Chapter 23

      “Sir?”

“Sir? Are you unwell?” There was a note of anxiety in Baxter’s voice.

Knightley could not remember the last time he had needed to be prodded awake. How long had he slept? Long enough, it seemed; the sunlight coming through the windows was bright and the fire in his room well established.

“I am well enough, Baxter; only a little over-tired.” In truth, he had lain awake much of the night, trying without success to determine what Emma’s reaction might be to any one of the possible actions he might take. The only thing he was certain of this morning was that he needed to see Emma again. He had not laid eyes on her since his revelation, and he wondered if observation alone could tell him how deep her affection for him might be. Perhaps it was foolish to be in her presence—he might betray himself by some word or action or even incautiously speak to her of his love before he was fully decided on such a course. It could not be helped, however. He was aching for the sight of her.

He was careful to pay no particular attention to his appearance as he dressed; Emma should not detect any change in him, no matter how trivial, until he was sure of her feelings. He was a little afraid of being summoned away on some urgent business while he was eating his breakfast, but Harry brought in nothing but the ordinary post. There was a letter from John, but Knightley deferred the reading of it until another time.

He set off for Hartfield almost immediately after breakfast. He was not much past the sweep-gate when the thought crossed his mind that he should have enquired after Page’s welfare.  He had sent a message to the cottage last evening to say that Sam was free, but he knew he ought to call in person. Later, he told his conscience. After I see Emma. The possibility of there being some need that would require more of his time was a real threat, and he did not want to postpone seeing her. Still, it was not his habit to put off a visit to a sick tenant for his own selfish pleasure—and did he not want to be as unchanged in behaviour as in appearance?

He stood still, hesitating, conscience warring with desire. His eye fell on the curate’s cottage. Of course! He could ask Spencer—very briefly—if there was any news; he was sure to know if John had taken a turn for the worse. Most likely there had been no such change, and he could then visit Hartfield with a clear conscience.

Old Maggie answered his rap on the door.

“How d’ye do, Mr. Knightley, sir?”

“I was hoping to speak to Mr. Spencer for just a moment,” said Knightley in his loudest voice.

“Yes, indeed, a very fine day, sir. Do come in, sir.”

She took his hat and walking stick and motioned him past the parlour.

“He’s in the study, sir—been writin’ his sermon all morning, he has. You’ll be wantin’ a bit of a chat with him, sir—I’ll bring the tea directly.”

“No, I thank you, Maggie, I cannot stay!” he shouted desperately. “I will go and come again when he is more at leisure!”

“No, not to worry sir; no trouble to me at all, sir.”  She opened the door of the study and announced Knightley. Spencer was sitting at his desk, but rose to greet Knightley with a faint smile and gestured toward a chair.

“I heard you tell Maggie you could not stay long, sir,” he said when the servant withdrew. “I am sorry about the tea. You may escape whenever you wish and I will explain to Maggie that you were obliged to go.” He spoke quietly, and Knightley noticed that there was only one book open on the desk beside a virgin sheaf of writing paper, and the quill was still in its stand. Something was amiss.

“Oh, I think I may stay long enough for a cup of tea,” said Knightley, sitting down. “I came to ask if there was any news about John Page this morning.”

“I don’t know. I have not heard anything.”

“Did you know he was ill?”

“Oh, yes—I beg your pardon—I ought to have explained more fully. I did know he was ill, but have heard nothing of his condition since late last evening. Had you any reason to suppose he was worse?”

“No, no…It was only that I was passing and thought I might enquire…”

“Of course. I am usually informed of such things, so I think we may be easy about him for the present.”

“Good. I am sorry to have interrupted your work.”

Spencer looked at him blankly for a moment and then gave a light laugh. “Oh, yes, my sermon. I was not getting on very well—a distraction is quite welcome. I…slept poorly last night.”

So that was it. Yes, Spencer did look tired; it was no wonder his manner was so subdued.

“I slept poorly myself,” offered Knightley, “and I would be hard pressed to do any work at my desk this morning. I feel unequal even to making an attempt. At least you are endeavouring to do what you ought.”

He expected his words to call forth a slight blush and a self-deprecating remark, but Spencer only nodded.

“You do appear to be exhausted,” said Knightley. “Perhaps you ought to have risen later in the morning.”

The sound of Old Maggie’s clumping footsteps could be heard in the passageway, along with the rattle of china.

“I would have liked to do that,” said Spencer, “but as Maggie is not aware of how loud she is…” His eyes twinkled briefly.

“I can imagine,” said Knightley as the door opened and the tea was brought in.

They were silent as Maggie poured the tea. Knightley glanced at the curate who was watching the proceedings with an expression that could almost be called morose. His spirits were definitely dejected, and it seemed to Knightley that something more than lack of sleep was to blame. Likely there was some difficulty about a parishioner, or perhaps he had received bad news from Norfolk. Things must be very bad for Spencer to keep staring mutely into his teacup, even after Maggie had left them alone again.

“I saw Mrs. Catherwood and her son yesterday at Page’s cottage,” said Knightley, hoping to see a spark of interest in his eyes.

Spencer nodded but made no answer. Knightley began to feel dread. If that did not bring a smile to his face, there must be something terribly wrong. Well, there was nothing to be lost by asking a forthright question.

“Are you ill?”

Spencer looked up and gave a short laugh. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose I am.”

“In a manner of speaking?”

“‘Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.’”

“You’ve had a hope deferred, I take it.”

Spencer nodded again and looked out of the window. Knightley studied the pattern on his teacup. The only hope he knew of in Spencer’s case had to do with Mrs. Catherwood. Probably he had encountered some impediment to his marriage plans. Perhaps he had an overbearing father or grandfather who threatened to cut him out of his inheritance if he married a widow with a blind child.

“Is there any possibility of a change in circumstances?” Knightley said after several moments. “Is it the sort of trouble that my influence can do anything to lighten?”

 Spencer stirred and said, “No, nothing, I thank you.” He was silent for another moment, but then took a deep breath and said, “I suppose I ought to have told you, Mr. Knightley—I had thought of taking a wife.”

“There was no need.”

“Do you mean that I was not obliged to tell you, or that you already knew?”

“Both.”

Spencer digested this news with only a blink of his eyes. “And did you also know that the lady was Mrs. Catherwood?” At a nod from Knightley, he sighed and said, “I did not know my interest was so apparent. I hope I have not acted unbecomingly…”

“Not at all, not in the least. But am I correct in surmising that there is some impediment to the marriage?

“Yes, a very great one: I made her an offer, and she declined it.”

 “No!” The word broke from Knightley with such force that Spencer stared at him. “Forgive me—I did not mean to startle you. I confess I am greatly surprised.” Was there some sort of curse on the men of Donwell? First Martin, now Spencer…

“You do not think I was a fool for offering, then?”

“Good heavens, no!”

“She told me I did her great honour—very great honour, she said—by asking, and that I was all that was generous, but that she was certain I would regret my choice before long, and she could not allow me to forfeit my happiness for the sake of my noble ideals.”

“Noble ideals? She thinks love nothing but a noble ideal?”

Spencer gave a wry smile and looked into his teacup again. “I fear she thinks I offered for her out of pity. It is my own doing—I went about the business in a very clumsy way. I knew I had very little to recommend myself…small income, unpolished manners, dull conversation…”

Knightley opened his mouth to protest this description, but Spencer put up his hand and said, “I know—and I am thankful for your good opinion, Mr. Knightley; but even you must admit that I am not the sort of man likely to quicken the pulse of any young lady. I, at least, am well aware of it.”

Knightley admitted this with a reluctant nod.

“However,” Spencer went on, “I thought that perhaps her situation—her love for her son—she would be willing enough to be my wife. I spoke too much about the practical advantages of the match, and she must have assumed I offered only out of a sense of duty. It is true that her situation was what first excited my compassion, and I suppose I went on thinking that my primary motive for offering was dispassionate benevolence.”

“But it was not?”

“No. Not in the end. I do not think I understood my own heart until she refused me. Then I knew that I loved her.”

“Do you think that if you told her—it is not usual, I know, but perhaps if you spoke to her once more—”

“I think not, sir. It is very likely she would not have me even if she thought I offered only out of the very deepest love. After all, whatever I was, I am still. She may have been very glad of the excuse that she did not want to accept the charity of a conscience-stricken benefactor. More than that, she might feel that I was trying to compel her against her will, or even that I was inventing this new information about the state of my heart; after all, what man in love would have said nothing about it when he proposed marriage?”

“Surely she would not think you were telling a falsehood, Spencer. It is so far outside your character that it would not even occur to her; I am certain of that.”

“Perhaps; but who can guess what a woman will think?”

This remark found its way straight to the heart.

“No one,” said Knightley glumly. “No one ever knows.”

Spencer looked at him for a long moment, and then heaved a deep sigh. “I will do what I ought to have done all along: pray for another man to marry her. It is a husband she needs, not….me.”

The helpless feeling that swelled within him whenever he thought of Martin had appeared again for Spencer.

“I wish there was anything I could do,” Knightley said.

A slight smile hovered around Spencer’s mouth. “I suppose I ought to ask you to look out a husband for Mrs. Catherwood, but I cannot yet bring myself to take even so feeble a step to bring it to pass. And when someone finally does win her hand, I do not know how I will be able to conduct the ceremony.”

“‘Jealousy is cruel as the grave.’”

“It is. It is cruel even when the object of one’s envy does not yet exist. And yet…Well, ‘charity envieth not.’ True charity will guard my heart from such a state, I trust. Only—” Spencer smiled again. “I believe there will be some difficulty in cultivating enough love for a non-existent person to make this cruel jealousy disappear.”

“You have my full sympathy, Spencer.” More full than you know.

“I am sorry to have taken so much of your time, Mr. Knightley; I did not mean to burden you with my troubles.”

“Not at all—‘bear ye one another’s burdens’, and so on. And who knows?” Knightley added lightly. “You may yet have opportunity to bear some of mine.”

“I do hope you will allow me the privilege,” said Spencer, rising as Knightley did. “You would be assured of my understanding.”

There was so much significance in his tone and such a knowing look on his face that Knightley could almost believe that Spencer knew his secret, and he faltered for a moment. If he really knew—  But it was impossible, of course. He thanked the curate and went off to Hartfield to indulge in the sight and presence of his lady-love. He did not, however, walk quite so quickly as he had before.

“And so,” said Knightley to Madam Duval, “I spent an hour in Emma’s drawing room without making a fool of myself. I had been afraid that knowing my own heart would make me uncomfortable and ill-at-ease in her company, but in fact, everything seemed to go on as comfortably as it did before. Mr. Woodhouse had another letter from his banker for me to interpret, and Emma and Harriet talked to each other much of the time; no doubt those things aided in the appearance of normalcy. Still, I was thankful it went off so well.”

Knightley was sitting in the library with the cat curled up at his feet. The fire danced in its grate in front of them, the glow making a cheerful spot in the otherwise dark room. It was a setting that seemed to invite the sharing of confidences, even if it was only with a cat.

“I have come to a decision, Madam,” he went on. “I will not venture an immediate proposal of marriage. When I saw her today—I have told you, haven’t I, that she is the most beautiful, most entrancing, most adorable creature in all the world?—I knew to a certainty that she is the complete mistress of my heart; I am not, however, the master of hers. I watched her carefully today, and there was nothing at all in her words or demeanor to show that she felt any more for me than she would for a brother. A much older brother.”

He reached for the glass of spruce beer on the table beside him and took a sip before continuing: “John reminded me in his letter today that I will be thirty-eight next week. Emma is twenty-one. When I was twenty-one, men who were thirty-eight seemed to be very nearly grandfathers. I don’t say she is anticipating my descent into senility in the coming months, but I can well understand her not conceiving of me as an ideal husband. And as it happens, Churchill is leaving in exactly five days; it is my earnest hope that when he is gone, she will see him for what he is: an egotistical, inconsiderate blockhead who is utterly unworthy of her notice.”

The cat looked up at him; his voice had become harsh. “You think me uncharitable, Madam? Well, perhaps I am. Spencer, poor fellow, is already trying to tolerate—nay, love—the possible future bridegroom of Mrs. Catherwood. And that is another reason for restraint; I have no wish to become the third rejected bachelor in Donwell. Surely Emma has even less reason to marry me than those women had to marry their suitors; there is no reason to think she would accept my offer. And what is more, presenting her with such a decision to make could only distress her. I am persuaded that she would reject me, but she would feel badly over it—and our future relations would be most awkward. It is best that I say nothing.”

There was only a little spruce beer left in the glass; Knightley finished it and put the glass down.

“I met Weston on the road today; he taxed me—as a joke—with avoiding Randalls, and told me to come to tea on Saturday. I really think I must go, Madam. I have been avoiding Randalls, and I ought not to. I fear that more time spent in the presence of Churchill will not help me to be any more forbearing toward him, but I suppose there is some satisfaction in doing one’s duty.”

He reached down and stroked the cat for a moment. “I cannot say you are as good a listener as Homer was; and if anyone had told me six months ago that I would be telling my troubles to a cat—no offense intended, of course, Madam—I would not have believed them. But I may say that you are not quite as intolerable as I had thought you would be. I wish you a good night.”

He stood then and walked over to the window. It was cloudy and the moon gave very little light, but he gazed toward Hartfield just as he had done before. The thought of Emma there, deep in untroubled sleep, made him glad.

“Good night, my dear Emma. If I had asked you to marry me today, you would have had a sleepless night; it is better as it is. Sleep well, my love.”

He went to Hartfield late in the afternoon of the next day, bringing the greetings and news John’s letter had contained. As accustomed as he was to the sight of Emma, it was an effort of the will to keep himself from staring at her. She seemed almost to glow with health and good spirits—or could he hope that perhaps some of her joy came at seeing him? He tried to remember if she had always looked this happy when he was announced; perhaps she had and he had been blind to that as well.

“I suppose you have heard about this ball of the Weston’s,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “Emma has been very busy about it today.”

“No, sir, I had not.” His hopes faded; this explained her unusually cheerful looks. 

“Yes, Mr. Knightley, the Westons are giving a ball!” Emma said, “And there will be musicians and a supper and enough guests to fill the room—all at the Crown. That is, we hope there is to be a ball. It is impossible to arrange such a thing in a day or two, you know, and so the ball cannot be held until next week. Mr. Churchill has written to Enscombe to ask that he may extend his stay by a day or two. Until we have Mrs. Churchill’s answer we may not depend on it absolutely.”

He ought to have expected something of the kind. Naturally, Churchill would have been the one to start this scheme; he must want another opportunity to display his talents to all of Highbury, and especially to Emma. And now he would be staying longer in Highbury because of it!

“But Mr. Churchill says he believes she will give consent,” Emma went on. “Is it not wonderful, Mr. Knightley? There has not been a ball in Highbury since—well, I cannot remember one. It will give such pleasure to all the neighbourhood!”

He wished she would not be so exuberant about it, as if she wanted to see Churchill showing off again. Some belligerent impulse to quell her enthusiasm made him say dismissively, “Very well. If the Westons think it worthwhile to be at all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say against it—but that they shall not choose pleasures for me.”

His tone stopped Emma short. She looked at him, surprised.

“You will come—you would not refuse to come!”

“Oh! yes, I must be there; I could not refuse. And I will keep as much awake as I can, but I would rather be at home, looking over William Larkins's week's account. Much rather, I confess.”

“But you will see your friends; and if you will not dance yourself, at least you will have pleasure in seeing other people dance.”

“Pleasure in seeing dancing!” As if he could be amused by watching Frank Churchill dance! “Not I, indeed—I never look at it—I do not know who does. Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different.”

A flash of some emotion passed across Emma’s face; Knightley thought it was anger, but he could not see why she should be angry. If he had no desire to dress in his finest clothes and stand about all evening, watching that—well, watching Churchill do his best to electrify the room with his skilful dancing, what should it matter to anyone but himself? He wanted to talk of something else, something they could not argue about. He remembered the letter.

“John says that the boys may be coming to Hartfield for a fortnight or so in May; if the visit comes to pass, I hope that you will share them with me. I enjoy their company quite as much as you do, you know.”

Her face softened at the mention of their nephews, and in the shared admiration of their little relations the rest of the visit passed in perfect amity.

*     *      *

18 February

Donwell Abbey

Dear John,

Yes, Weston’s son is still in Highbury. He was to leave in a very few days, but somehow he has contrived that the Westons will be giving a ball next week at the Crown, and therefore his going is deferred until after the Grand Occasion. I shall attend, of course, unless I am fortunate enough to be called away by some urgent necessity. You would not happen to desire my presence for any reason, I suppose?

Tell Bella that Madam Duval has found a source of amusement: my pencils. She discovered one on the floor the other day and batted it around for ten minutes before the noise of it rolling around the library was more than my nerves could bear. The next day she saw one on my desk (she was in my lap—yes, laugh at that if you will) and swatted it to the floor where it occupied her for quite some time. I have found three pencils in various corners of the library since then; I shall have to start hiding them.

How splendid that Isabella has found such a sweet friend in Miss Hartley! From your description she seems a perfectly delightful lady—and if you do anything to effect our introduction I shall make Bella the gift of a monkey to animate the nursery, and indeed the entire house.

Faithfully yours,

George

*    *     *

Knightley went to Randalls on Saturday with a mind resolute to do his duty to the Westons, and to be as affable to Frank Churchill as he could bear to be. He was surprised, therefore, to be greeted with the news that Churchill was not there.

“Frank asked me to make his apologies for not joining us,” said Weston. “He hopes you will not be offended by his absence.”

“Not at all.” Knightley was tempted to ask if Frank’s hair had needed cutting again, but restrained himself.

 “He has gone to Hartfield,” explained Weston, “to give Emma the good news—he has just received word from Enscombe that he may stay a little longer, and the ball can proceed as planned.”

Weston said it with such certainty of giving delight that Knightley felt obliged to say, “Good news, indeed! It will be greatly enjoyed by all of Highbury, I am sure.”

“So we hope,” said Mrs. Weston. “Emma is very much looking forward to it.”

“As well she might,” said Knightley. “She loves to dance and rarely has opportunity.” He felt a slight pang at this admission; he ought to have shown more sympathy at Emma’s pleasure in the prospect of dancing.

“Yes, a ball is just the thing for a young lady,” said Weston. “And for a young man, too, eh? Nothing like a ball to promote affection. Music is the food of love, they say; isn’t that right? It is just as well there was no ball here five years ago, my dear—had I danced with you I certainly would have thrown over all my carefully-laid plans and married you within the month.” Weston winked at his wife and she smiled and blushed; Knightley looked away. The sheer happiness on their faces awakened the very longing in his heart that he was trying to lull to sleep.

He left Randalls an hour later, more troubled even than he had been before. Weston was right: a dance could very likely fuel whatever affection was between Emma and Churchill. The thought flitted across his mind that perhaps he could ask Emma to dance, and his heart had just time to leap at the thought before he pushed it down again. Everyone would mark such a completely unprecedented thing as Mr. Knightley dancing, and his object was to keep his behaviour unchanged. Moreover, if he danced with Emma after Churchill did, she would compare her two partners, and no doubt his dancing would be much inferior to Churchill’s. No, he could not dance with her. He would have to stand aside and watch, just as he had before.

Spencer conducted the service as usual on Sunday; Knightley fancied he could see a little depression of spirits in the curate, but otherwise he carried out his duties admirably for one who had lately experienced such a blow. He felt a kinship with Spencer, and indeed with Robert Martin, who was still suffering. Martin had in the last week rejected the opportunity to rent out the little cottage where he had planned to live with Harriet, because (Knightley guessed) although it must be heartbreaking to see the cottage standing empty when he had hoped to fill it, it would be more painful still to see it occupied by others. He ought to invite Spencer and Martin to Donwell some evening: the first meeting of The Society for Lovelorn Bachelors in Donwell. Then again, perhaps that would be unwise. It could scarcely be a lively party; none of them were the sort that would try to mask their sorrows with an evening of drinking and cards. And hours of polite talk might make them all more melancholy than they were before.

Knightley spent Monday and Tuesday going about his business as well as he could, putting aside the thought of the ball whenever it intruded into his consciousness. Thinking of it would do no good and only put him into a bad humour. He avoided Hartfield for the same reason; Emma would talk about the ball, and he would respond in some way he ought not, he was sure. It was better to keep away from the subject entirely until the ball itself; he would suffer through that evening somehow and then be done with it.

*     *     *

21 February

Wellyn House

Brunswick Square

Dear George,

Of course I have no need of you here; you must go to the ball and dance. Miss Gilbert has gone to visit her brother again; perhaps Mrs. Whitney will accompany her? I hear she quite enjoys dancing.

Bella says she is very glad Madam Duval has found a plaything and she hopes you will not really hide all your pencils. She also bids me tell you that she can sing “The Lass of Killashee” quite as well as her mama does and she will sing it for you when next you come. Perhaps she thinks you will take it to heart and find a winsome lass to woo. We live in hope…but I do not depend upon it.

I am, as always, your most cherished brother,

John

Larkins came to the Abbey for his usual meeting on Tuesday afternoon bristling with news.

“I suppose you have heard, Mr. Knightley, that Mr. Churchill has left Highbury?”

The quill fell from Knightley’s fingers as he stared at Larkins.

“Left Highbury? To go where?”

“To Yorkshire, I understand. It appears he was recalled by his relatives there only this morning, and set off without delay. There is great regret in Highbury over the cancellation of the ball.”

Churchill gone! His relief was so great he nearly clapped Larkins on the back and thanked him for bringing the information.

“Miss Bates fears her niece is very dejected by the news,” Larkins went on, “And Mr. Weston says Miss Woodhouse will be exceedingly disappointed.”

Very true, it was a misfortune for Emma. Though Knightley could not be sorry the ball was no more, he wished Emma might have had the pleasure of dancing. If he had not taken to heart (as he ought to have) the injunction to “rejoice with them that do rejoice”, at least he might now try to “weep with them that weep”.

Never had his business with Larkins been so swiftly dealt with, and the speed with which various matters were considered and dispatched left the poor bailiff almost gasping. He left for Hartfield as soon as Larkins was gone, and it struck him as he hurried along that he had used to walk this road with no other feelings than the mild anticipation of a pleasant visit with agreeable companions. How long had it been since he had walked past these same trees and cottages to Hartfield without any anxiety at all? It seemed a long, long time. The worry had begun when Emma befriended Harriet, and had only increased during those tedious weeks when Elton thought he was wooing Emma. Lately, of course, anxiety had been his constant companion on these walks as he dreaded the possibility of an attachment between Emma and Churchill. What a fool he was for not seeing that so much concern over Emma was cause for suspecting his own heart! But it had taken the genuine threat of Churchill’s attentions to Emma to wake him from his stupor. Grudgingly he acknowledged that he owed Churchill a small debt of gratitude for his awakening. He could even wish him well, so long as he stayed in Yorkshire.

And now he was walking the same road again with a mind…well, he could not say that his mind was free of apprehension, but he did feel a good measure of relief. The immediate threat was lifted: Churchill was gone, perhaps never to return. Knightley could not be so foolish as to offer for Emma now, but in time, perhaps, she might see him as something other than an interfering older relative.

Knightley arrived at Hartfield in time for tea, happy to see that although Emma was undoubtedly disappointed, she had a smile for him when he came in.

“I heard about the ball—that it must be abandoned,” said Knightley. “I am sorry for the thwarted expectations of so many.”

“Not for yourself, of course.”

“Well, no, I cannot say that. But you, Emma, who have so few opportunities of dancing—you are really out of luck; you are very much out of luck!” He spoke as kindly as he could and she seemed grateful for his sympathy.

“I think it is very well that they gave it up,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “It would have been a perilous thing to be dancing in a ball-room in February! In a house it is not so draughty, of course, and one knows the people who own the house. But at the Crown! It was a very imprudent idea.”

“Well, it is a comfort to know that there are two people, at least, who are not in mourning,” said Emma, smiling at her father.

“My dear, you must tell Mr. Knightley about Isabella’s letter. He will be very pleased to hear about little Bella—such a clever child!”

“Papa means that Isabella says Bella has learnt a song, and sings it very well.”

“Ah, yes, John told me of that; it is “The Lass of Kilashee”, I think:

For tho’ she scorned to give her hand

His patience constant won the day

He woo’d by stealth with sighs and smiles

And gently stole her heart away.”

“Yes, that is the song Isabella mentioned, is it not?” said Mr. Woodhouse. “My dear, you ought to write and remind Isabella not to let Bella sing too constantly. Remember that she had that little weakness in the throat a month or two ago; excessive singing will bring it back. Perry says…”

Mr. Woodhouse went on talking, but Knightley forgot to listen, arrested by the train of thought the song had suggested.  He woo’d by stealth…

Indeed. Perhaps, though he could not pursue Emma openly, he might still begin to plan an assault on the stronghold of Emma’s heart. There was no need now for feverish haste in trying to secure Emma’s affections; he could rather, by kindness and smiles, win her gradually; there would be nothing hurried or pressing about his courtship. Love could ripen in its own time. And gently steal her heart away.

“Perhaps Mr. Knightley knows when Mr. Elton will return with his bride,” said Mr. Woodhouse, drawing Knightley’s attention back to the conversation.

“He is planning to return in a little more than a week, I believe,” said Knightley.

“He could not have married at a better time,” said Emma. “The new Mrs. Elton will usurp the ball as an item of interest to be talked over amongst the gossips.”

“And have the gossips determined what her leading qualities are yet? For of course they must establish such points before she appears in person. Tell me what they have decided; I am certain you have heard something of it.”

Emma laughed. “Miss Bates reports it all faithfully to me, you may be sure. Miss Hawkins evidently excels at everything—a great authority on dress, a better musician than Miss Fairfax, and so skilful a card-player that no one will play with her for stakes higher than tuppence.”

“Poor woman, to have to endeavour to match such a reputation! Let us hope that she is not easily intimidated by the judgement of others.”

“Oh, they are all disposed to like her, you know; Mr. Elton is still a favourite, and whatever his wife is, she must be acceptable to the general populace.”

“True enough. She may count herself fortunate that she is coming to a society that is so easily pleased. I trust she will be just as eager to be impressed with us.”

“You need not worry, I am sure,” said Emma with a smile and a raised left eyebrow. “Only show her the Abbey, giving special attention to the things you are most proud of—your favourite milk-cow and fine new ram, for example—and she will give you all the admiration you could wish for.”

Knightley chuckled. “No doubt she will weep bitter tears that she married Mr. Elton before she had seen my poultry-yard.”

“Any woman would,” said Emma.

Any woman…like you, Emma?

“I am uneasy, Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “that you are contemplating showing the new Mrs. Elton about the Abbey in these depths of winter. It is a dangerous season, you know, and she may become chilled.”

“Oh, Papa, Mr. Knightley would never keep anyone out of doors so long that they became chilled! Mr. Knightley is very careful for the health of all our friends.”

“Very true, my dear, very true. Mr. Knightley is always watchful for the safety of others. But he is often out of doors himself; my dear sir,” he said, turning to Knightley, “you know you are often out of doors.”

“I am indeed, sir, and I thank you for your concern; but I am always careful to dress warmly when it is cold.”

“Well, I suppose you do, Mr. Knightley. You are always very prudent.”

Knightley nearly laughed. Prudent, yes; too prudent to declare his affection at this moment when his heart would have dictated nothing less. What man could behold Emma’s beauty, watch her tenderly soothe the fears of her father, and be the recipient of her impish teasing without feeling an overpowering urge to confess his love? And yet he was resisting the temptation. Oh, yes, he was very prudent. He was also, however, scheming. His patience constant won the day…He would be silent now and wait. But he would not wait helplessly, hoping the mere passage of time would incline her to him; no, he would be planning and working all the time. He woo’d by stealth with sighs and smiles…

“Of course, Papa,” said Emma was saying, “We will all be careful; Mr. Knightley will take care as well. Isn’t that so, Mr. Knightley?”

“Yes,” he said. “You may be sure that I will.” Oh yes, my dearest Emma, I will take care. I will take very great care…to steal your heart away.