Emma in Love (16 page)

They kissed. Emma did not leave the stool where she perched, but permitted the cool, strong hands to run from her shoulders to her neck: the pearls, still hanging loosely at her throat, tumbled to the floor.

“You will come to me.”

The Baroness's voice was low. She knelt a moment – not more – Emma heard a roughness in her speech, and wondered at the passion that could not be suppressed, in it. Going as smoothly and soundlessly as she had
advanced, Elise was at the door; the key turned; she was gone.

Now appeared the maid. She found her mistress wanton-eyed and wild-haired; she was dismissed, brush in hand, in a tone she had never received from Mrs. Knightley in all her time at Donwell Abbey. The house, trembling – or so it seemed to the girl as she fled down the stairs to Mrs. Hodges – rocked like a boat on a stormy night, beneath her feet. There came the sound of a woman running – running as women of good breeding do not run – and of a cry, so desperate in its longing, its denial and anguish, that the maid was frozen on the back stairs, just a flight above the reassurance of the kitchen, the warmth of lamps and bustle there.

In the library, Mr. Knightley and his brother, closely poring, as was their custom, over accounts and ledgers for the new estates returned to the family, rose as one, and went to the door. The pounding of the feet had passed by them; and there was no repetition of the wailing cry.

“An owl: we must expect an early autumn this year, George,” said John Knightley; and he lit up his pipe, which had gone out.

The maid flew in, propelled by William Larkins. It was not her fault. She had gone to old Mrs. Knightley's room, to take another pillow for Mr. Knightley. She did not say more, each reference to the sleeping habits of
Mr. Knightley and his wife must implicate her further; and she had seen, as the stranger unlocked the door and came out, the look on Emma's face: she would not forget it; there had been evil let loose in her bedchamber; this she could confide to Mrs. Hodges and several other maids, if no one else. Besides, William Larkins would dismiss her from employment, if she spoke loosely of the visitor, and of the scene of abandon she had walked in on, then.

Mr. Knightley frowned. He remarked that it was late; but that he would send for Mrs. Weston nevertheless. James should go for her in the carriage, instantly. Mrs. Weston must be reassured, first and foremost, that there had been neither death nor serious misfortune at the Abbey. Emma was in need of her; that was all.

But there had indeed occurred a misfortune, which, when confided to the proprietor of Donwell Abbey, occasioned an outburst of expletives worthy of Miss Bates.

The maid wept once more. She had not seen the pearls had gone, at first. She had searched the dressing-table, the box— but Mrs. Knightley had said nothing—”

“This is most strange!” cried John Knightley, taking on the role of prosecutor; the maid shrank back. “Your mistress must have seen them stolen – I advise you consider again the scene as you witnessed it upon entering Mrs. Knightley's room!”

But the wretched girl could not obey the lawyer, and resorted to piteous sobbing. Mr. Knightley, frowning at his brother, went to comfort her. “There is little doubt as to the identity of the culprit,” he remarked to John Knightley, as the girl quietened, and William Larkins was instructed to lead her down to the servants' quarters. “The pearls were taken by Emma's mysterious visitor. Our maid will recall her clothing and appearance, when she grows calm. We must leave Emma in peace – Mrs. Weston must come to her.”

Dear Emma, it was I who was at fault, that I did not warn you. Forgive me – and let us compose ourselves. It is a bad business; and I would not have Mr. Knightley see you like this – indeed I would not.”

Mrs. Weston sat at the end of Emma's bed. Her patient was flushed, and tears ran down her cheeks, very copiously: the very mention of Mr. Knightley brought further sobs; it was as if she heard of his death, or of a great misfortune, indeed. It was impossible, for Mrs. Weston, to bring calm to that most superior of beings, Emma Woodhouse, who was Mrs. Knightley of Donwell Abbey, and esteemed and admired by all Highbury society.

“You came to seek me out,” said Mrs. Weston in a low voice, “and I was away from Randalls, my dear child. But I castigate myself now – most severely I do – that I did not come and voice my suspicions to you straight away. I had Frank with me, you know – he is gone back to Enscombe today – Mrs. Churchill says she cannot do without him. The poor boy – he has but to lose an exacting aunt, only to find a wife who demands all the more from him in return for a fortune.”

“And Captain Brocklehurst?” said Emma, in a voice still stifled from the grief that had overcome her. Mrs. Weston was here! There was talk of Mr. Perry's being summoned, but it had been expressly forbidden that he should be disturbed at this hour of night – there was a hope for a return to health and sanity for Emma, now her great friend and past governess was come.

“Captain Brocklehurst,” said Mrs. Weston, smiling. “Mr. Knightley forbade your visit to Lyme, my dear, because he had heard earlier that Mrs. Elton had invited the Captain to join us – some foolish idea she has, that Jane Fairfax and Frank's brother-in-law will make a match; and with Frank gone to Yorkshire—”

“Mr. Knightley forbade me Lyme because—”

“He was jealous of Captain Brocklehurst,” said Mrs. Weston simply. For the first time since the disaster that evening, Emma smiled; then found she could not help herself from laughing. Mrs. Weston laughed also – but
whether she saw the handsome young man as Emma had seen him in the conservatory – or was merely entertained at the idea that any Captain, however dashing, could measure up to Mr. Knightley, it was not within Emma's power to ascertain.

“I wished to tell you,” continued Mrs. Weston in a whisper, so that her charge – and Emma felt, in this way, as if she had never grown older, as if Mrs. Weston could still cure all her ills – must come up close to her, “I should have told you, that very first time here when you were just back from Mrs. Elton's garden and had met the Baroness—”

Emma shuddered. It was August yet, but a fire had hastily been built since the crime and the desuetude of the Abbey's young mistress had become known. The wood, scented and thus reminiscent of Mr. Knightley, who would come in, fragrant with pine cone and beech, from working in the Abbey woodlands, flickered as it burned at the end of the long room. This bedchamber must not hear the name of the Baroness again: Mrs. Weston, seeing Emma's response to her speaking of her, held her friend in her arms before continuing.

“I did suspect then, Emma. For you see – we have two heroines by the name of Delphine, to contend with, here. Oh, Emma, my child, if you had paid more attention to your books! If you had not flitted from crayon and sketching pad to pianoforte and thence to the library
and back again, without giving concentration to each task …”

Emma, pulling away from Mrs. Weston, sat upright in the four-poster and her cheeks, white as the “poor Miss Taylor” of earlier days had never seen them, had rings of red at the centre as if daubed there with a brush.

“Delphine is not her name – and she is not a baroness, Emma. Indeed, her name, or so she recounts on occasions—”

“Is Elise!” cried Emma, who relapsed on to the pillows as if she had been shot by another marauder in her bedchamber, this time a bringer of the truth rather than a thief.

“Eliza perhaps,” said Mrs. Weston; and she wept, Emma saw; but sympathy had ever dictated the good woman's feelings, and she thought no more of it, then.

“So you must remember, Emma – that Delphine is the name of a book – yes, it is a book so infamous that it has thrown heads of state into discomposure; Delphine, the heroine created by Madame de Staël, and proscribed by the Emperor, though he was powerless, by the time it came into his hands. You were not given the book to read, dear Emma; but we discussed it, and your thoughts, I understand now, were far away when we did so! Passionately in love with Léonce, she flees to Switzerland – from there, once her lover has gone to fight for his country, she roams in wild lands—”

“No. Do not continue!” cried Emma.

“The other
Delphine
was of course written by our mentor, Emma, none other than Madame de Genlis. Why, you remarked that I had named my little Anna Adelaide, after the child she addresses in her delightful tales. You must recall the Baroness d'Almane in those stories—”

“Oh, I do,” said Emma, and then fell silent.

There came the sound of the great portals of the Abbey opening, into the hall; and of footsteps, of muffled voices and of the library door, which swung to: Emma saw, in her mind's eye, the mahogany panels as they gleamed in the candlelight from the chandelier, when it was lit in the evenings, and she knew Mr. Knightley came out, alone, to mount the stairs in search of his wife.

“What can I say to him?” she murmured to Mrs. Weston. The sheets were bunched in her hands; her hair, uncombed and disordered, tumbled down her back; the condition of her night-dress, which Mrs. Weston had insisted she put on, was as much a signal of her fever as the bed linen and the untidy room, where those who had searched for the missing pearls had left the mark of their endeavours. “What can I say?” repeated Emma, who was now overcome with a deadly languor.

“You need say nothing at all, dearest Emma,” said Mr. Knightley, striding into the room; Emma saw, as she
shivered in the chill which now overcame her, that he smiled and held himself very tall. “The criminal is apprehended. By a happy chance, a diamond ring belonging to Mrs. Elton's friend Mrs. Suckling, has been discovered along with other loot. The good lady will have plenty to say tomorrow, I do not doubt, on the subject of the recovery of a gem of such important provenance as Lady Carinthia Bragge!”

Emma pulled herself upright. She did not feel Mrs. Weston's hands, as they pulled at her hair and fitted a lace cap; she did not know a velvet cloak, suitable for the night which had descended on Donwell Abbey, had been placed by her friend, about her shoulders. She stared only at Mr. Knightley.

“Emma, I have never seen you prettier!” Mr. Knightley turned his most good-humoured countenance on Mrs. Weston; and she rose, to go quietly from the room. “My dear, you must rest tonight. Be assured the criminal is caught – the Abdy woman, with all the jewels taken by her accomplice, the
soi-disant
Baroness. My grave misgivings on the subject of Mr. Abdy's daughter proved well-founded, alas: she was caught up in a web of thieves, at Bristol – and our famous Baroness, who was never nearer France than the West Country – Lyme, amongst other places – was a leader of them. She has fled – but she will be caught, I do not doubt it.”

Emma, who had her memories of the Frenchwoman's
rough accent to torment her, said nothing.

“Now we may all enjoy some peace. But first, if you will permit me, Emma—”

And for the first time in all the history of their marriage, Mr. Knightley went to kiss his wife, whether she permitted it or not. That she
did
, was evident from the long silence which proceeded from Mrs. Knightley's bedchamber at Donwell Abbey, that night. Even the importunate climbing of the stairs by John Knightley and the subsequent rattle of his legal jargon on the subject of the purloined pearls outside the door, did not disturb the perfect happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Knightley's union.

What totally different feelings did Emma bring downstairs the next morning from those with which she had ascended the night before!— Then she had suffered the pangs of humiliation and the agony of an obsession, both – now she was in an exquisite flutter of joy, and a joy of a degree, moreover, as she believed must still be greater when the flutter should have passed away.

She sat down at the round table – how little she had noticed it the night before!— and how often had she looked out at the same shrubs in the lawn and observed the same lovely effect of the eastern sun in the morning!— But never in such a state of spirits, never in anything like it; and it was with difficulty that she
summoned enough of her usual self to be the attentive lady of the house, when John Knightley came in; wished for his breakfast; and then was gone again, with not a word of the conversation between them remembered by her.

She was not to be left alone, even then. Mrs. Hodges needed counsel, on the meals for the end of the week: there was not enough pork for Sunday if the whole party were to be present, for Mr. Knightley had sent his best loin to Miss Bates. Should Madam prefer duck?— William Larkins had reported there were farmyard fowl fattening up.

When the good cook had gone, came some minutes for reflection – but Emma did not wish to think of theft; of ungrateful women; or of deception practised on her and its outcome in the courts of Surrey. She hoped the two female miscreants would not go to prison.— No! She still could not bear to imagine the Baroness shut up, her fine gowns gone threadbare in the cells at Dorking.— She prayed for clemency on the part of the magistrate, and wondered, even, if John Knightley might intercede for her.

But she must not interfere again. Happiness – indeed, perfect happiness – must come from understanding where she had thought she too perfectly understood, that there were complications, matters kept hidden that were not intended to be revealed. She did not wish to
know the real facts surrounding the Baroness – she would ask Mr. Knightley if he could save her. Yet the Abdy woman might bring her down.— Emma, putting her hands to her ears, found her joy fading with the unexpected speed with which it had come.

Nothing, as Emma was doomed to see, whether she would hold on to her precious new-found contentment or not, had been as it seemed. All along, she had been mistaken— mistaken, to beg her husband to grant permission for the Abdy barn, to a felon, perhaps a stranger to her own family for many long years; in all likelihood not even recognised by the honest ostler or his father, when she had come with three bastard children to cajole money from them, at Highbury.