knightley13

It was the third day of John and Isabella’s stay in Surrey, and therefore the third time that Henry and John had rolled their hoops down the lime walk at Donwell Abbey. Uncle Knightley had been present each time, but the thrill of having him as an audience had not yet faded.

“Yes, I see you, Henry. Well done!” said Knightley. He and John were pacing sedately down the walk as the little boys raced ahead of them.

“Much as usual. Mr. Woodhouse wanted us to give up the walk to Donwell, as it appeared to him to be very likely to rain. Emma talked away his fears, of course. Oh, and Elton appeared again this morning.” John gave his brother a sidelong glance. “Very good of him to give up so much of his time to visiting Mr. Woodhouse.”

“George, what is all this? Elton behaves as if he is about to offer for Emma, and Emma responds as if he could not do so fast enough. I cannot understand it—she has too much sense to be in love with him, and I can think of no other reason for her to conduct herself in such a manner.”

“Emma,” said Knightley, “thinks that Elton is in love with her friend Harriet—Miss Smith.”

“What? The Miss Smith I met at Hartfield yesterday, who thought prima facie was a city in Italy?”

“Humph! I do not know Elton well, but anyone with half an eye could see that he would set his sights a good deal higher.”

“I did. That is, I told her that Elton was not likely to marry a girl like Harriet Smith.”

“Well, perhaps if you told her that Elton obviously sees her as the future mistress of the parsonage—preposterous as that would be—she would give more weight to your opinion.”

Knightley’s conscience pricked him; he had thought the same. Still, he had no inclination for discussing suitors with Emma.

“It is rather a brother’s place to do so. Although,” John continued thoughtfully, “perhaps you are more like an uncle to her.”

“Well, sixteen then, but still nearly a generation older. I can imagine she might see you in that light, and therefore consider your assistance in such a matter as elderly interference.”

“Nonsense!” said Knightley warmly. “She may not always listen to me, but my age has nothing to do with it. You know there is very little that she allows to influence her opinions, and there is no one whose judgement she relies upon so much as her own.”

“True enough. –Henry! John! The hoops must stay on the path! I must say, it’s a pity Elton is not more eligible. It would be good for Emma to be married—to the right man, of course. Can you not think of anyone who might be suitable?”

“Ah,” said John. “I’ve put you into a bad humour. No doubt your approaching the years of senility has made you sensitive to remarks about your age.”

“And I suppose you lay awake all last night thinking up a new subject to provoke me with?”

“No need. Bella made me promise to ask how Madam Duvall is faring at the Abbey. I knew that would be aggravation enough.”

Knightley groaned. “That cat has thrown my well-ordered house into complete confusion. I told you about the first night, did I not?”

“You did. As I recall, you gave her freedom of the house as you had always done with Homer, and she ignored the box of earth in the scullery and left a surprise for Mrs. Hodges in the dining room.”

“Yes. She also scratched and screeched at my bedroom door for an hour until I got out of bed and let her in. Then she leapt onto the bed and insisted on lying next to me. I woke with her wrapped around my head.”

John looked at his brother for a long moment before giving a shout of laughter. “You’re doing it yourself?”

Knightley scowled. “I had no choice. It isn’t just the door and the furniture that cat scratches—it’s all the servants, too. I didn’t dare ask Mrs. Hodges to do it after the incident in the dining room, but Baxter tried and the housemaid tried and even the new footman made an attempt. It was no good; she scratched every last one of them.”

Knightley gave a despairing little shrug. “I don’t know why. She follows me around. If I sit down, she tries to jump into my lap. She is giving Baxter fits as he tries to keep my clothes free of cat hairs. And contrary to my expectations, she has managed to catch a mouse.”

John chortled again, but the laughter died away when his brother did not join in. The two men walked together in silence for a few moments, and then John shook his head and said, “I’m sorry, George. If I had known it would be this much bother, I would have told Bella to give the cat to someone else. Even now, I suppose I might…”

On the twenty-third of December, Knightley sat in his library going over his accounts and waiting for William Larkins. On his foot, fast asleep, was Madam Duvall. John had advised him that cats adored warmth, and that the surest way to keep the cat from following him around was to put a soft cushion near a warm fire. Accordingly, a tremendous fire had been built in the library, and an array of cushions and blankets had been placed around the hearth, but the cat ignored these arrangements and, as usual, jumped into Knightley’s lap as soon as he sat down. He put her down on the floor three times in quick succession, and finally she conceded the point and curled up on his shoe, purring loudly. Knightley could not imagine her position being very comfortable, but he really had not the heart to kick her off.

Knightley stood to greet his bailiff, and the cat, offended, retreated beneath his chair in high dudgeon.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley. Yes, I walked quickly—the weather is very brisk, very brisk indeed, sir. I did not realize just how chilly it was until I came into this room. It feels much warmer than usual—the contrast with the cold outside, I suppose. Now, I have here the information about the possible new tenant—Foote is his name—if you would care to see it before I prepare the lease.”

Knightley took the paper Larkins held out to him and glanced over it. “And you think he will not disappoint?”

“I think we may have reasonable expectations of him. He grew up on a farm near Ewell; a fine, prosperous place. His elder brother is the leaseholder there now, and evidently Foote has always wanted a farm of his own. He came into some little money and started looking for a small place that would suit his means.”

“Will he improve the place, do you think?”

“I do. His brother’s farm is considerably improved these last twenty years and he is eager to do the same. He will buy Mefford’s stock from him and add to it.”

“And has he a family?”

“A wife, but no children. His widowed sister lives with them, and I think he said she had a young child.”

“Well, if you are satisfied, Larkins, I see no reason he should not have it.”

“Very good, Mr. Knightley; I will draw up the lease. I should think he will take possession next week.”

“Thank you, Larkins. I hope this business with the lease will not delay your travels—I think I heard you say that you will be spending Christmas with your sister’s family?”

Larkins heaved a deep sigh. “Yes, Mr. Knightley.”

“It does not seem a matter of joy to you.”

“To be completely candid, Mr. Knightley, my sister has seven children and a small home, and there is nothing of quiet or solitude to be had there. I confess I much prefer the order and silence of my own little house, and of the Abbey.”

“You have my sincere sympathy, Larkins. At any rate, I need not worry about you returning to your duties at the proper time.”

“No, indeed, Mr. Knightley. And now, if we could look at the accounts—there was an item I particularly wanted to draw to your attention.”

For the next half-hour the two men devoted themselves to the examination of the account-books, and they had only just finished when Baxter entered and said, “Mr. Elton for you, sir. Shall I ask him to wait until you have completed your business?”

“No, send him in, Baxter.”

Elton was sent in accordingly.

“Good afternoon, Knightley. And how do you do, Mr. Larkins?” said Elton, bowing slightly. “I trust I do not interrupt your business.”

“Not at all, sir,” said Larkins with a stiff bow in return. “Our conference is at an end, and I must be off now.”

“Well then, permit me to wish you a happy Christmas.”

“Thank you, Mr. Elton. I will endeavour to endure it with patience. Good afternoon, Mr. Elton. Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley.”

“Now then, Elton,” said Knightley when Larkins had quitted the room, “How may I be of service?”

“I came to ask what the Surveyor of Highways said about that bridge. You were to meet with him yesterday, were you not?”

“I was, but he sent a note saying he was ill. I’m afraid I will not be able to speak with him until the new year now.”

Elton frowned. “That is very unfortunate. Several people in Highbury have said that the crack in the bridge is worse and they wanted my opinion as to its safety. I know nothing about these things and was hoping the surveyor might have an opinion.”

“Well, I do not know that my judgement on such matters is worth very much, but I will go tomorrow and look at it and give you my opinion. You will be at the Westons’ dinner tomorrow evening, I think?”

“Yes, indeed!” Elton’s face brightened immediately. “It is sure to be a delightful evening!”

“I only hope the weather will hold; Mr. Woodhouse will be extremely uneasy if it is very stormy.”

“Ah, yes. Poor man. One almost wishes he might stay at home. Miss Woodhouse is always so busy ensuring his comfort—it must be a relief to her to leave him at Hartfield when she goes out.”

Knightley could scarcely conceal the irritation in his voice as he said, “I assure you that Miss Woodhouse is never tired of her father’s company, or happy to leave him behind.”

“Well, perhaps. Certainly she never complains. But it must be a burden nonetheless. And there will come a day—not too long hence, I trust—when she will leave Hartfield for her own home, and I think she will discover then that she has been relieved of a great encumbrance.”

Knightley did not trust himself to speak. He turned and walked to the hearth, picked up the poker, and made several vicious little stabs at the burning logs. The fire blazed up fiercely. Arrogant, selfish, ignorant...wussock! The thought that Elton was a clergyman was no check on his thoughts this time; it only increased his outrage.

“I suppose a substantial fire is an excellent thing in a library,” said Elton conversationally. “Keeps the books from getting damp, I presume. I must remember that. One never knows when one might acquire a house with a library.”

Knightley still had the poker in his hand, and the urge to use it on the vicar was almost overpowering. Reason mastered emotion, however, and he dropped the poker with a clatter, making Elton start and Madam Duvall slink out from under the chair.

“Oh, you have a cat!” said Elton, coming close to her. “And a very fine specimen, too. I have heard that many aristocratic ladies keep them, and are very fond of them. Perhaps I ought to see if I can acquire one…Here puss, puss…”

Madam Duvall looked with utter distain at the hand stretched out toward her.

“Does it have a name?” said Elton.

“Madam Duvall,” said Knightley.

“Indeed!” said Elton. He looked at the cat with respect. “Of a noble lineage, then, is she? Here, puss. Here, Madam.”

The cat made no movement at all.

“Come here, puss.” Elton moved to pick her up. Instantly the cat batted her paw and left Elton with four long, deep scratches on the back of his hand.

“Aaahh!” he cried, jumping back and flapping his hand as if he could shake off the smart.

Knightley had a great desire to laugh, but kept his face sober as he held out a handkerchief and Elton wrapped it around the injury.

“Rather wicked, isn’t she?” said Elton.

“Oh yes,” Knightley said. “These aristocratic cats are all very temperamental, you know. Ah, blood seeping through there, I see. Yes, very nasty scratch. Quite unfortunate. You ought to go home and get a proper dressing on it. If it has good treatment now there will be no need for you to wear a bandage tomorrow night to the Westons’ dinner.”

“Yes, very true. I ought to go and see to it—nothing worse than eating with a bandage on one’s hand. I will see you tomorrow evening, then, Knightley. Good day.”

The door shut behind him and Knightley dropped into his chair, his feelings divided between amusement and indignation. How presumptuous, how conceited the man was! He did not deserve to be in the same room with Emma, let alone marry her! Who could possibly think that Emma enjoyed getting away from her father, or that Mr. Woodhouse was a burden to be discarded? Absolutely insufferable! And, it appeared, Elton was determined to ask Emma for her hand—and soon, by the sound of it. Well, good. He could hardly wait for Elton to realize his own folly.

A meow at his feet told him that the cat was about to jump onto his lap, and he let her.

“I must say, Madam, that you are an excellent judge of character,” he told her. “I beg your pardon for underestimating your usefulness. And I forgive you the mouse on my bed.”

The weather was so threatening on Christmas Eve that Knightley ordered horses from the Crown so that he could go to the Weston’s dinner in his carriage. He was the first to arrive, and so was the sole auditor to the effusions of Weston, who, with all the enthusiasm of a newlywed, drew his attention to the greenery and ribbons his wife had so skilfully arranged around the drawing room for the festive season. It was not long, however, before Mr. Woodhouse and Isabella came and offered a diversion. Knightley helped Mr. Woodhouse to the seat nearest the fire.

“Thank you, my dear Mr. Knightley. Oh yes, my dear Miss Tay—Mrs. Weston, I am very well. But have you heard about Miss Smith? Such very melancholy thing! A bad cold and a sore throat. She became ill yesterday, in the evening, and I wanted her to stay the night at Hartfield. But she did so want to have Mrs. Goddard nurse her that she would go back to the school. And now she is miserably feverish and unwell. So Isabella and I came in the carriage without her (for she was to have gone in our carriage), and Mr. John Knightley and Emma are to follow—and I believe they are to bring Mr. Elton with them. If he had not come we would have needed but one carriage, for we would be only four together. You may be sure, Mr. Knightley, I would not like to have put James and the horses to so much trouble on such a night as this if it could be avoided. But as it is, James can see his daughter, as he does whenever he comes here, you know, as his daughter is housemaid.”

There was a little bustle at the door and Mrs. Weston turned from Mr. Woodhouse to greet the newcomers. It was a curious thing, thought Knightley, that he had never noticed before how Emma could brighten a room simply by entering it. He watched as she greeted Mrs. Weston with genuine affection, and the sheer happiness on her face was a lovely sight. There was a kind of radiance about her that had nothing to do with mere beauty or fine clothes—Isabella was a handsome woman and her gown was more elaborate than Emma’s, but she had not the same quality of brilliance as her younger sister. Elton plainly had eyes for no one else. He paid his respects to his host and hostess, and then attached himself to Emma. Knightley presumed that he was hovering near her until they should all be seated so that he could claim the chair nearest hers. Knightley noticed that his cuffs were as long as they could be, and one could hardly perceive that the back of his hand was faintly yellow—tinted with the salve he must be using instead of a court plaister.

“Oh, he has great hopes of us all being snowed up here at Randalls—for a week, I think he said. How Emma listens to him with any degree of composure is beyond my understanding. By the bye, I gave Emma a hint today about Elton’s designs.”

“She assured me that I was quite mistaken, and that she and Elton were only very good friends.”

“Well, don’t be cast down. Better men than you have tried and failed to persuade Emma that her judgement is fallible.”

John chuckled. “I will not take it too much to heart. Elton will speak for himself before long, I wager, and then she will be undeceived.”

“That too.” John looked at Emma and the expression on his face softened. “Poor girl,” he said softly.

Weston’s voice could be heard now, urging everyone to be seated, and the company obeyed. Elton attained his object: he sat down at Emma’s side and talked to her continuously, effectively dividing her from the rest of the party.

“I do hope you have been enjoying your time in Surrey, Mrs. Knightley,” said Weston.

“Oh, indeed I have,” said Isabella. “It is delightful to be at Hartfield with Papa and Emma, of course, and such a pleasure to see all my old friends and acquaintances and hear all their news.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Weston. “What would meeting old friends be if they had no news? As it happens, I have a fresh piece of news for you about my son, Frank.”

“He is exceedingly well, I thank you. I received a letter from him this very morning, announcing that he is coming at last. He proposes to be here about the second week of January—less than a fortnight from now. My son has never been able to come to Highbury, you know, though he has often wished to.”

“What a wonderful occasion that will be!” said Isabella. “What a pity he could not come for Christmas.”

“Yes, that would have been a great thing. However, it will not be long now until he is here.”

John murmured an appropriate sentiment, and Knightley managed a polite nod, but could not feel any real eagerness. His suspicion that the Westons thought of Frank Churchill as a match for Emma had never been challenged by contradictory evidence, and he was tired of thinking about suitors for Emma. He looked over at Elton; he was talking to Emma with great energy and without any intermission. She was listening to him with every appearance of courtesy, but Knightley could see that her patience was being tested.

He was relieved for her sake when dinner was announced, and glad to see that Elton was seated near Mrs. Weston, at the other end of the table from Emma, who sat beside Mr. Weston. Knightley was across the table from Emma—not directly in front of her, but near enough to see and hear her. On one side of him was Mr. Woodhouse and on the other was Isabella, and between answering the questions of the one, reassuring all the anxieties of the other, and trying to follow the conversation of the pair across the table, he hardly had leisure to eat his excellent roast mutton.

“I am entirely of your opinion,” Emma was saying. “If only Miss Smith and Mr. Frank Churchill were here, our party would be quite complete.”

“He has been wanting to come to us ever since September,” said Weston. “Every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who—between ourselves—are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices. But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in January.”

Weston was an eternal optimist, thought Knightley. He had been in no doubt of seeing his son “very shortly” ever since the end of September. Knightley wanted to catch Emma’s eye and share his amusement with her, but she was too interested in the subject to notice him.

“What a very great pleasure it will be to you!” said Emma, her eyes sparkling. “And Mrs. Weston is so anxious to be acquainted with him that she must be almost as happy as yourself.”

“George,” said Isabella at his elbow, “How does William Larkins do? Is his health as good as ever?”

Knightley answered briefly, but was immediately importuned with another question, this time about Mrs. Hodges. When he could again listen to the conversation across the table, Emma was saying, “I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case, but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he will come, I shall think so too, for you know Enscombe.”

Knightley was a little puzzled. Was Emma sincere in her declaration or was she merely being polite? She ought to know better than to depend on Weston’s predictions of anything! The expression on her face showed nothing but genuine interest as she listened to Weston’s explanation of the whims of Mrs. Churchill which kept dear Frank away from Highbury. But that expression must be due to good manners. She could not really be delighted over the visit of a dissipated young man who could not be bothered to visit his father—could she?

“Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “What is your opinion of the caper sauce on the mutton? Do you not think it indigestible?” And by the time that issue had been settled, Emma and Weston had begun talking about the improvements planned for the gardens at Randalls.

When the ladies had withdrawn after dinner, John and Elton moved from the further end of the table to join the other men.

“I looked at that bridge today, Elton,” said Knightley when the port had been distributed. “And I concur with the good people of Highbury: the crack in the bridge is worse.”

Elton made a wry face. “Then I shall have to prepare myself for another onslaught of complaints from everyone in the parish about the incompetence of workmen and the inconvenience of having to take the other road through Aston. As if I didn’t hear enough grumbling about the river that Freeman is blocking up with his peat.”

“Has William Cox been able to find out anything about laws preventing the fouling of rivers?” asked Knightley.

“I don’t believe he has,” said Weston, “But perhaps Mr. John Knightley could give us his opinion.”

“My dear Mr. Weston,” interjected Mr. Woodhouse, “You will not take it amiss, I hope, if I excuse myself to join the ladies?”

“By no means,” said Mr. Weston. “The fire in the drawing room is much warmer, and the chairs are without doubt more comfortable.”

“Thank you, Mr. Weston. I believe I had better have my cup of tea now—late hours do not agree with me. No, I thank you, Mr. Knightley, you need not accompany me—I would not take you away from your friends.”

Mr. Woodhouse bowed and made his way out of the dining room, leaving the men to talk about parish business for another quarter of an hour, until Weston observed that this was not a meeting at the Crown, but a dinner party—and moreover it was Christmas Eve. “We ought to be able to put aside these matters for a few hours, at least,” he said. “And Mr. John Knightley must find it all extremely dull.”

“Not at all, sir,” said John. “I have a keen interest in everything that relates to Donwell and Highbury. But as we have changed the topic, I may observe that wedlock seems to suit you very well. I don’t know when I’ve seen you look so flourishing.”

“I am surprised,” John went on, “that with such an example before them our two bachelors here have not been convinced to change their state as well.”

“Oh, everyone knows that Knightley will be a bachelor to the end of time,” said Elton dismissively. “On the other hand, I would like nothing better than to try marriage for myself.”

“Ha!” said Weston. “Got a lady in mind already, I’ll warrant. Well, what I say is, don’t hesitate if your mind is made up. A fine, well-set-up young man like yourself need have no reason for delay. You’ll amaze us all next week, I daresay, with an announcement. That would be a surprise for Highbury, now, wouldn’t it?”

“What’s that you say?” said Weston, turning his gaze from Elton’s flushed and happy face to query John.

“I was merely agreeing with you, sir, that it would be a surprise,” said John. “A great and lasting one, if I am any judge.”

“Well, what do you say to rejoining the ladies?” said Weston, downing the last of his wine.

The men moved out of the dining room into the hall, and were about to enter the drawing room when John paused outside the door.

“I believe I will step outside for a moment and look at the weather,” said John.

“How very droll Weston is,” said John to Knightley, who had stayed behind in the hall with him. “He wants Elton to marry Emma, then?”

“No, I am quite sure he does not. His perception in the matter of other people’s tender feelings is about the same as Emma’s.”

“Oh, that acute, is he? So he has no idea that Elton…Hmph. He merely wants everyone to be married—on principle, as it were. Well, he ought to have held his tongue.”

Knightley’s patience gave out. The topic of matrimony had become intolerable, and he refused to banter with John about it any more.

“Enough,” he said coldly and walked into the drawing room. The scene that met his eyes there was hardly likely to improve his temper: Elton was sitting on a sofa between Emma and Mrs. Weston, talking earnestly to Emma again. This time, however, there was no look of affable politeness—actual or assumed—on Emma’s face. She looked nothing but astonished. Knightley turned away; once he would have been amused by the scene, but now it was merely painful. He moved to the table in the corner where coffee was being served, and accepted a steaming cup from the servant. His eyes wandered back to the group on the sofa; he could only see the back of Emma from where he was, but her posture was rigid and tense. Perhaps he ought to intervene. But would it really do any good to forestall the inevitable?

All at once, Emma got up from the sofa and walked over to the empty chair beside Isabella. It could mean only one thing: Emma meant to give Elton a set-down. But Elton looked perplexed, not dejected; Emma’s reproof was quite lost on him. She was talking to Isabella now with an intensity that matched Elton’s—a sign that she meant to ignore him for the rest of the evening. Knightley had little hope that such a hint would be understood by Elton, but at least now Emma’s eyes were opened.

John came in then and said in a voice that all could hear, “Well! The ground is covered in snow, there is more snow falling fast, and the wind is blowing hard. This will prove a spirited beginning of your winter engagements, sir,” he said, turning to Mr. Woodhouse, “—something new for your coachman and horses to be making their way through a storm of snow.”

There was a moment of silence and then a volley of exclamations. Mr. Woodhouse’s face showed his complete alarm, and Knightley muttered an imprecation against John for being so unfeeling. There was only one thing for it—check the weather himself. Otherwise there would be no hope of calming Mr. Woodhouse or anyone else.

He walked out, relieved to be alone and feeling that the cold air would clear his head. It took only a moment to discover that John had been exaggerating. The snow was not in the least deep, barely covering the ground in most places. He walked all the way out to the Highbury road and a little distance along it, and it was the same all the way along. There were a few flakes of snow drifting down from the sky, but he could see some stars between the clouds, and it was evident that there would be no more snow falling that night. The wind was blowing, but not strongly, and there was certainly nothing to fear in travelling home.

John could be the most exasperating man! It was one thing to needle his brother about marriage, but quite another to intentionally stir up the fears of his father-in-law, and Isabella, too. He suspected that his own bad humour had contributed to John’s, but that did not excuse him. Altogether it had been a most aggravating evening and he would be very pleased to get home again.

To further allay any fears on the score of safety, he found the coachmen and asked them if they thought there was any cause for worry about the journey home. None at all, they said. He walked back into the drawing room—how very hot the room was!—and give his report to the company. The relief on Isabella’s face repaid him for his exertions, and the agitation of Mr. Woodhouse was greatly reduced. It did not vanish, however, and he asked Knightley several times if he was quite sure that there was not more snow piling up on the roads at that very moment. Knightley assured him that there was not, and Emma did her best to pacify her father, but Knightley knew that nothing would make him really tranquil as long as he remained at Randalls. He took a few steps behind Mr. Woodhouse’s chair and beckoned Emma with a small movement of his head.

She came over to him, and he said quietly, “Your father will not be easy; why do not you go?”

She nodded and matched his quiet tone as she said, “I am ready, if the others are.”

It was the shortest conversation he had had all evening, but it soothed his irritated feelings remarkably. For a moment it was as if he and Emma were the only adults present—the only ones with sense and compassion, who knew what ought to be done and were able to do it without hesitation. The others were like children, who lacked either the wit or the confidence to do what they ought.

It was only a few moments until the carriages came, and Knightley and Weston escorted Mr. Woodhouse to his.

“Oh, there is indeed snow!” exclaimed Mr. Woodhouse. “And the night is fearfully dark! I am afraid we shall have a very bad drive. Poor Isabella will not like it. And poor Emma will be in the carriage behind. I do not know what we had best do—we must keep as much together as we can. Where is the coachman? James! Ah, James, you must go very slow and wait for the other carriage. Very slow. And wait for the other carriage. Yes. Thank you, Mr. Weston. Yes, the blanket is here; thank you, Mr. Knightley.”

John had conducted Isabella to the carriage, and when she was safely inside, John got in after her and the door was shut. Knightley and Weston were going back into the house when they passed Elton escorting Emma to her carriage. It took a few seconds for Knightley to realize what had happened. John ought not to be with Isabella and Mr. Woodhouse; he ought to be with Emma and Elton.

Oh mercy, thought Knightley. Emma and Elton shut up together all the way back to the vicarage. Elton will probably think this is the perfect opportunity…He sighed. Poor Emma.