Chapter 14

Knightley awoke to the same thoughts he had closed his eyes against the night before. He lay in bed, staring at the canopy above him, while his thoughts wandered. How had Emma fared on the carriage ride home? Presumably, Elton had offered and she had refused, and therefore he ought to feel relief that this affair was over. Most probably, also, Emma now realized her own error—Elton was not attracted to Harriet, as Knightley had told her, and she was Elton’s object, as John had advised her. She must also now be aware of her own conceit. And he knew Emma; where she knew she was in the wrong, she would endeavour to change. Elton’s unsuccessful proposal would bring many good things to Emma—and to Elton as well, if he would condescend to profit by it. Really, he should be full of relief and thanks.

Instead, he was uneasy. Whatever the scene had been, it must have been supremely uncomfortable for Emma. Humility was not a virtue that sat easily with her. Good for her it might be to be caught out in her error, but the pain and embarrassment that must be hers awakened all his compassion. And then a new doubt assailed him: what if Elton had seen Emma’s displeasure and bided his time in making his proposals? Had he taken Emma’s hint? Or had he declared himself?

He threw off the bedclothes and went over to the window, looking out at a landscape that had its own snowy blanket. For the moment, the world was fresh and peaceful; nothing could be more appropriate for Christmas morning. Peace… He felt greatly in need of some peace of mind. The evening before had been full of turmoil, though now that he came to consider it, he was not entirely sure why. Of course Elton was an idiot and a nuisance, but that was nothing new. Neither were John’s hints about marriage. He hadn’t been vexed when he had arrived at Randalls, so what was it that had turned the evening sour?

The sound of the door being opened ended his musing, and he turned to greet his butler.

“Good morning, sir,” said Baxter. “Permit me to wish you a happy Christmas.”

“Thank you, Baxter, and you have my wishes for the same.”

“I thank you, sir. May I propose the grey coat for this morning? I fear the inclement weather will render the church extremely frigid.”

“Yes, I will have the grey. However, I will return here after church to change it for a lighter one before I go to Hartfield—there will be no need to be dressed warmly there.”

The church was very cold; poor Spencer could be seen shivering as he read out the lesson. Knightley suspected that his was not the only mind not fixed on the text, but he was distracted by more than just the temperature. His thoughts were at Hartfield, and he spent most of the service wondering what Emma’s state of mind might be, and whether John’s temper was restored. If Emma had been troubled by the events of last evening, John being out of humour would distress her still more. He must be ready to assist in keeping harmony between John and the rest of them, and to show Emma by quiet friendliness that, in spite of unpleasant scenes, all was well.

“O God, who art the author of peace and lover of concord,” he found himself saying with the rest of the congregation, and started at  the relevance of the words. Author of peace and lover of concord…peace and concord…the very things he hoped to restore at Hartfield. It might well take divine assistance to accomplish that.

*    *    *

His fears were a little relieved by Emma’s greeting him with a smile, and although she was rather more quiet than usual, she did not look anxious or unduly shaken. She busied herself with the children, reading to them and keeping them occupied with quiet play while they were in the same room as their grandfather. John, too, was remarkably good-humoured and talked to Mr. Woodhouse for a full half-hour without once betraying any emotion but kindly sympathy and, what is more, without manoeuvring to get Knightley to take his place. Knightley settled himself near Emma and entertained his toddler namesake with a spinning top. At length Isabella joined her father, and John excused himself from the fireside to talk to his brother.

“Well, George, you seem to have recovered from your ill humour last evening.”

“I was going to say the same to you.”

“Quite true. The wind must have carried away my bad temper during the night; I was a perfect lamb when I woke this morning.”

Knightley laughed. “I take it you bleated your apologies to all and sundry this morning?”

John grimaced. “Not exactly. Really, I ought not to have gone at all—I so dislike that sort of evening. I would have done better to feign a headache. But I never thought you had an aversion to such gatherings. I don’t know when I’ve seen you so out of sorts.”

“It must have been the company we were forced to keep.”

“Ah. Elton, you mean.”

“I suppose. And how did Emma—that is, did Elton—”

“I have no idea. She seemed…preoccupied when she first arrived home, but I only saw her for a few moments. And she would have said nothing, of course, even if—”

“Of course.”

“John,” said Isabella, coming over to them, “John and Henry are asking when they may play the bullet pudding game.”

“I think we may as well do it now.”

“Bullet pudding?” said Knightley. “At Hartfield?”

John smiled. “In the nursery, dear brother. I would not subject Mr. Woodhouse to such a boisterous amusement.”

“Good. For a moment I thought the wind in the night must have carried away your good sense as well as your ill temper.”

So John, Knightley and Emma brought the three older children up to the nursery and watched them play. A bullet was balanced on a cone of flour, and each child took turns cutting away slices of the flour. The object was to keep the bullet in place, but when it fell, the one whose cut had dislodged it had to pick up the bullet with their teeth, thus getting well powdered.  When the children had played long enough that each was dusted with white, they clamoured for their elders to have a game.

John rolled his eyes and looked at Knightley, who shrugged. Emma laughed.

“And who do you think will lose?” she asked the children.

“Papa! Papa!” shouted Henry and John, and Bella giggled.

“You have so little confidence in me?” said John, taking off his coat and rolling up his sleeves.. “You think Aunt Emma and Uncle Knightley will get the better of me? Well, we shall see about that!”

One of the nursemaids gathered up the flour and put it back into the cone mould.

“Do you not think you should wear an apron of some sort to protect your dress?” said John to Emma as the mould was inverted on the table and lifted away to reveal a perfectly smooth cone of flour.

“I do not intend to let the bullet fall,” said Emma. “But I can get you an apron.”

“I won’t need it. George might.”

Emma turned mischievous eyes to Knightley. “Shall I fetch one for you? I have a very pretty one…”

The children laughed.

“Thank you, no. I prefer to keep whatever dignity I have.”

“Very well, then,” said John. “Bullet ready? There, all arranged. Ladies first, Emma.”

Emma took up the knife and cut away some of the flour without hesitation, and handed it to John who did the same. Knightley did pause when it was his turn—the others had changes of clothes at Hartfield, but he did not.

“Worried, Mr. Knightley?” said Emma. He looked up and saw the challenge in her eye.

 “Never,” he answered. “’Courage mounteth with occasion.’” He took the knife and with a show of bravado, made a cut in the flour. The bullet stayed at the top of the cone.

“Pope is singularly inspiring,” said Emma.

“Not at all,” said Knightley dryly.

“Shakespeare, dear sister, Shakespeare,” murmured John.

“Oh! I do beg his pardon,” said Emma, cutting away another portion and smiling when the bullet did not move.

“Oh Emma,” said John, “That was ‘the most unkindest cut of all.’ How is anyone to carve any more without the whole thing toppling? Have no fear, however; I see the place which may be attacked without consequence.” He scrutinized the cone and put the knife to the flour as if he were a great surgeon. “No one but such a master as I am could possibly—”

But at that moment the cone collapsed, and the bullet was buried in a mound of flour. The children shrieked and clapped their hands with delight and the adults in the room laughed.

Emma grinned and said “Pride goeth before—”

“I know, I know,” interrupted John and sighed. “I had better get this over with. I shall ‘go down to the vile dust’ and get myself powdered white with it.”

“‛Unwept, unhonoured and unsung?’” suggested Knightley.

“No doubt,” said John, and proceeded to gratify the very ungenteel desires of his children (and of his near relations) by getting himself thoroughly covered with flour. 

*    *    *

The next day, a Sunday, followed the exact pattern of the day before it: another morning with snow on the ground, another frozen hour in church, another afternoon at Hartfield. He spent the time there observing Emma closely to see if by manner or by word she would betray what had happened between herself and Elton on Christmas Eve, but she continued to be subdued yet not unhappy and made him no wiser than he was before. John continued to be agreeable, which was fortunate as the inclement weather would force the Knightleys to stay on at Hartfield for another day or two.

Knightley had formed the habit of calling on Dr. Hughes every Monday, and as he set off for the rectory the next day, he wondered if the invalid would be interested in a game of chess. He wanted something to take his mind off that infernal question of how things stood between Emma and Elton. Was the whole business at an end? Or would it die a yet more lingering death?

He was surprised to see Elton himself coming away from the rectory as he approached it.

“Good afternoon, Knightley,” said Elton as he came within speaking distance. “I was just coming to tell you that I won’t be at the parish meeting this week—I am away to Bath on Wednesday.”

“Bath? On Wednesday? I hope you have not had any distressing news which requires your leaving Surrey with such haste.”

“No, nothing like that. I have friends who have been urging me to visit them for some time, and I mustn’t keep them waiting any longer.” He did not look particularly happy or despondent; in fact, he rather had an air of studied carelessness. Certainly there was something artificial in his bearing. And what a peculiar time of year to suddenly hare off with such an unconvincing excuse!

 “I’m afraid you will find Bath very quiet at this time of year,” said Knightley.

“Oh,” said Elton, moving his foot restlessly, “I won’t mind the quiet. A change of scene…that is, I am extremely anxious to see my friends, and they remain the same, no matter what the weather.”

So it appeared that he had spoken and been refused and was now going away to nurse his injured dignity.

“How long will you be staying?”

“That is not yet decided. Several weeks, I daresay. I’ve just been to Dr. Hughes, asking if he can loan Spencer to the church in Highbury while I am away. He has agreed, and therefore I am free to go.”

“That was very generous of him.”

“Oh!” said Elton, with a hint of surprise in his tone, “Yes, I suppose it was. Well, I will excuse myself if I may. I have several letters of farewell to write.”

“Will you be calling at Hartfield this afternoon? I may see you there.”

“No, I will not.” The sharpness of Elton’s tone cleared away any remaining doubts about what had happened on that carriage ride.

“Very well, then,” said Knightley, feeling a burden lifted. “I wish you a safe and happy journey.”

“Thank you,” said Elton briefly, and the men bowed and parted.

*    *    *

On Tuesday Knightley went to visit the Bates’, bringing a mince pie. He was forced to stay and eat some of it, of course, was given a full treatise by Miss Bates on the minutiae of the Christmas festivities at Mrs. Goddard’s school. He stayed above an hour and was returning to Donwell when he passed Old Maggie, Spencer’s housekeeper, shuffling along the road with a basket on her arm. She curtseyed as she drew near, and he said loudly, “How are you this afternoon, Maggie?”

“Quite cold, sir,” she said in strident tones, “And rather windy.”

He was a little taken aback by this personal disclosure, but then realized that she was talking of the weather.

“Yes, it is,” he said, raising his voice. “I think it may even be colder than yesterday… the snow from last night is not yet completely gone.”

“Yes, Mr. Knightley,  ’e would be most ‘appy to see you. If you go on to the house now, sir,  I’ll be back to fix the tea afore long.”

“I was just going home to the Abbey,” he said at full volume. “I was not intending to call on Mr. Spencer today.”

Maggie beamed and nodded. “”E’ll be ever so pleased you called, sir. Tell ‘im I’ll be there very shortly.”

Knightley sighed and yielded. “Thank you,” he said, smiling faintly. “I believe there is nothing I would like better than a short visit with Mr. Spencer.”

It was curious, he thought as he continued down the road to the cottage, that everyone continued to talk in their loudest voices to Old Maggie when clearly it made not the slightest difference whether one whispered or shouted.

Spencer opened the door to his knock, and looked relieved when he saw who it was.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley. Please, do come in. May I get you some refreshment? Maggie is out at the moment, but I can make tea…”

“No, I thank you, not just now. I spoke to Maggie a moment ago on the road. We were a little at cross purposes, I fancy, and she was convinced that I intended to call here.”

Spencer smiled. “And so you came to call rather than disappoint her. Dear Maggie. I cannot tell you how often I have done something I had not anticipated doing because it was too much trouble to explain that she was mistaken.”

“At least I am in good company, then. At any rate, she said to tell you she would be here soon to make some tea.”

“I hope you were not completely disinclined to see me.”

“Not at all. I ought to have been here sooner, but lately my time has been taken up with my brother’s visit.”

“Oh, yes. Pray be seated. Is your brother’s family still at Hartfield?”

“They are. They had planned to leave yesterday, but the snow hindered them. If the weather is fair tomorrow, they will leave in the afternoon.”

“I trust the visit has been a pleasant one.”

“Yes, quite like old times. No one else understands Donwell like John does, of course, and I like to have his opinion on things there. He still teases me mercilessly, but I suppose all younger brothers do that. And I know that Miss Woodhouse and her father greatly enjoy having all the family there. They would not think Christmas a time of much cheer unless the Knightleys were there to share it—nor I.  I have spent a good part of nearly every day with the family at either Donwell or Hartfield. I will miss them when they go.”

“You are fortunate in having them so near—you must see them several times every year.”

“Yes, London is a great deal closer than Norfolk. Have you any plans to return there for a visit?”

“Not for several months, at least.”

“No, I suppose you will be too busy for that—especially in light of your new extra duties in Highbury.”

“Dr. Hughes has told you?”

“I heard it first from Elton.”

“I see. Yes, I will be busier than usual for the next few weeks.”

“You look as if you do not relish the added work, and I’m sure no one could blame you. I fear Elton thought little of the inconvenience it would be to you.”

“Oh, I am not so much inconvenienced. I will conduct both services on Sundays, of course, but there will not be many extra duties above that. If I seem unhappy it is probably because …do you remember my telling you that I have a dread of meeting new people?”

“I do.”

“Highbury is full of people that I do not know,” Spencer said, looking into the fire. “The thought of standing at the pulpit in Highbury church with that sea of strange faces looking back at me…And there is to be a new tenant, you know, in the old Mefford farm, and William Larkins thought the family might move in today, in spite of the bad weather. In fact, when I heard your knock at the door I thought you were William Larkins coming to tell me they had arrived. I was gathering up my courage to greet them and ask if I might be of service.” He looked up at Knightley with a wry smile. “I must appear very foolish to you—such irrational fears.”

“Not at all, I assure you. I am prey to unreasonable fears myself.”

“I suppose you must have some fears—everyone does—though I must say you appear as imperturbable as a piece of granite. But I can’t believe that there is any time when you are afraid of people.”

“You are mistaken in thinking so. Perhaps there are not many scenes which make me nervous—my position has accustomed me to public life—however I do have a particular dislike of any sort of performance. Fortunately, I am not a young lady that would be expected to entertain the assembled company of an evening, and I daresay hardly anyone knows how much I should dislike a group of people watching me exhibit.”

“You don’t go in much for display, do you?” said Spencer thoughtfully.

“No. Our family has never been ostentatious. I do not know whether it has been due to modesty or to laziness in following the fashions of the hour, but however it has come about, the Knightleys of Donwell Abby are a bit too ordinary for society’s elite.”

“And I am exceedingly grateful that neither your nor your estate have grand pretensions. I could never feel at home in a place that flaunted its affluence. But have you ever displayed a talent in public? If it is merely your family’s habit  to refrain from performing in front of others and you have never done it yourself, perhaps you would not find it nearly as disagreeable as you think.”

It was Knightley’s turn to look into the fire. “I have done it,” he said slowly, “though it was a long time ago.” He took a deep breath and glanced at Spencer, whose face was alight with interest. “When I was ten years old, a dancing master came to Highbury—it was a more populous place in my youth than it is now—and my father elected to have me attend his school rather than have private lessons at home. At first I had no aversion whatever to learning alongside the twenty-odd other children, but soon I began to hate it. The dancing master was a bit of a sycophant and he wanted to be on the good side of any rich and important people, which meant that he was particularly attentive to me. He told everyone to 'watch Master George' every time there was a new pattern to learn, and I was always chosen to demonstrate the correct steps to children who were not doing them properly. I knew perfectly well why I was made much of, and such praise was hardly gratifying. There was no telling if I was really any good or not, and the thought that perhaps they all knew me to be a poor dancer even as they politely applauded my performance vexed me. I loathe flattery. All the crowd was watching me—judging me—and there was no way for me to ever determine what their true judgement was. The whole business made me detest dancing.”

Spencer nodded. “I’m certain I should feel the same. And how did you overcome your dislike?”

“I never did. I still do not like to dance. The thought of standing up at a ball, for example, with the eyes of all the company on me as the music begins to play twists my stomach into knots.”

“But surely not everyone would have their eyes on you,” said Spencer reasonably. “The young flirting couples, for example, might be more inclined to look at each other.”

“I know it. And the chances that anyone would take such an opportunity to flatter me on my dancing abilities are very remote. I told you that it was an unreasonable fear. It is so unreasonable that am I sure no one has guessed it. When I do not take the very few opportunities for dancing presented to me everyone simply assumes I do not like the music or the motion of the dance.”

“Well, they will not learn the truth from me unless I find myself in need of a secret with which to blackmail you,” said Spencer with a smile. “But what will you do if there is ever a young lady that you are anxious to please and who wants you to dance?”

“Faint, most likely,” said Knightley.

Spencer laughed. “The very last thing anyone would expect you to do! But I do not think you would fall prey to such an extremity. Holy Writ tells us that ‘perfect love casteth out fear,’ you know. Under the influence of a great love you may find the courage to dance after all.”

“Well,” said Knightley, chuckling, “You have given me the perfect test by which to judge any future infatuations; if I am willing to dance in public for her sake, it must be true love.”