Chapter 19

Knightley saw a little too much of Elton during the week of his stay in Highbury. He reminded Knightley of a little boy who, put into breeches for the first time, forces himself on the notice of everyone he sees so that he might hear over and over what a big boy he is to leave dresses and pantalons behind him. Elton seemed to spend most of his time wandering around Highbury and even Donwell, hoping to be teased and congratulated by everyone he met. The triumph in his manner was regrettable, but Knightley could make allowances for him. After being rejected by a woman like Emma, it was no wonder that Elton would grasp at anything to soothe his pain. Finding another woman might numb a broken heart, even if she could not immediately heal it. And furthermore—No, no, no, that wasn’t right at all. What was he thinking? Elton didn’t have a broken heart, only an offended one. He had never loved Emma; it was only that his vanity had been flattered and he had been delighted at the prospect of such a sizable dowry. True, it was hard to imagine that any man could be confronted with such an enchanting portrait of womanhood as Emma and not be in love with her, but then he never had understood Elton.

The vicar’s brief stay in Highbury was nearing its end when Weston came to Donwell one afternoon and found Knightley in the kitchen garden, watching the under-gardeners prepare the hot-beds for planting.

“I must say, Knightley, you take more interest in your kitchen gardens than anyone else I know. Are you always in attendance at the sowing of spring vegetables?”

“Not usually, no,” said Knightley. “But I’m growing a new variety of strawberry this year—fragraria chiloensis—and I wanted to see that they were planted correctly. Apparently they produce bigger fruit than hautboys, but are more difficult to grow. And I don’t know that they will be any sweeter. Still, I thought it was worth trying. But I don’t suppose you came all the way to the Abbey to hear about my strawberries.”

“No, though if they turn out well, I hope you’ll let us have some of them—in the name of scientific enquiry, of course.” Weston winked. “No, what I really came about was the Crow’s Nest over at Langham. Do you know it?”

“Of course. More a tavern than an inn, though I think they have a room or two.”

“That’s the one. My housekeeper’s niece married the fellow that owns the place, and Mrs. Brown is worried about her—thinks there might be something amiss there. I thought you might know if she has any cause to worry. You are the magistrate for Langham, are you not?”

“Yes, but I don’t remember any trouble with the Crow’s Nest—not recently, at any rate. I can’t think of the proprietor’s name…Carson? Culver?”

“Cooper, I think.”

“That’s it. No, I don’t know anything against him, but I can ask a few questions. It wouldn’t surprise me greatly to discover something unlawful going on in  the place—it’s not the haunt of the more respectable citizens of Langham.”

“Thank you, Knightley. I’d like to set Mrs. Brown’s mind at rest. She doesn’t usually worry about things, you know—level-headed woman. I hope there’s nothing in it, but there might be.”  Weston stared absently at the espalier trees growing along the garden wall for a moment, murmuring, “She’s a good girl. Hope there’s nothing in it.”

After a moment Weston cleared his throat and said, “So, Elton leaves for Bath again tomorrow, does he?”

“Yes. I heard him tell William Cox so. He said something about expecting to be gone for three weeks.”

“The population of Highbury is growing rapidly. Miss Fairfax is come, and Elton’s new wife will be here, and—I may as well tell you, Knightley—Randalls will be making its own contribution to the expansion.”

A feeling very like dread began to seep into Knightley’s soul. Churchill. He cleared his throat. “So your son’s visit is imminent, is it?”

“Frank? No, no. I expect a letter from him any day, but that is not the person I meant. I was speaking of a much younger person.”

It was the gleam in Weston’s eye rather than his words that brought enlightenment.

“A very young person, I see,” said Knightley, with all gloom of spirits vanished. “Excellent news! And the newcomer will arrive at the end of summer, I suppose?”

“We expect so.”

“Well, you have my very heartiest congratulations.”

*     *    *    *

8 February

Donwell Abbey

Dear John,

Tell Bella that Madam Duvall is very well. She has caught another mouse, which event produced half a smile from Mrs. Hodges—the first one in over a year. Madam left the mouse on the sideboard, which event produced a gasp from Baxter—also the first one in over a year. You can see what a lively domestic life I have; all your fears on that score can be laid to rest.

Speaking of domestic life, Elton left for Bath today to claim his bride. We have around three weeks to speculate about her before she arrives in the flesh to put an end to the conjectures of the gossips. The most outlandish I have heard came from Mrs. Green (through Larkins, of course), whose theory is that the new Mrs. Elton is the daughter of a highwayman who made his fortune in Essex—evidently there was a highwayman called Hawkins in those parts thirty years ago. She is divided between horror at the misalliance of a clergyman and a felon’s daughter and delight at the dubious distinction that such a notorious personage will give to Highbury.

You asked about the Mefford farm—or as we should now call it, the Foote farm. Foote has done very well with it, even in winter and after such a short time. Larkins tells me that Mefford has not been able to lease another farm, and that they are living with his wife’s family. Is it very uncharitable of me to be pleased? I am sorry when I remember Mrs. Mefford. For her sake I am glad I was able to do something for Harry, though I fear he will not make a superior footman. He is the sort that breaks dishes and stumbles over rugs, whose livery never fits quite correctly and whose wig is always slightly askew. However, Baxter says he is a willing worker, and he hasn’t broken anything for a week, so I suppose I’ll keep him on.

Since you ask, Miss Fairfax is in tolerable health, I think. A great deal of nourishing, wholesome food, such as she is used to, would be the most useful method of restoring her health completely, but she will not get it at the Bates’. I intend to call tomorrow and see if there is anything I might contribute without giving offence. Emma seemed to show Miss Fairfax marked attention when she first came, and I had hopes that Emma was beginning to appreciate her as a companion. Unfortunately, the warm feeling seems to have cooled and I don’t know that it can be revived. A pity.

Give my love to Isabella and the children, and be assured that I will not attend any such dinner at your house unless I receive assurance in writing that there will be no single women and no widows under the age of forty among the guests. I have no faith at all that your invitations to dine are given in the name of disinterested brotherhood.

I am, as ever, your older (but not yet decrepit) brother,

George

*    *    *     *

Knightley called on the Bates’ the next morning, and discovered, quite fortuitously, that Miss Fairfax was very fond of baked apples. He made them admit that their supply of apples was nearly gone, and happily promised them more. Innate politeness kept them from refusing his gift, and he felt satisfied that he had done some small thing for Miss Fairfax’s recovery. There was, of course, no escaping the profuse thanks of Miss Bates, but after the first gush of gratitude, he changed the subject by asking after the servant, Patty.

“Oh! Patty is very well, thank you, Mr. Knightley. Although to say truly, she is very well today, although yesterday—she has her half-day on Tuesdays, you know, and she goes to see her brother in Langham. And Patty went to see James and we were here at home—Jane had been telling us about Miss Campbell’s new gowns—and Patty came in so angry—not at us, I don’t mean—I do not believe she has ever been angry with us—but with someone who cheated her brother—the one who lives at Langham, you know, Mr. Knightley. He was playing cards of an evening at an ale-house, and he said he was cheated. A terrible thing, is it not? And Patty says that there is often crooked play there, and the proprietor does nothing about it, and so she was very distressed. But I told her—and Jane said the same, did you not, Jane?—that one can hardly believe such a thing would be allowed to go on, and very likely there is some confusion. James is a very good fellow, you know, but rather young, and it may be—one can easily be mistaken, you know.”

It was on the tip of Knightley’s tongue to ask the name of the ale-house where James had been cheated, but he checked himself. Anything he said that showed his attention to the story was sure to be repeated by Miss Bates and very possibly Patty. If there was anything wrong, it would be best for his interest to be completely unheralded. He would go to Langham himself and find James and talk to him—no, that would be sure to be remarked on. No, he would go and speak to Gilbert, who was the principal landowner around Langham. He might be aware of something. When his visit at the Bates’ was finished, he went to the Crown, hired a horse, and rode the three miles to Langham. He found Gilbert in the stables, looking over a litter of spaniels.

“So, you’ve come for a pup after all, have you, Knightley?”

“No, not yet.”

“Want to wait a bit longer, eh? Have a look at them anyway.”

Knightley crouched down and picked up one of the pups. She was a lovely brown, and his hands stroked the silky fur on her ears.

“About two months old, are they?”

“Yes, very nearly weaned.”

Knightley was tempted; he could probably bring this little one home that very day. In his mind’s eye he could see her flopped down on the library hearth, next to—oh yes, next to the cat. Bother. He had a feeling Madam Duvall would not take kindly to a puppy. There was enough upheaval with a domestic animal already. He put the puppy down and straightened up.

“Very tempting, Gilbert, but not now. I came to ask if you have heard anything unpleasant recently concerning the Crows’ Nest.”

“Aside from their beer? No, nothing of any note. Why?”

“I have heard rumours of crooked play left unchecked, and there was a hint of something more sinister, though no particulars were offered.”

“Hmm. Well, the fact that nothing has been brought to my attention doesn’t mean there isn’t something in it. Frankly, I don’t like that fellow Cooper, and—Say, I’ve just remembered something. My wife was visiting one of the cottagers a week or two ago and heard that Cooper was a cousin of Finchley—you know, that man everyone suspected of robbing those houses.”

“He was never caught, was he?”

“No, he disappeared. Probably well-hidden in London now. My wife asked if we ought to do something—let someone know about the cousinship, I mean—but I told her that the gossip of an old woman didn’t amount to much, and even if it was true, it didn’t mean that Cooper was guilty of anything.”

“But you say no one knew they were related?”

“I never heard it, at any rate. Finchley was from some other place and never mentioned a connection. And the old woman appeared to think she was divulging a great secret.”

“Hmm. Well, nothing to be done now, of course, but perhaps you might let  me know if you hear anything more about Cooper or the ale-house. Cooper’s wife is the niece of a very respectable woman who is worried about her, and I’m growing uneasy myself.”

“Certainly; and I’ll see what I can learn in a discreet kind of way around the village.”

Knightley thanked him and rode slowly back to the Crown. It did seem that there was something in Mrs. Brown’s suspicions, though it could be that the mention Miss Bates had made of an ale-house in Langham had disposed him to give too much weight to rumours. He could not even be sure that Patty’s brother was talking about the Crow’s Nest. At any rate, he could ask Weston if he might speak with Mrs. Brown. And he ought to talk to Spencer, too—people talked to clergymen sometimes, especially Spencer’s sort. He stopped at Spencer’s cottage on his way to the Abbey, and put his question to him.

“The Crow’s Nest?” said Spencer, watching Old Maggie pour his guest a cup of tea. “Do you mean the one Patty Lovett’s brother was cheated at?”

“How did you—”

“I called on the Bates’ yesterday.”

“In the evening?”

“Well, I was passing the house, and Miss Bates called out to me to come and sit with them…”

“Oh, yes. Many an unwary passer-by has been caught in the same way.”

Spencer smiled and took his own cup from Old Maggie. “I didn’t mind being caught this time. I had nowhere else I needed to be, and Miss Bates is the least fearsome woman in England. Miss Fairfax was there, too, and it was quite a homely little family circle.”

“And Miss Bates told you what Patty said when she came in from her half-day?”

“Only that Patty’s brother said he had been cheated at cards at the Crow’s Nest, and that he thinks the owner has some hand in it—allowing it to continue, at least.”

“Anything more?”

Spencer frowned as he tried to remember. “No, I can’t think of anything else that was said about it. The subject turned to Miss Fairfax’s health, and Patty’s brother was not mentioned again.”

“I see. Well, if you hear anything else from that quarter or anywhere else, would you let me know?”

“Of course, Mr. Knightley. Am I right to assume I shouldn’t mention your interest in the matter to anyone?”

“Please do not. It may be nothing, but if it is, I would rather make discoveries without any fanfare. There are enough people talking, I fancy.”

“Miss Bates,” nodded Spencer. “But Miss Fairfax seems well able to hold her tongue when required—or even when not required. She’s very quiet, isn’t she?”

“Rather reserved, yes. But very intelligent and refined. And quite handsome.”

Spencer eyed him speculatively over the rim of his teacup. “May I ask, Mr. Knightley—has Miss Fairfax some connection with your family?”

“With my family?” repeated Knightley. “No, not at all. Why do you ask?”

“Something you said once—a lady taking you to task about something. A lady who had some connection with your family.”

“And you thought Miss Fairfax was the sort to criticize me?”

“Not at all—that is why I asked. Never mind. I will keep my mouth closed and my ears open and anything I learn I will pass on to you.”

Knightly wondered at the curate’s strange question as he walked back to the Abbey. He remembered now what he had said to Spencer that day—that a lady had told him that he was no fit judge of anyone else’s situation. So why had his words of praise for Jane Fairfax today had made Spencer curious if she was the lady? It was very strange. In any case, at least he knew without doubt that the cheating had been done at the Crow’s Nest. He could affirm that much to Weston.

“Thank you, Baxter,” he said as the butler helped him out of his coat. “I was gone longer than I intended. Any callers?”

“Mr. Weston is in the drawing room, sir, and—”

“Weston? Good. I needed to speak to him.”

Without waiting to hear anything more, he went into the drawing room and was met with the sight of Weston…and someone else, too: a tall young man, well-dressed and handsome, with eyes that exactly matched Weston’s.

Frank Churchill.

Damn.

*   *   *   *

They stayed no longer than a quarter of an hour, parting with an invitation to come and drink tea at Randalls that evening. Knightley felt he could not do other than accept; and although he saw them off with his usual calm civility, a complete riot of thoughts and emotions held sway in his inner man. He stood perfectly still as he watched them mount their horses and ride away. When they had gone, he took a deep breath and willed himself to put aside the outrageous desire to throw something or hit someone. Tending to his responsibilities would settle his mind, he thought, and he sought solace his library. He sat down at his desk and attempted to look over the final plans and estimated costs for the new cottages, but before long the papers were thrust aside. He was much too confused to give his attention to any business just now, and there was only one remedy. He gave the bell pull a sharp tug and fought to keep himself from pacing while he waited for Baxter.

“I need my greatcoat,” he said when the butler appeared. “I will be in the lime walk.”

“Very good, Mr. Knightley,” said Baxter. He knew what that meant: Mr. Knightley was not to be disturbed for anything less than a national crisis.

The overcast sky did nothing to cheer the rather gloomy aspect of the lime walk in winter. The leafless trees lifted their black branches to the heavens in a gesture of mute resignation, or so it seemed to him. At least he was alone; the only sound he heard was the crunch of gravel beneath his feet as he stalked severely between the rows of trees.

 Frank Churchill. He looked nothing like the simpering fop that Knightley had imagined. The real Churchill looked intelligent and well-bred, and he was altogether more manly than Knightley had envisioned. Weston had long styled his son a charming young man, and Knightley must admit that there was some justice in that description. He had asked Knightley about Donwell parish, about the history of the house, and about the problems of enclosure in a rural parish, all with a lively interest that seemed perfectly sincere. Knightley could not suppose that Churchill had any real thirst for knowledge about these things, but undoubtedly he had excellent powers of conversation. Smooth, Knightley thought, very smooth. Slippery, in fact.

He remembered his argument with Emma all those weeks ago, when she had informed him of the sort of young man she thought Churchill would be. He would be able to adapt his conversation to the taste of everybody, she had said, and able to follow the lead or take the lead on almost any subject. From what Knightley had seen today, she had been very near the mark. And by now she knew it: Weston had been quick to inform him that they had already been to Hartfield that day—had been there, in fact, as early as propriety would allow. Weston was eager, much too eager, to promote a match between his son and Emma. There was a real possibility that she would be annoyed at having a young man thrown at her head; she might, out of pure stubbornness, refuse to have any more than a distant acquaintance with him. But then again, she might not.

He reached the end of the lime walk and looked out over the low wall to where Abbey Mill farm could be seen in the distance, the thin ribbon of river winding lazily around it. Sheep with their new lambs were in the meadow before him, the bank full of timber was beyond it. It was his world—his peaceful world—and now this conceited, selfish fellow had come into it and upset everything. It was exceedingly aggravating. He turned abruptly and started back up the walk toward the house.

“He has no right,” Knightley said aloud, “to come here and display his charms to an unsuspecting population.” There was no one to agree with him; his words hung in the air, as hollow as the reasoning that had provoked them. No right to come? Ridiculous. Churchill had every right to come. Was not the biggest blot on his character that he had not visited Randalls sooner? It was nonsensical to fault him for coming. 

Then what was it, Knightley wondered, that made him feel justified in his anger? No, it was not anger, not altogether. There was something else—some other emotion that he could not immediately put a name to. Anger would make his jaw tense and his fingers clench, as they were doing now. But it would not twist something inside him and produce the sensation of dread which seemed to appear every time he thought of Churchill. It was almost as if he were afraid of something…

Afraid. Yes, that was it: the other emotion was fear. Fear of what, exactly? Well, he had been afraid that Churchill would dupe his father into giving him money that he might squander in gambling or some other unwholesome thing, but he knew it was not only that. It was Emma. He was afraid of Churchill’s effect on Emma. It was clear as anything, now that he thought about it. He had always been afraid that she might be taken in by this plausible gentleman and not notice, or not care, about the machinations of the Westons. It was probably a groundless fear; in spite of her defence of Churchill, Emma was too clever to be fooled by such a glib, shallow puppy. She must be aware of his deficiencies. He knew she was. She must be.  He was not worried about that.

No, his concern was centred on Emma’s naiveté about men. She had unwittingly led Elton to believe that she was in love with him; might she not accidentally do the same with Churchill? She might, for example, look at Churchill with nothing more than friendly interest on her face, but a man could get lost in those beautiful hazel eyes of hers, and then what would be the result? If she happened to smile at him, he might regard it as a sign of particular favour. Emma’s smile was one that lingered in the memory and warmed the heart at each recollection. Of course, aware of Churchill’s faults as she was, she would never entangle herself permanently with him, but it would be another embarrassment, another regret. He must see what he could do to prevent such a misunderstanding.

*    *    *    *

Taking tea at Randalls that evening was not quite as tedious as Knightley had feared. The Coles had been invited as well, and it was not Weston’s fault if the assembled party was not still larger.

“I would have liked to invite Mr. and Miss Woodhouse to come, too,” said Weston to his son. “But Mr. Woodhouse seldom stirs from home, and is nervous about Miss Woodhouse going anywhere by herself in the evening.”

“What a pity,” said Churchill. “I would have liked to see more of them.”

“So you will, so you will,” said his father, cheerfully. “But only during daylight hours.”

“Or perhaps at our dinner,” said Cole, “if the folding screen we ordered arrives in time for us to issue the invitation to Hartfield. It ought to have come by now. I hope, Mr. Churchill, your father has told you how disappointed we will be if you do not favour us with your company at that dinner.”

“He has,” said Churchill, “and I would not fail you on any account. I am very eager to make the acquaintance of all my father’s friends.”

 “I heard you had some acquaintance in Highbury even before you came,” said Mrs. Cole. “Do I understand correctly that you have previously been in company with Miss Fairfax?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Churchill. “We met at Weymouth.”  He smiled politely.

“She has not been well, you know,” said Mrs. Cole. “When you see her again her appearance may surprise you.”

Churchill bowed his head briefly in acknowledgement, but whether he would have replied or not was a mystery, for Weston said immediately, “Oh, he saw her this morning. Yes, he paid a call on the Bates’ and she was there, of course.”

“And how did she appear to you?” persisted Mrs. Cole. “Is there a great alteration in her?”

“She did not look as well as she did at Weymouth,” said Churchill, “although I have no doubt that the air of Highbury and the care of her relatives will restore her completely.”

“That is just what I think,” said Mrs. Cole. “And Miss Woodhouse thinks the same. At least, that is what Miss Bates told me.”

“Miss Woodhouse is generally correct,” said Weston. “Is that not right, my dear?”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Weston. “She visits the sick in Highbury very often, you know,” she added, turning to Churchill, “and she is usually right when she thinks Mr. Perry ought to be called in or when she perceives some improvement in the ill person.”

“Yes, Miss Woodhouse is very good about visiting,” said Weston. “She is not one of those fine young ladies that give themselves airs and think they are above visiting the poor and sick of Highbury. I dare say she gives the poor as much relief as the parish does.”

What Weston said was perfectly true, but it irritated Knightley nonetheless. It seemed to him that Weston was trying to advertise Emma to his son, as if she were Atkinson’s Original Curling Fluid. Miss Emma Woodhouse, he thought, is eminently calculated to be far superior to any other Woman ever invented. This Female is reputed to be in demand in the Highest Circles, and will never fail in beauty, vigour, and gloss. Well, perhaps “gloss” was out of place. In any case, Emma needed no panegyrics to recommend her to anyone, especially to Churchill.

It occurred to Knightley that he was not contributing much to the talk this evening; he hoped the Westons would not be offended at his taking so little effort to converse with Churchill. He thought it was better if he did not affect comradeship with the young man: he could observe his behaviour much more effectually from a distance.

“I am anxious to see your new pianoforté,” said Mrs. Weston was saying to Mrs. Cole.

“And I am anxious to hear you play it,” replied Mrs. Cole. “It has not yet been done justice to and I am hoping that at our dinner we may persuade several of the ladies to try it.”

“Excellent!” said Weston. “I do hope that Miss Woodhouse will be there—I believe she has a very good style of playing.”

“And Miss Fairfax, too” said Mrs. Cole, “It has been a long time since I have heard her play.”

Knightley seized on this—it would keep Weston from going on about Emma.

“I greatly look forward to hearing Miss Fairfax play again,” he said. “She is a very superior musician. And I hope she may be persuaded to sing a little as well.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Mrs. Weston. “I do hope she may sing.”

“It will be a pleasure for her also, I think,” pursued Knightley, “as she has no instrument to play at the Bates’. It is quite a pity that she does not; it would be a delightful occupation for her and give great enjoyment to her family.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Weston. “It is a shame that she doesn’t have a pianoforté of her own. However, I know she plays whenever she comes to Hartfield—Miss Woodhouse insists on it, you know—such a kind-hearted woman.”

“The young ladies are two of a kind,” said Knightley hastily. “Miss Fairfax is extremely benevolent and thoughtful—something not often seen in women as elegant as she.” He had no concrete examples of Jane Fairfax’s compassionate nature to offer, and he hoped no one would press him about it; he was only hoping to keep Weston quiet.

“She’s a handsome young lady, as well,” said Cole. “It’s rather surprising that she hasn’t caught the eye of any worthy young man while staying with the Campbells.”

“Certainly,” said Knightley, “And—”

But Weston was too quick for him.

“Quite right—a very handsome young lady, indeed. Though I think perhaps Miss Woodhouse is considered the greater beauty. They are both very fair and agreeable, however, and it will be very pleasant to be in company with them again. We are full of anticipation for your dinner, Mrs. Cole. Aren’t we, Frank?”