Chapter 17

It was two days later that Knightley stood on a little rise overlooking the home meadow, watching the workmen cut the new path toward Langham. The air was as cold as one might expect on a day in mid-January, but the sky was clear and the breeze carried the welcome song of throstles to his ears. There was really no reason for him to be standing there idly in the middle of the day; the men knew their work well enough and did not need an overseer. He stood there anyway, however, basking in the diminished strength of the winter sun and the feeling of satisfaction borne of agreeable circumstances.

Only the day before on the journey from London he had pondered whether there was any way to promote a friendship between Jane Fairfax and Emma—a friendship which he thought would be the most desirable thing in the world for both of them. Of course, Emma would have to initiate anything of that nature: Miss Fairfax was too reserved and unassuming to make any overtures herself. He had been unsure if speaking to Emma would help or hinder his object—in days gone by she had been unreceptive to any of his hints in that direction. He suspected that Emma thought of Jane Fairfax as a rival for the admiration of those of consequence in Highbury. Though Emma was, to his eye, much more beautiful, there was no denying that Jane’s accomplishments deserved all the praise they were generally given. Envy might well be lying hidden in the dark corners of Emma’s heart, and if it were so, open praise of the lady might only feed that monster. He had gone to Hartfield this morning still undecided as to the best course.

But to his surprise, Emma seemed to be making a beginning without any contribution from him. She had voluntarily started the subject of Miss Bates’ niece, and answered him pleasantly when he had enquired after Miss Fairfax’s health.

“She looks a little pale, I think. But she is quite as elegant as ever, and I hope she will have a very pleasant stay with her aunt and grandmother.”

There was no hint of jealousy in that speech. Cautiously he said, “I have always thought she was a very well-looking young woman.”

“Well-looking? You are very sparing in your praise! She is certainly handsome; she is better than handsome!”

Yes, the state of affairs in Highbury was entirely agreeable: Emma was showing signs of admiration of the one young woman who would make an excellent companion for her, Elton was still away, and there was no sign at all of that Churchill fellow.

“Mr. Knightley!”

Knightley turned to see who had hailed him; it was Robert Martin coming over the stile toward him.

“Good day, Martin,” said Knightley, advancing to meet him. “How do you do?”

“Pretty well, Mr. Knightley, I thank you.”

There was no smile in Martin’s eyes to match the one on his face, but then there never was anymore. A certain sort of settled resignation marked his manner, as if he had done battle and come to a tenuous peace, but he had not so far recovered as to become cheerful.

“I meant to ask you—did you lose that ram after all?” said Knightley.

“No, Mr. Knightley. I thought we would, but he pulled through.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“I see you’re moving that path.”

“Yes, the home meadow was wanted as pasture this spring. I wouldn’t have moved the path it if it would inconvenience anyone, but you see it is only a few steps further around to the right.”

Both men watched as the workmen paused their labour to help a woman with a small child find her way around the piles of earth and vegetation where the new path was being cut.

“I presume that is Mrs. Catherwood,” said Knightley. “I think I should recognize anyone else.”

“Yes. She takes her son for a walk almost every day. Poor little fellow.”

“And how is she—how are they—settling in, do you think?”

Martin hesitated, and Knightley’s heart sank.

“I presume there is some ill-feeling in the parish toward the boy?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” said Martin. “And if there had been any such thing, the sermon Mr. Spencer preached two weeks ago would have snuffed it out. I’ve never seen him so severe about anything.”

“People took it to heart, did they?”

“They did. It’s a bit of an honour now to do something for the boy.”

“Good. But there is still something, isn’t there, that is difficult for the Catherwoods?”

Martin’s brow furrowed. “I’m not one to tell tales, Mr. Knightley.”

“No, you are not. But I may be able to help, if I know what it is.”

Martin gave a short laugh. “I don’t think you could be of any assistance with this problem, sir.”

“You’ve not been sworn to secrecy, have you?”

“No, nothing like that. My sisters have befriended Mrs. Catherwood, and I hear things through them.” Martin deliberated with himself for a moment, and then shrugged. “I suppose I could tell you. It seems that her brother’s wife—Mrs. Foote, you know—is not the easiest of women to live with.”

“I see.”

“She seems to be unhappy about having to host her husband’s sister as well as a blind child.”

“How did Mrs. Catherwood lose her husband?” said Knightley.

“A sudden illness, I believe, about two years ago. She lived with her mother until recently, but her mother died—in September, if memory serves.”

“Poor woman,” said Knightley with feeling. “Her circumstances would be difficult enough even without uncomfortable domestic arrangements.”

“Very true, Mr. Knightley.”

Knightley watched the retreating figures

“She ought to marry again,” said Knightley.

Immediately the look of compassion on Martin’s face vanished and was replaced with a stoic, even defiant, expression.

“Have I said something amiss?” said Knightley.

Martin’s eyes looked determinedly across the meadow,  but his voice wavered a little as he said, “Mr. Knightley, you once asked me to refrain from matchmaking where you were concerned. With respect, sir, I would ask you to do the same.”

Knightley was stricken. “Truly, Martin,” he said, “I had no intention of matchmaking! It was but an idle comment. I had no notion of hinting such a thing to you.”

Martin nodded, but his eyes still did not meet Knightley’s. “I beg your pardon, sir. I ought not to have assumed you meant anything of the sort. It is only that my mother said something to me the other day about it, and it cut me to the heart to think that she thought I could so easily set aside—” He swallowed and fell silent.

Not for the first time did Knightley wish he could beg forgiveness for the part he had played in Martin’s blighted hopes. He had been right when he had told Emma that a man could not be more disappointed than Robert Martin.

“I ought to have waited,” said Martin, low. “I ought to have been more certain of her regard before I asked.”

Guilt threatened to engulf Knightley. “Martin, I—”

“Please, sir,” interrupted Martin, “do not blame yourself for the advice you gave me—I am certain I would have spoken to her before long, regardless of what you said. The fault is mine…and impatience has brought about its own penalty.”

___________________________________________________________________________________________

To Be Continued...........