Charity Envieth Not

Chapter 7

The day was dawning sullenly, rain dribbling down the windows of the dressing room.

“I dine with the Gilberts this evening, Baxter,” said Knightley as the butler helped him on with his waistcoat.

“Yes, sir. Mrs. Hodges informed me this morning of the circumstance.”

Knightley’s lips quirked in amusement. He had only received an invitation the day before and had not spoken of it to anyone, but somehow he was not surprised that Baxter knew. Where his staff got their information was anyone’s guess, although he suspected that William Larkins was usually responsible. It was a wonder that Larkins had time to do any work at all, so much of his time being spent spreading intelligence of one kind or another.

“Well, Baxter, are you also knowledgeable about the guest list for this gathering?”

“Yes, Mr. Knightley.”

“And?” prompted Knightley.

 “Young Mr. Gilbert, of course, the elder Mr. Gilbert’s sister Miss Gilbert and her companion, who is a widow, Mr. Spencer, Mrs. Hughes, and yourself.”

“Thank you. I presume that the widowed companion to Miss Gilbert was an unexpected addition to their party, thus necessitating my invitation in order to make an equal number of ladies and gentlemen.”

“I believe you are correct, sir,” said Baxter. “Would you prefer the grey coat? It is a trifle warmer than the black for such a day as this.”

“Yes, the grey. The rain is very heavy, and even if it lets up the roads will be muddy. Better send Thomas to get horses from the Crown for this evening. I will use the carriage and take Mr. Spencer and Mrs. Hughes with me. Would you send a message to Mrs. Hughes, saying that the carriage will be at her door at seven o’clock? I will visit Spencer myself when I return from the meeting at the Crown.”

“Very good, sir. Your coat, sir.”

Baxter assisted Knightley in putting on the coat and gave it a final brush as expertly as Richards had ever done. Emma had been horrified when he had told her, at his old valet Richards’ retirement, that he did not intent to hire another valet but instead have Baxter to perform those services.

“My dear Emma,” he had said, “I do not need a distinct servant to look after my attire. Baxter can manage it easily with his other duties. I can save…”

Her left eyebrow arched as she interrupted with “Oh, if it has to do with saving money on servants’ wages and the servant tax, then I can see there will be no dissuading you. Your living up to your position as landowner, magistrate, and head of the ancient Knightley family is nothing in comparison to the opportunity of economising.”

“No,” he said solemnly, “There is no hope of persuading me otherwise when I have occasion to save a guinea. And when Mrs. Hodges retires I shall have William Larkins take on her tasks as well as his own. He will scold the kitchen maids just as well as she, I dare say, and will learn to bake an apple tart that will rival even hers.”

Emma laughed in spite of herself to think of grim William Larkins fussing about the kitchen. “He could do the scolding bit very well, at least. And perhaps then you will have saved enough to purchase horses to ride and drive instead of always hiring them.”

“What?” he cried in mock horror. “Pay the tax for pleasure horses and hire another groom and lay out money to feed the beasts all so that I can put them to use once a fortnight? Emma, Emma, you know that putting the money into the estate yields better profits—”

“There! I knew you would not listen to the voice of reason, though I believe you protest loudly because you know I am right. You remind me of Shakespeare’s description of someone: “’e’en though vanquished he could argue still.’”

“I believe the author of that remark was Goldsmith, Emma. Though I can recall something Shakespeare did write that could be properly aimed at you.”

“And what might that be?”

“’Get thee to a nunnery.’”

Knightley smiled at the memory of that conversation. Emma was to this day unconvinced that he did right by not keeping his own riding horses. And, he owned, she did have a point. The rain was still coming down and the wind felt icy as he left the house. It would be easy to use one of the home farm horses for saddle, as less scrupulous men did—the tax for farm horses being less than those kept for pleasure. But his conscience was rather finely-tuned in matters of honesty, and he never seriously entertained the notion.

He was thoroughly chilled by the time he reached the Crown. He scraped the mud off his boots and went to the little parlour where the vestry council held their meetings. Thankfully, Mrs. Stokes had built a roaring fire and he warmed himself by it. Elton arrived shortly thereafter with a sheaf of papers, and Mrs. Stokes appeared with brandy. Knightley poured out two glasses and offered one to Elton, saying, “Terrible weather.”

“Yes, horrible. The mud just past the Mitchell farm was dreadful. I had to use the path that comes around by Mr. Cole’s stable.”

So Elton had come from Hartfield, had he? It was very early for a social call. Well, he might have been visiting the Mitchells. To put the matter beyond doubt, Knightley asked innocently, “And how is Mr. Woodhouse this morning?”

“Pretty well, although storms make him nervous. It is a pity that poor Miss Woodhouse must always stay so near to him when he is anxious. He is fretful so much of the time! It will be much better for her when…” He let his sentence trail off and busied himself arranging the papers he had brought.

When…what?? thought Knightley. When Mr. Woodhouse dies? When Miss Woodhouse marries? When she marries you? He took another sip of his brandy before replying as evenly as he could, “Miss Woodhouse would not wish to be anywhere else but with her father.”

“Yes, yes, of course, and very noble of her, I’m sure.”

Knightley was tempted out of sheer perversity to ask after the health of the misses Carson, of Bath, who had been the aspiration of Elton before Miss Woodhouse had attained the ascendancy. He wavered, but then Cole and Weston bustled in and the moment was gone. Drinks were poured, hands were warmed at the fire, small talk was bantered about, and then Knightley cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, shall we begin?”

      *             *           *

Dr. Hughes had arranged a home for the curate to reside in and had installed an ancient, nearly deaf, but very competent maiden lady whom everyone called Old Maggie as housekeeper. The rain held off until Knightley had nearly reached the cottage, and gratefully he stepped beneath the little ledge that projected over the door just as the heavens opened again. The door was opened by Maggie, of course, who gave a deep curtsey when she saw who it was and said in that loud voice peculiar to those who cannot hear much, “How d’ye do, Mr. Knightley, sir?”

Knightley raised his voice to match her volume. “Very well, Maggie, I thank you. And you?”

“’E’s in the parlour, sir. This way, if you please.”

Knightley followed her in and gave her his hat, coat, walking stick and umbrella before she opened the parlour door and bawled, “’Ere’s Mr. Knightly, sir.”

Spencer could be in no way surprised by Knightley’s entrance, having heard the shouted exchange at the door. He laid aside his book and rose to shake Knightley’s hand. Knightley was glad to see that though his manner could not be called easy, still he was not so timid and withdrawn as he had been at their first meeting. He motioned Knightley to a seat near the respectable fire.

“Would you like some refreshment, Mr. Knightley?”

“No, I thank you. My visit will be brief. May I enquire how you are settling in?”

“Well enough, I think.”

“You have a comfortable home here.”

“Yes, Dr. Hughes has been very kind to arrange it all for me, even to fitting out the cottage with furniture.”

Knightley looked with admiration at the sturdy, serviceable chairs and occasional tables and the bookcase crammed with books. Stacks of books were placed on the wooden crate next to the shelves; the crate, presumably, held more books.

“It seems you will need another bookcase or two. You’re something of a scholar, are you?”

“I do not think I consider myself a scholar, sir, but I do like to read.”

“A very good thing in a clergyman. Which are your favourites?”

“Well, when you came in I was reading the poetry of Mr. George Herbert.”

“Ah, that is one of Dr. Hughes’ treasured volumes. I can see why he approves of you so highly.”

“That is no good reason, sir. But Dr. Hughes has been most liberal and thoughtful. Not only did he organize the cottage and its furnishings, but he arranged for Maggie to be housekeeper.”

“I’ve heard she is an excellent cook.”

“Oh, indeed; and a wonder for scrubbing and polishing. And then her deafness makes for amusing conversations, as she always answers what she thinks I said rather than making any effort to really understand. Of course it makes it rather a loud household—passers-by must think we are perpetually quarrelling.” He smiled for the first time at Mr. Knightley.

Knightley laughed. “No, everyone hereabouts knows Old Maggie. And if I may say so, you seem like you would be the least inclined to heated exchanges of any man I ever met.”

“True, I am not really given to shouting or even loud bursts of feeling.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “I believe Mr. Whitfield would think my sermons very lacking in fervour.”

“You seemed more at ease in the pulpit last Sunday than you were in previous weeks.”

Spencer blushed, but answered readily enough. “I fear that I have an inordinate dread of strangers, Mr. Knightley, which was the reason for the inferior way I conducted the first services. But now I have called on most of the parishioners, they seem a little more like friends.”

“I am surprised that someone with a horror of strangers would so immediately and so thoroughly visit every house in Donwell.”

“Ah, well, sometimes I cannot help being afraid. But I have determined that it will not stop me from doing my duty.”

“I see. That is a worthy reason for Dr. Hughes to approve of you, and you have won my approval as well. But I did not come to embarrass you with flattery”—for another blush was creeping over Spencer’s face—“I came to see if you would like to share my carriage on the way to the Gilberts’ this evening."

“Oh, are you of the party?”

“I am. I thought that as the roads are muddy and Langham is two miles distant, you and Mrs. Hughes might consent to ride with me.”

“Yes, thank you. I am glad you will be one of the company. I have not met the Gilberts yet; I knew no one but Mrs. Hughes.”

“Oh, they are good people—not unreasonably fine or awe-inspiring.”

“I did hear a mention of a Miss Gilbert and her companion—and I dread elegant young ladies.”

“There is nothing to fear on that score. Miss Gilbert is the sister of the elder Mr. Gilbert, not his daughter. She must be over forty. She travels with an old widowed companion, who will, I’m sure, be a nice, motherly soul.”

“That relieves my mind somewhat. I never know what to say to ladies.”

“You might talk of books. If the lady has read the same books you have, then your way is clear. You may compare opinions for the rest of the evening.”

“And if the lady has not read anything?”

“Then you may expound at length on whatever book you have lately read.”

Spencer smiled. “Do you not think that a summary of Mr. Herbert’s poems will be construed as more of a sermon than a lecture on literature?”

“Well, if you frighten the lady away with a sermon, at least you will not be plagued with her for the rest of the evening.”

“That is so. Very well, I shall attack her with ‘The Window’ then.”

“Is that what you were reading when I came in?”

 “Yes. ‘Lord, how can man preach thy eternal word? He is brittle, crazy glass’, and so on. I found it very fortifying.”

“Fortifying? That is a new commendation for a poet.”

Spencer smiled again. “I suppose it is. I was a bit of a fool this morning and I felt very like ‘brittle, crazy glass.’”

“A fool? How so?” Knightley had a feeling that Spencer often felt foolish over things he had no reason to be ashamed of.

“I was visiting one of the farms, and I said something silly. I mentioned that my mother died several years ago and the farmer’s wife asked what she had died of. I was still rather nervous, I suppose, and without thinking I said, “It wasn’t anything serious." And the farmer laughed said “Wussock” under his breath.”

“Wussock? What on earth is that?”

“It’s an old word from the Midlands—it means idiot. I learned it from one of the college servants. It was rather a funny thing for me to say, but his calling me wussock stung a bit.”

“It must have been Mefford—I can guess the name even though you will not gossip about him. He came from Cambridgeshire, and he’s rather a bad lot. Even so, I am surprised that he would insult you to your face.”

“Well, I daresay he didn’t know I would understand him.”

“That is no excuse for him. So instead of ‘rendering railing for railing’ you came back and read poetry?”

Spencer gave a wry smile. “I sound very virtuous, don’t I? But my first impulse was to say that he was wet as tripe and a tatchy barley-bump—he’d know what that meant if he knew the other.”

Knightley chuckled. “I wish you had said it. I’ve never seen him get back as good has he gave.”

“It would have been a satisfaction. But you remember what Chaucer said about the Parson: ‘If gold rust, what shall iron do?’”

“Hmmm, yes. I suppose it would be difficult to expect forbearance in your flock if you show none.” He stood up and offered Spencer his hand. “I must be off now, but I will see you this evening. The coach will be here at a little past seven.”

“Do please come again, Mr. Knightley,” Spencer said, just as Dr. Hughes always did. And with him they were not idle words, either.