astonishing thing is that I was surprised . They are acutely anxious to see you, Mr. Knightley. Bella has whispered to me that she has a very particular gift for you. You must remember to be all enthusiasm for whatever it is, or you will crush her tender feelings.”

“Of course.” He was tempted to add a teasing remark about knowing the consideration due a niece, having been an uncle nearly as long she had had been an aunt, but he remembered in time and restrained himself.

            The baby had been looking at him with wide eyes all this time, but now she turned back to her aunt and gently patted her face. Emma smiled and kissed her, which prompted a laugh from the baby and another little caress for her aunt.

“She’s an affectionate little thing, rather like Bella, isn’t she?” said Knightley without thinking, “Little George was always more interested in observing things than playing with his relatives.”

“Yes, I remember. You thought it was unpardonable in a namesake not to show more interest in you.”

He smiled at the memory and said, “It was disgraceful. He sat on my lap for a whole half hour with his attention fixed on my watch fob.”

Baby Emma turned to him and smiled, and without even making a conscious decision to do so, he took the baby into his arms.

“You remember Uncle Knightley, don’t you?” said Emma to the baby. “I am certain you do.”

And then Knightley  remembered that he wasn’t supposed to be smiling and talking in this friendly way with Emma. For half a moment he contemplated reverting back to his former demeanour and perhaps making some excuse and walking away with the baby. No, it was impossible. He could hardly go back now without open rudeness, and anyway, the longing to be friends again was irresistible. He gave up the struggle.

“You are a clever child, aren’t you?” he said to the infant. “Of course you remember me. I was the one who kept telling you how beautiful you are.”

“I thought you despised flattery, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma with a raised left eyebrow.

“So I do. It was not flattery to tell the baby she is beautiful—I meant every word.”

“What a comfort it is,” said Emma, “that we think alike about our nephews and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree.”

“If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with them as you are where these children are concerned, we might always think alike.”

“To be sure—our discordancies must always arise from my being in the wrong.” She said it a little petulantly, but her eyes held a smile.

“Yes, and reason good. I was sixteen years old when you were born.”

“A material difference then,” she replied, “and no doubt you were much my superior in judgment at that period of our lives. But does not the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal nearer?”

“Yes—a good deal nearer.”

“But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we think differently.” There was just a hint of a challenge in her tone.

“I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years' experience, and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child,” he began, and then stopped. He was not ready for another verbal battle with her. “Come, my dear Emma,” he said, “let us be friends and say no more about it. Tell your aunt, little Emma, that she ought to set you a better example than to be renewing old grievances, and that if she were not wrong before, she is now.”

“That's true,” said Emma heartily, "very true. Little Emma, grow up a better woman than your aunt. Be infinitely cleverer and not half so conceited.”

Her words lifted his spirits. Was it possible that she had she taken some of his rebuke to heart?

“Now, Mr. Knightley,” continued Emma, “a word or two more, and I have done. As far as good intentions went, we were both right, and I must say that no effects on my side of the argument have yet proved wrong. I only want to know that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed.”

The image of Robert Martin’s dejected face came immediately before his eyes.

“A man cannot be more so,” was all he could say.

“Ah! Indeed I am very sorry. Come, shake hands with me.”

She looked as if she meant it, and he could not refuse her. It was a relief, after the strain of the last two weeks, to be done with the discord between the two of them, not to mention the discord between his resolution and his inclination.

He was almost disappointed when John chose that moment to come into the room; now that harmony was restored he might have had a satisfying talk with Emma.

“The children’s supper has already been sent to the nursery,” said John after greeting his brother. “It took all the force of my authority to make them stay there and eat instead of rushing down to the drawing room to see you. But they will be down the moment we finish our dinner and send for them, you can be sure. And here is the nurse come for baby Emma.”

Knightley reluctantly gave the baby to her nurse, and, dinner being announced, took Emma in to the dining room.

*    *    *    *   *

“And how is the new vicar, Mr. Elton, getting on?” asked Isabella over the dessert.

“He is not so new, Isabella,” said Emma, with a smile. “He has been here well over a year.”

“Yes, I suppose that must be so,” said Isabella. “I have only seen him once, last Christmas. He seemed a very good sort of man.”

Knightley kept his face perfectly serious.

“He is attentive,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “Most attentive. He calls nearly every day, whatever the weather. He is always welcome, of course, and he greatly enjoys the society at Hartfield.”

John’s eyebrows raised in surprise at this statement, and he looked at Knightley. Knightley shook his head slightly at his brother. Explanations would have to wait.

“He met with a sad accident today,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “He cut himself—actually cut himself—with Emma’s new penknife. I advised him to go home and rest, but he would not do it.”

“But Papa, he was able to use the court plaister to bind it up and it did not pain him at all, he said.”

“Ah, yes, I remember now. You will see him Sunday, my dear Isabella.”

The gentlemen lingered only a very little while behind the ladies, but the children were in the drawing room, waiting for them, when they entered.

“Uncle Knightley!” said the three older children in unison, rushing upon him like so many bedlamites. Little George, who had just reached the age of two, followed his siblings at a slower pace. Knightley glanced at Emma; her face beamed as she watched the scene.

“Mama,” said Henry, after the tumult of the initial greetings was over, “May we show Uncle Knightley how well we can drive our hoops?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Now?”

“No, not  now. It is not a game you may play indoors and it is dark outside.”

“Yes, Mama,” said the boy sadly.

“You will come and visit the Abbey tomorrow,” said Knightley to Henry. “You may show me then how well you can roll your hoop down the length of the lime walk.”

The little boy’s face brightened and he nodded vigorously.

Young Bella now claimed his attention. “Uncle Knightley, I have brought you a gift for Christmas.”

“Have you? I can hardly wait to see what it is.”

 “It is Madam Duvall.”

“Madam Duvall?” He could not immediately work out what she meant.

“Yes, Madam Duvall, my cat.”

“Your cat!” He looked at her blankly for a moment. “But, Bella, that is your cat. I know you love her very much. Why do you want to give her to me?” The very last thing he wanted was a French cat!

“She makes little George ill. If she comes near him he sneezes and becomes all over red with bumps and Nurse says there’s no keeping her away from him. And Papa said that Madame Duvall had better come to you.”

He shot a glare at John, who grinned and walked to the other side of the room.

“But should you not like to give her to Aunt Emma instead? I am sure Aunt Emma would like another lady about the house.”

“But you have no lady at all in your house.” Bella’s eyes were very serious, and she spoke softly. “Papa says every house should have a lady in it.”

“Does he, indeed?” said Knightley. He looked over at his brother, whose back was turned to him but whose shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.

 “Madam Duvall wishes to come to you, too,” said Bella solemnly. “I asked her if she would rather go to Aunt Emma or to Uncle Knightley, and she said she wanted to go to the Abbey.” Her trusting little face looked up at Knightley; she was perfectly confident that he saw the necessity as well as she did.

Knightley hesitated, but he knew very well there there was nothing to do but acknowledge defeat. He summoned a smile.

“Thank you, Bella. I am honoured that your cat has chosen to live with me.”

“You will be kind to her, Uncle? And write in every letter to Papa how she is doing?”

“Yes, I will. I promise.”

Satisfied, Bella wrapped her arms around him then and ran off to play with her brothers, who were busy about the box of letters that Aunt Emma had purchased for them.

Little George remained, having stared at his uncle through the greater part of the conversation, and he now raised his arms and said, “Up, peese.”

Knightley lifted up the little boy and went to talk to John.

“Shall I call you Captain Mirvan?” said John with a smirk.

“You cannot. You heard me promise to be kind to the creature. Though I may occasionally call her ‘Madam Frog’ as the worthy captain did when the lady annoyed him. I do wonder at you, John. Do you lie awake at night thinking of ways to provoke me?”

“Yes,” said John. “It takes a great deal of contemplation.”

Knightley chuckled. Little George squirmed and Knightley put him down and watched him run to his mother.

“You know I am right.”

“Right?”

“Yes. Every house needs a lady in it.”

“John—”

“I know, I know. Never mind. Let us be seated. What is this about Mefford giving up his lease?”

“Perfectly true.” He told John how William Larkins had effected this miracle.

“So! Mefford will be gone this day week, and new tenants will come. Have you any ready to take over the place?”

“Larkins has had an application from a man who he says seems to be a good prospect. He is making enquiries now.”

“Larkins is a treasure. To have a bailiff whose judgement one can trust so completely in these matters is a blessing. Graham hopes his new bailiff will be as reliable as I tell him Larkins is. He is indebted to you, by the way, for mentioning Lord Carrick’s man. He has hired him—his name is MacIntyre, I think—sight unseen for that estate he inherited. He wanted to meet him before hiring him, but of course, Scotland is a bit far for such an errand and Graham is very busy.”

In the slight pause that followed this statement, both brothers heard Mr. Woodhouse mention “Mr. John Knightley.”

“What is the matter, sir? Did you speak to me?” said John, turning to Mr. Woodhouse.

“I am sorry to find, my love, that my father does not think you looking well,” said Isabella. “But I hope it is only from being a little fatigued. I could have wished, however, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home.”

“My dear Isabella,” said John quickly and with a shade of annoyance, “pray do not concern yourself about my looks. Be satisfied with doctoring and coddling yourself and the children, and let me look as I choose.”

Knightley stifled a sigh. John would let little things perturb him, especially if he was already slightly irritated. John would never have owned it, but he was as fond of his own fireside as Mr. Woodhouse was of his, and travelling never improved his temper. Emma knew this as well as he, and she came to the rescue this time.

“I do not thoroughly understand what you were telling your brother, she interjected, “about your friend Mr. Graham's intending to have a bailiff from Scotland, to look after his new estate. But will it answer? Will not the old prejudice be too strong?”

“No, I think he will be all right,” said John. “He is a lowland Scot, and has spent some time in England. Apart from his name, there is not much that is Scottish about him at all.”

Knightley smiled at Emma to thank her, and her eyes sparkled back at him. It was very, very good to be at peace with her again.

The rest of the evening passed off well enough, save for the incident brought about by Mr. Woodhouse, who injudiciously represented Mr. Perry as being highly critical of the Knightleys’ sojourn in South End. Thus attacked (so it seemed) by Mr. Perry,  John burst out in a spirited censure of the medical gentleman. The eruption did not last long, however. As soon as he had finished speaking, Knightley turned the conversation back to the Langham path which they had been discussing a moment before, and Emma was able to soothe her father back to equanimity.

Knightley took his leave as the children were shepherded off to bed. There would have been tears from Bella as she said goodbye to her cat had not Knightley reminded her that she could come to the Abbey the next day and see her. The cat was put into a cunning little basket that had a lid that could be fastened, and Knightley held it as carefully as Bella desired him to as he said his farewells.

Madam Duvall meowed piteously throughout the walk to Donwell. After five minutes, Knightley was thoroughly exasperated with the animal and would have willingly opened the basket and let her run free if it had not been for his promise to Bella. What on earth was he to do with a cat? And such a cat. Long, pure white fur that needed to be combed daily, Bella said. One could hardly imagine she would be any good at catching mice—she would probably sit on a cushion all day, growing fat. And who would be given the task of combing her daily? Mrs. Hodges? The thought of what Mrs. Hodges’ expression would be if she were required to comb a cat made him laugh aloud. Well then, Baxter? Or the new footman, Harry? Perhaps one of the housemaids would like the chore.

Baxter greeted his master as usual and helped him to remove his greatcoat. He nodded at the basket.

“A gift, sir?”

“Yes.”

At that moment, Madam Duvall meowed again. Baxter’s busy hands paused at the sound and he stared at the basket.

Knightley cleared his throat. “My niece, Bella, has given me her cat.”

Baxter recovered himself. “Very good, Mr. Knightley.”

“It was an unexpected gift, and not entirely welcome, but it seems duty requires me to keep the cat. It has been a long walk home, Baxter, and I find that I require a glass of your excellent punch. I will be in the library—with the cat.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Knightley, but have you made any arrangements for the cat’s…er…calls of nature?”

“Ah, yes. My brother tells me that a shallow box filled with fresh earth will be satisfactory.”

“In the library, sir?”

“Well, no. In the scullery, perhaps.”

“Very good, sir.”

Knightley carried the basket into the library and set it on the floor in front of his favourite chair. He sat down and then reached down and unfastened the lid of the basket, opened it, and picked up the cat.

“Meeeow,” said Madam Duvall.

“Hmph,” said Knightley, resting the creature on his lap. “I daresay you would rather be with Bella, and I wish with all my heart that you were. However, here we are together and we must make the best of it, I suppose.”

To his great surprise, the cat curled up on his lap and began to purr. Absently, Knightley stroked the soft fur as he mused on the evening. He had gone to Hartfield with only one goal, that of remaining aloof from Emma. In that he had been completely unsuccessful. And yet it was one of the best evenings he’d had all winter. It was always good to see John, and Isabella and the children, of course, too. He was glad to have John in Surrey to talk to about plans for the home farm, and about moving that path…and about Emma and Elton. John might know what to do. And though he hadn’t been able to talk much to Emma after amity had been restored, it had been almost enough to be able to smile at her again and know that there would be plenty of time for talking later.

The library door opened and Baxter entered with the punch. Madam Duvall jumped off Knightley’s lap and disappeared under his chair. Knightley took the drink and sipped it, rather wishing that the cat had stayed on his lap—it had kept his legs warm. He looked down at his breeches and then sighed; they were covered with long, white cat hairs.