Jane Austen Made Me Do It (16 page)

“Miss Woodhouse—I am sorry, I meant Mrs. Knightley,” said Mr. Abdy, approaching her, his kindly face breaking into a smile. “Mr. Knightley is nowhere to be found. I am afraid I cannot give my men any further instructions without Mr. Knightley's recommendations.”

Emma—as mistress of Hartfield—was long accustomed to assuming charge. She was on the verge of providing the men with
instructions when it occurred to her that Mr. Knightley would not appreciate
her
intervention in his possessions any more than he would her father's.

“Mr. Knightley has been called to his estate to deal with an urgent matter,” said Emma, trying to give the appearance of calm rather than the impression that matters were moving beyond her control. “I think it best that you disperse your men and return later. Since there is no danger of rain, Mr. Knightley's things may remain in the carts for the moment.”

Mr. Abdy had business of his own to attend to, and looked relieved that she did not expect him to stay. Certainly she did not wish to hold him up if Mr. Knightley did not return. She was aware that he had offered the services of his men as a favour to Mr. Knightley.

“Then you will send round to tell me when Mr. Knightley returns?”

“Most certainly, Mr. Abdy,” she replied.

But she had no idea if he would even return today. Perhaps he intended to spend the night at Donwell. Perhaps he would not even come for several days. Oh, what had he meant by saying he should stay at Donwell Abbey until they sorted matters out?

“Emma!” came the voice of her father.

Emma marched down the pathway, through the gate, and down the road to Highbury. She would occupy herself with other things; buying provisions or even a new pair of gloves. It might improve her spirits and she would be less inclined to blame Papa for causing a rift between her and her new husband.

Haberdashery, she discovered soon, held little appeal, despite the helpful suggestions of Mr. Ford. She could not distract her thoughts from the sight of Mr. Knightley striding away across the green verdure towards his home. Was this the end of their felicity together? It was not unheard of in wealthy families for wife and
husband to live apart for some months of the year—during the London Season, for example—though no one of her acquaintance did so. Yet she knew it was not unusual. Would that be her fate with Mr. Knightley?

She excused herself from Mr. Ford and left the shop empty-handed, too restless to settle on any one thing. She had not the slightest desire to return home. She lingered.

At that moment Miss Bates opened her window and leaned out to invite Emma to visit her.

Emma had no wish to see Miss Bates, not now, certainly, but Miss Bates so clearly wished to question her on her expedition to the seaside that Emma could not refuse, though remembering her golden days alone with Mr. Knightley brought her pain. Oh, how could she have been so foolish as to agree to the marriage while her father was alive?

“It is so very obliging of you to come to see us and enquire after us, Mrs. Knightley,” said Miss Bates. “We are very well indeed, so happy that Jane is soon to be settled in Enscombe and that things have come out so well—so anxious about her being a governess—such an uncertain future—such a wonderful surprise that she and Frank Churchill were engaged!—surely the happiest day in my life.”

Emma felt a headache coming on, but she ignored it, determined to occupy herself with anything at hand.

“Have you received a letter from Jane?” said Emma, for once hoping that a letter might prove a distraction.

A brief moment of silence met her query. Emma was so accustomed to hearing of Jane's letters from Miss Bates that she could hardly credit the expression of pain that crossed Miss Bates's perennially cheerful face. It did not last long. Miss Bates rallied quickly.

“She wrote to us when she first met up again with the Campbells
in London,” said Miss Bates, “did she not, Mama? I believe you were kind enough to hear me read her letter then. Yes, you are always so considerate—we have received nothing since then—she has been too occupied to write to us since—all the excitement of the engagement—distracted by the preparations—meeting with Mr. Frank Churchill—all the entertainment town has to offer. So very kind of you to wish to hear her letter—but we have not had news from her—”

Miss Bates's speech came to an abrupt halt. She looked around her as if searching for something to speak about. Never in all the years Emma had known Miss Bates had she been at a loss for words, except perhaps on Box Hill, after Emma's own shabby behaviour—but she did not wish to remember that.

Indignation at Jane's heartlessness rose up inside her. How could Jane Fairfax spurn her aunt simply because she was on the verge of contracting an eligible match? Jane knew full well how much Miss Bates lived and breathed for news of her niece. It was Frank's negligence to blame, certainly, his indifference to the comfort of others, but could Jane be so weak-willed as to follow his lead? No, it could not be so, not when Frank himself corresponded quite frequently with his father. It was Jane, she was sure, who had forgotten her aunt, absorbed in her own felicity. Emma would never do such a thing. Jane may perhaps be more accomplished, more well travelled, but
she
would never abandon dear Papa for Mr. Knightley. In
this
she was Jane Fairfax's superior.

Her consciousness of her own superiority lifted her from the cloud of oppression that had surrounded her. Secure in her own virtue, she turned her attention fully to Miss Bates, who still sat looking around her, grasping for a topic of conversation.

“Mrs. Bates's health is much the same?” said Emma, coming to Miss Bates's rescue, unable to endure the unaccustomed silence.

“So very considerate of you to ask, Mrs. Knightley,” said Miss Bates, making a great effort to appear lively. “As you can see, Mother is well—much the same as always, are you not, Mother? The same as always.”

A small shaft of sunlight found its way through the window and settled on Mrs. Bates. Mrs. Bates did not appear to Emma the same as always. Perhaps she had not really looked at her for a long time now, or perhaps because she had been away—though it had not been that long. Mrs. Bates was so silent, so always out of the light, in the corner, and now was exposed under full sunlight—but it seemed to Emma that Mrs. Bates was very thin and frail, her face shadowed, her frame shrunken. Emma was shaken to see her thus.

“We are so happy that Jane's future has been settled,” said Miss Bates, “it was a source of anxiety to us, you can be sure—never expected such good fortune—though Jane of course deserves the best—does not Jane deserve the best, Mother?”

Miss Bates continued to discourse in this manner, but her words were halting. Emma looked at Miss Bates, truly seeing her for the first time. She saw darkness under her eyes, lines of worry around her mouth. She wondered who would listen to Miss Bates when her mother was taken from them. She questioned who would supply Miss Bates's conversation, once Jane ceased to send her letters.

Emma had been very busy arranging everyone's lives, but she had never given any thought to Miss Bates. She had been contrite after Mr. Knightley had taken her to task for her abominable treatment of Miss Bates. She had sought to make amends through her willingness to
pretend
an interest. But she had deceived herself as well as Mr. Knightley. She had never really perceived Miss Bates as anything but a spinster who prattled endlessly, a source of irritation she must endure.

The very recollection of her past feelings filled her with mortification. Today would be the beginning, on her side, of a regular, equal, and kindly interaction.

She recalled Miss Bates's reaction when she had attended the ball at the Crown. Miss Bates had proclaimed in wonder that she had felt herself “quite in fairy-land.” Miss Bates had been beside herself with happiness. She had not known that day that Frank Churchill would take her beloved niece from her.

Emma felt her own unhappiness pale beside this picture of Miss Bates's present sufferings. She imagined her—for Emma was good at imagining—sitting alone in their small apartments, chattering to herself, with no one to listen, and growing older by the day. She must not allow it to happen. She, Emma Woodhouse, had it in her power to do something for Miss Bates, beyond gifts of pork leg and arrow-root. She may not be able to reconcile Mr. Knightley with her father, but it was in her power to bring some happiness into Miss Bates's life.

“There was a reason for my calling on you, Miss Bates,” said Emma brightly, spurred by an urgent need to make amends for years of neglect. “We require your assistance in Mr. Knightley's removal to Hartfield. You were so kind as to give your opinion to Frank Churchill about the dance at the Crown, as I recall. Perhaps you may also be able to give us the benefit of your advice—Mr. Knightley sees things his way, my father another, and I cannot arbitrate between them.”

The look of genuine joy on Miss Bates's face was its own reward. Emma did not regret inviting her to Hartfield, though what contribution she could possibly make, Emma could not imagine. But then the joyful look faded as Miss Bates glanced at Mrs. Bates in the corner.

“It is difficult—I would love to help more than anything, you
understand—but it is hard for Mother to leave the house—hard to leave the house, isn't it, Mother?—too many stairs—can't really leave her too long in case she falls—though very honored for being asked to be sure.”

“I will send one of the maids to take care of her,” said Emma, and that was that.

The smile returned to Miss Bates's face. Eager to be of use, she fetched her bonnet and prepared to walk to Hartfield.

As they walked through the high street, Emma's gaze landed on the Crown, and a scheme hatched in her mind. She had often heard Miss Bates speak with affection of old Mr. John Abdy. His son was a widower, had never remarried, and at the age of fifty was reasonably wealthy. If she could but find a way to draw the two together, surely there was a chance for Miss Bates, who was generally held to be agreeable.

But no, Mr. Knightley had warned her against matchmaking. She had learned her lesson, surely. She would not meddle in others' lives.

Nevertheless, she stepped into the Crown on her way.

“Mr. Abdy, if you are not otherwise occupied, perhaps you would care to join us for tea. I am sure by now Mr. Knightley has sorted out his affairs, and will have returned. Miss Bates is to give us the benefit of her advice. You are well acquainted with Miss Bates, I believe?”

The warm expression that Mr. Abdy turned towards Miss Bates satisfied Emma that it was a good beginning.

“How is your dear father?” inquired Miss Bates. “I hope he is not suffering badly—the weather has been accommodating, to be sure—perhaps the symptoms aren't so very bad—rheumatism is so very disagreeable—especially in the winter—my mother suffers from it.”

“His rheumatic gout never leaves him, though he has days when he is much improved,” remarked Mr. Abdy, sadly. “I wish I could do more for him.”

“You must have Mr. Perry visit him—I do not believe there is another who is his equal—we are so very fortunate to have Mr. Perry in Highbury—what would we do without him, Mr. Abdy?”

A conversation ensued about the best cures for rheumatism. Emma, satisfied that she had sowed the seeds, fell back a little, leaving the two to converse, and enjoying the sight of the short, neat, brisk-moving woman conversing animatedly with the large, rather stocky Mr. Abdy.

As they turned the corner onto the lane that led to the vicarage, who should appear before them but Mrs. Elton herself.

“Now, now, Mrs. Knightley,” cried Mrs. Elton, once they had exchanged greetings. “What are you doing strolling about town at a time like this? Can it be that you are already escaping the upheaval at your home? I see that I am right, for you are looking very sly. Pray be sincere, my good friend. If you wish to consult me on anything, anything at all, I would be happy to do everything in my power. I know that I can ascertain the best arrangement for Knightley's things, for I managed the move to the vicarage very smoothly, as I am sure my
caro sposo
will testify. I have rearranged the whole place. It is now vastly superior; though of course it is nothing compared to Maple Grove.”

“You are very obliging, but Mr. Knightley and I are well able to manage,” said Emma.

“Your scruples do you justice, my dear Mrs. Knightley, but I assure you it would be no trouble to me at all. You are only a new bride. One cannot expect you to know everything. Besides, you have not seen as much of the world as I have.”

“You need not concern yourself, Mrs. Elton, matters are perfectly in hand. I do not require any advice or assistance.”

“Aye, I am quite firm in this, for I have a great deal to contribute. I would join you at Hartfield at once, were it not for the fact that Mr. E. and I are otherwise engaged—we are forever being invited somewhere or the other—I am so much in demand in Highbury society I scarcely have a moment alone. But I have it now—I will send you my housekeeper. She is extremely clever and will soon have everything in the proper order—that is, if my lord and master concurs, for I would not presume to do anything he disapproves of. You
must
accept my assistance, Mrs. Knightley; I positively insist on it, I will not let you off.”

“You must not send your housekeeper, Mrs. Elton,” said Emma firmly, quite beyond the limits of her patience. “We already have an excess of staff from both households, and she will be turned away. Now if you will excuse us, I must return to Hartfield. I wish you a pleasant afternoon.”

Mrs. Elton looked as if she would object, but Emma signaled to Miss Bates and Mr. Abdy, who were waiting for her, and began to walk away, leaving Mrs. Elton staring after them.

As they drew close to Hartfield, Emma could make out Mr. Knightley some distance away striding towards the house. His tall figure was so familiar, so well loved, that she felt a glow of happiness just at the sight of him. Was it really possible that Mr. Knightley, always so kind and so considerate, would be discouraged by one day of difficulty with her father? He had undoubtedly returned to make amends.