Chapter 18

Knightley liked the Coles. While not genteel enough for Emma’s taste, they were nonetheless hospitable, amiable, and full of genuine friendship. In spite of their recently increased means they had neither snubbed former acquaintance nor assumed superior airs. It was characteristic that Cole was the only man on the parish council who called him “Mr. Knightley”, instead of plain “Knightley”. Knightley could not decide whether it was mere habit left over from the days when the difference in rank had been more marked, or whether Cole still saw himself as much the inferior. Knightley was slightly the elder of the two men; perhaps that had something to do with it.

The Coles had lately enlarged their home to include a grander dining room and a library, and it was into the latter that Knightley was shown the morning after the dinner at Hartfield. Cole was seated behind his handsome new desk, reading a letter, but he smiled as he rose to greet his visitor.

“Good morning, Mr. Knightley. You’ve come about that bridge, haven’t you? I thought so. But here is a piece of news you won’t have expected.” He waved the letter at Knightley, who took it and read it silently.

Dear Cole, 

I write to inform you that I am the happiest of men, having been so fortunate as to win the heart and the hand of the beautiful and accomplished Miss Hawkins of Bath. I intend to be in Highbury next week, on or about the 2^nd‚ and stay long enough to prepare the vicarage for its new mistress.

Yours in haste,

P. Elton

“Quick work, eh?” said Cole.

“Very quick,” said Knightley. Hardly a month had passed since Elton had offered for Emma, and here he was engaged to someone else! He had never supposed that Elton had any real devotion to Emma, but it seemed unbelievable that even a man of shallow feelings could recover from an attachment to Emma with such unseemly haste.

“I confess myself rather surprised,” said Cole. “I had thought that Elton’s interests had been more local in nature.”

Of course, Cole knew. Everyone knew.

“Well,” said Knightley lightly, “perhaps it’s a case of ‘repente amor victum mihi’, and he has been caught unawares and swept away.”

“Perhaps,” said Cole, without much conviction.

“At any rate,” said Knightley, returning the letter, “the tea-parties of Highbury will be much enlivened by this news. I suppose there is no reason for secrecy, is there?”

“No. He would have said something it if he didn’t want the engagement known. And he must have assumed that I would tell Mrs. Cole, and that she would tell Miss Bates…”

“Indeed,” said Knightley. Elton would know that once Mrs. Cole told Miss Bates, every soul in Highbury and Donwell would be in possession of that knowledge by sundown. And no doubt he would be only too pleased to have his conquest published.

“I suppose we shan’t know any more about the fair young lady until Elton comes next week,” said Cole. “He’ll be too busy holding her hand to write more letters.”

“Let us hope that when he arrives, his state of bliss will be such that the difficulties with the bridge will be as nothing to him.”

“Ah, the bridge. You’ve talked with the surveyor, then?”

“Yes. The bridge will have to be repaired again.”

“As we suspected. Can it be done quickly?”

“Two weeks, the surveyor said—if we had able workmen.”

“Well, it could be worse, I suppose.”

“It could. I had been afraid he would say that the whole thing would have to be demolished and built again. The thing we must be sure of this time is that the workmen are really skilled.”

“That was the trouble, then?”

“So the surveyor said. Do you know anyone that might have enough knowledge to undertake the job—hire the stonemasons, oversee the work, and so on?”

“I think Carson might do it well. I’ll speak to him.”

“Good. Let me know how you get on, will you? I must be going—I have some business at Hartfield.”

“Hartfield,” repeated Cole. “I say, Mr. Knightley, do you mind if I ask your advice about a rather delicate matter?”

“Not at all.”

“Now that the dining room is complete, Mrs. Cole is anxious to have a dinner party. She has set her heart on returning the hospitality of the Westons and gaining a better acquaintance with the Gilberts…and of course, we are depending on your company, and that of the Coxes as well. But she wonders if she should venture to invite the Woodhouses—we have never dined at Hartfield, you know, and greatly as we would enjoy the company of Mr. and Miss Woodhouse at our dinner, we would not wish to offend them by presuming intimacy with them. Then again, not to extend an invitation to them may be interpreted as a slight, particularly when all their friends will be invited. It is difficult to know which would be most agreeable to them.”

“I see your difficulty,” said Knightley.

“I hoped you might. I thought that perhaps with your knowledge of Hartfield you could advise us as to the best course.”

Knightley thought rapidly. Emma ought to come to the dinner; it would do her good to have a better acquaintance with the Coles and see that they were not so far beneath her as she thought they were. And the dinner would be a good deal more interesting if she were there, contributing beauty and wit to the party.

“I think you ought to invite Hartfield,” said Knightley. “If you particularly solicit the presence of Mr. Woodhouse and show great sensibility for his comfort, I think there will be no suspicion of presumption.”

“You think so? Mrs. Cole thought of ordering a screen for the benefit of Mr. Woodhouse—so that he would be protected from any draughts of air, you know.”

“That is precisely the sort of thing that would put—Hartfield—in charity with you, and with the invitation.”

“I will tell Mrs. Cole, then. I thank you, Mr. Knightley. You said you had business at Hartfield…I ought not to keep you.”

*  *  *  *  *

It was pleasant walking to Hartfield with the knowledge that Elton would never again be found loitering there, flattering Emma and deceiving himself. He had not thought the vicar likely to renew his addresses to Emma, and there was clearly no danger of that now. And what would Emma make of Elton’s approaching nuptials? Knightley did not know whether or not she reproached herself for being the instrument of disappointed hopes, but this news would certainly do away with any guilt she might feel. It was not often that Emma was completely surprised at anything, but this announcement was sure to astonish her. He anticipated seeing the expression on her face.

Of course she would ask him all about the lady, and there was not much he could say. He had the same questions himself. What sort of woman would engage herself to Elton after such a short acquaintance? Was she a desperate young lady, not fastidious enough to insist on solid worth in a suitor? Or perhaps she was of a romantic turn of mind: Elton’s person and manners were good enough that a young lady might be swept away by them. He shook his head. Neither a reckless woman nor an overly romantic one would be good companions for Emma. But then it probably did not matter so much anymore, now that Jane Fairfax was in favour. What a relief it was to see Emma on friendly terms with her!

The pleasure of that thought sustained him through the rather trying ordeal of attempting to explain financial matters to Mr. Woodhouse. The simple old gentleman could not understand his banker’s queries any more than he could answer them. But Knightley was accustomed to helping Mr. Woodhouse in his business dealings, and knew what course to take. After going through the formality of an explanation, he persuaded Mr. Woodhouse that the changes he was authorizing were not only inevitable but would also make his daughters’ inheritance more secure. Nothing appealed to Mr. Woodhouse so much as an increase of security, and he was willing, even eager, to sign his name to the documents put before him.

 “Well, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma when the business was finished, “have you recovered from the dissipations of yesterday’s gathering? I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

“A very pleasant evening,” he said. “Particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one's ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women, sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother's, it must have been a real indulgence.”

Emma smiled at these words of praise and said, “I am happy you approved, but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield.”

Mr. Woodhouse was quick to assure his daughter that, if anything, she was too attentive, but Knightley was not to be put off. She had shown special attention to Miss Fairfax after years of neglect, and he wanted her to know that he marked that and approved it highly.

“No,” he said, “you are not often deficient; not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore.”

She did understand him; he could tell from the sly look on her face. She could not pretend that she had always taken care to make Miss Fairfax’s visits pleasant.

“Miss Fairfax is reserved,” she said, defending past conduct by implication.

“I always told you she was—a little,” said Knightley. “But you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured.”

“You think her diffident,” said Emma coolly. “I do not see it.”

What was this? Was Emma saying that she was not disposed to approve of Miss Fairfax after all? He moved to a chair closer to her.

“My dear Emma, you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening.” Had all her friendliness been a mere pretence? 

“Oh, no,” said Emma. “I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions, and amused to think how little information I obtained.”

His heart sank. She was not beginning to admire Miss Fairfax, then.

“I am disappointed,” he said, and fell silent. He did not want to say too much.

“I hope everybody had a pleasant evening,” said Mr. Woodhouse, who was, as usual, lagging behind the course of their conversation. “I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much; but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs. Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends. And Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady, a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr. Knightley, because she had Emma.”

“True, sir,” said Knightley in spite of his melancholy. How could spending an evening in company with Emma be anything but agreeable? He glanced at Emma, and added, “And Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax.” Now, what would she say to that?

She understood the glance, and replied to his unspoken query.

“She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one's eyes from. I am always watching her to admire, and I do pity her from my heart.”

There was no pretence in that statement, at least. His spirits rose a little.

“It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined!” said Mr. Woodhouse. “A great pity indeed! and I have often wished—but it is so little one can venture to do—small, trifling presents, of any thing uncommon. Now we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg.”

So Emma had heard Miss Bates’ comment that they had no pork left, and was quietly making them a gift of some. That was just like Emma. He was not even surprised to hear, a moment later, that she had sent them the whole hind-quarter. Some parts of Emma’s character were unexceptionable, and both Harriet and Miss Fairfax might be influenced for good by a friendship with her. So might Elton’s new wife, for that matter. But Emma did not know about her yet.

“Emma, I have a piece of news for you,” he said. “You like news—and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will interest you.”

“News! Oh yes, I always like news.” Her face was alight with curiosity, and he smiled at her eagerness.

“What is it?” she said. “Why do you smile so? Where did you hear it? At Randalls?”

Randalls? What sort of news would come from—and then he knew. Churchill.

“No, not at Randalls,” he said, pushing back the foolish irritation that her question had begotten. “I have not been near Randalls…”

The sound of the drawing room door opening interrupted him, and one look at those entering told him that he would not be able to resume his discourse any time soon—Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax had come to call.

“Oh! my dear sir, how are you this morning? My dear Miss Woodhouse—I come quite overpowered. Such a beautiful hind-quarter of pork! You are too bountiful! Have you heard the news? Mr. Elton is going to be married.”

If Knightley could not tell Emma himself, at least he was not denied the amusement of seeing Emma so surprised that she forgot to be composed. He saw her start and blush, and then after a moment of gaping slightly at Miss Bates, she recovered her poise and glanced to see if he had noticed. He smiled and said quietly,

“There is my news. I thought it would interest you.”

 For an instant their eyes held, and he could see she understood that he knew what had happened.

“But where could you hear it?” exclaimed Miss Bates. “Where could you possibly hear it, Mr. Knightley? For it is not five minutes since I received Mrs. Cole's note—no, it cannot be more than five—or at least ten—for I had got my bonnet and spencer on, just ready to come out—I was only gone down to speak to Patty again about the pork—Jane was standing in the passage—were not you, Jane? For my mother was so afraid that we had not any salting-pan large enough. So I said I would go down and see, and Jane said, ‘Shall I go down instead? for I think you have a little cold, and Patty has been washing the kitchen.’ ‘Oh! my dear,' said I—well, and just then came the note. A Miss Hawkins—that’s all I know. A Miss Hawkins of Bath. But, Mr. Knightley, how could you possibly have heard it? for the very moment Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole of it, she sat down and wrote to me. A Miss Hawkins—”

“I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and half ago,” said Knightley. “He had just read Elton's letter as I was shown in, and handed it to me directly.”

“Well! That is quite—I suppose there never was a piece of news more generally interesting. My dear sir, you really are too bountiful. My mother desires her very best compliments and regards, and a thousand thanks, and says you really quite oppress her.”

Mr. Woodhouse smiled beatifically and said, “We consider our Hartfield pork—indeed it certainly is—so very superior to all other pork, that Emma and I cannot have a greater pleasure than—”

But Miss Bates could not wait to hear the rest of her benefactor’s speech.

“Oh! my dear sir, as my mother says, our friends are only too good to us. If ever there were people who, without having great wealth themselves, had everything they could wish for, I am sure it is us. We may well say that ‘our lot is cast in a goodly heritage.’ Well, Mr. Knightley,” she said, turning to him, “and so you actually saw the letter. Well—”

“It was short, merely to announce—but cheerful, exulting, of course.” He glanced mischievously at Emma. He knew she could well imagine the style Elton would use on such an occasion. “He had been so fortunate as to—I forget the precise words—one has no business to remember them. The information was, as you state, that he was going to be married to a Miss Hawkins. By his style, I should imagine it just settled.”

Finally, Emma found her voice. “Mr. Elton going to be married! He will have everybody's wishes for his happiness.” A very correct and irreproachable sentiment, even if she would not have been able to say it while meeting his eye.

*  *  *  *  *

He quitted Hartfield at the same time as Miss Bates and her niece and escorted them back to their home. He was fortunate to spy Spencer coming out of Ford’s, and was able to excuse himself from Miss Bates’ pressing invitation to join them for some small refreshment by representing his need to talk to the curate. The rain that had long been threatening began to fall as the two men met.

“What brings you to Highbury, Spencer?”

“I was visiting someone who is ill, and I wanted to speak to Mr. Ford about something. I meant to speak to him yesterday, but hadn’t time.”

“I see you’re as busy as ever. Well, at least Elton’s return is in sight.”

“Elton is returning soon?”

“Oh—you won’t have heard yet. I say, the rain is getting heavy. Ford’s looks a little crowded—shall we step into the Crown to wait it out?”

“Yes, let’s.”

The Crown was comfortable in its faded glory, as was Mrs. Stokes who bustled up to greet them.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley, Mr. Spencer. Heavens! Look at that rain come down. Is it business you’ve come about?”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Stokes,” said Knightley. “I’m afraid we have no business here except to keep dry.”

 “By all means, sir. Go into the great room, if you please. Would you like I should build a fire there?”

“No, no, the shower will be soon over, I’m sure. If you will allow us to linger here until the rain stops we would be most grateful.”

“Of course, Mr. Knightley.”

The two men went into the great room and stood near the window, watching the rain form puddles on the ground outside.

“So Elton is returning, you say?”

“Yes, next week, in fact, but he will not stay long. According to the note he sent to Cole, he comes only to prepare the vicarage for his new bride.”

“New bride?” said Spencer, looking, if anything, slightly more shocked than Emma had.

“Yes. A woman he met in Bath, apparently.”

“But I thought…well, I suppose not,” said Spencer.

Knightley sighed. Everyone said the same thing. Though Miss Bates, to do her justice, had merely alluded to Mrs. Cole’s suspicions, and hinted that she herself did not think Mr. Elton was really a worthy match for Emma. Miss Bates had uncommonly good sense; Knightley liked her very much indeed.

“Well, I wish them joy, I am sure,” said Spencer.

“It will be a relief for you to confine your activities to Donwell once again, I think.”

“In some ways it will. But I have grown very fond of many in Highbury, and shall miss seeing them often. Do you think Elton would mind if I continued to call on some of them—Mrs. Plover, for example?”

“I can’t imagine he would object. How is Mrs. Plover faring?”

“Not very well.”

“Her foot again, is it?

“Yes, the ulcer is worse. And of course, her son is a great worry to her.”

“Has he got into more trouble?”

“Not really, but she is afraid it is only for lack of opportunity. She calls him a ‘bad boy’, and I could not contradict her. She is inclined to blame herself, I think, but she has no reason to. From all I hear, she has been a good mother; it is only that he has been a difficult child from the beginning.”

“I believe he has. And, of course, she was widowed when he was very young. It might have made a difference if there had been a father in the home.”

“Yes, I was thinking about that,” said Spencer slowly. “It must be difficult for widows with any children, but especially for those with sons. I wonder how they manage?”

“You could ask Mrs. Hunt. She was widowed when her sons were young.”

“Did they turn out well?”

“They did. One died a few years ago, but the other is a captain in the Navy.”

“That is good to hear. Is that usual? I mean, do most boys who lose their fathers early still do well in life?”

Knightley searched his memory for a moment. “I can’t say, really. I think most of the widows I know re-married before long, and so have not raised their boys alone.”

“True. And of course, that is what St. Paul advised young widows to do—marry again. But it occurred to me that the widows of our day do not have it in their power to remarry if no one offers for them.”

“A considerable difficulty.”

“And I wonder,” said Spencer more earnestly, “if our Christian duty to care for widows and orphans might not extend to more than our contribution to the Poor Relief and giving baskets of food now and then. It might mean that single men ought to consider marrying widows with children.”

“Spencer,” said Knightley, “I agree with you in principle, but I really do not think I have it in me to marry Mrs. Plover.”

“Mrs. Plover!” exclaimed Spencer, looking thoroughly bewildered.

“Were you not speaking of Mrs. Plover?”

“Oh! I suppose it was her situation that started me thinking, but I had no thought of her remarrying.”

“Then it was merely a philosophical abstraction that you were grappling with?”

“Not really, no. I was thinking of Mrs. Catherwood.”

“Ah, yes. Widowed, and with a blind son.”

“And her life at home rather difficult.”

“She told you so?’

“No, no, but I hear things.” He gave a faint grin. “I suppose I ought to ask you to keep that information to yourself, but I have no doubt that you have heard it already. Donwell far outstrips Diss in gossip.”

“I can well believe it. What with—well, never mind. So, you are trying to find a bachelor to marry Mrs. Catherwood?”

“Not you, Mr. Knightley,” said Spencer, blushing.

“Thank you—you relieve my mind. And I wouldn’t speak to Martin about it, either…the idea was not well-received when it was suggested to him.”

“Martin? No, I never thought of him.”

“You have someone else in mind?”

Spencer looked at the floor and then out the window. “Yes,” he said, “someone else.”

*   *  *  *  *

“I think he meant himself,” said Knightley to Madam Duvall that evening in the library. She was curled up on his foot, as usual, but he knew she was not asleep because he could hear her purring. “A noble fellow. I wonder what the lady would say if he asked her? One would think she would be happy to have him, if only to secure a better life for herself and her son. But one never knows…look at Martin and Harriet Smith. I saw them today, you know. It was while we were at the Crown—we saw them through the window. Miss Smith was leaving Ford’s, and Martin came out after her. We couldn’t hear what he said, of course, but I think Spencer and I both held our breath, hoping that his speaking to her meant some kind of rapprochement between them. It couldn’t have been, though, because she seemed to thank him in a flurried kind of a way and then she hurried off, and he turned back with a face as grey as ash. I would like to forget the sight of his face, Madam.”

He would have liked another splash of brandy, but he would have had to walk across the room to get it, and he didn’t want to disturb the cat.

“I did have one moment of complete satisfaction today, though,” he continued, reaching down to stroke the soft fur for a moment. “I found William Larkins when I came home from Highbury and said to him, ‘Have you heard the news, Larkins?’ He looked slightly panicked; no doubt he was worried that I might know something he didn’t. ‘And what news is that, Mr. Knightley?’ he said. I think he actually trembled a bit. ‘Why, that Mr. Elton is getting married to a Miss Hawkins of Bath.’ He dropped the papers he was holding and I was afraid he would die of apoplexy on the spot. However, when I had helped him gather the papers together, he was breathing all right, and I am hopeful that I have not shortened his life significantly.”

The cat looked up at him and gave a soft meow.

“Oh, his spirits might have drooped for an hour or so, but the opportunity to enlighten everyone else in Donwell must have restored his confidence by now. It was a very brief triumph, Madam—but it was gratifying all the same.”

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