George Knightley, Esquire

A Novel in Two Parts

Book 2
Lend Me Leave

by

Barbara Cornthwaite
George Knightley, Esquire: Lend Me Leave
Copyright 2011 by Barbara Cornthwaite
To my faithful readers, whom I could not weary even by negligent treatment—that is, my very slow
writing. Thank you for your patience and support.
 1

“Perry!”
Perry, coming out through the rectory gate, turned at the sound of Knightley’s voice and waited while
Knightley came up the lane.
“Good morning, Mr. Knightley. Anyone ill?”
“No, merely hoping to call on Dr. Hughes. He is well, I trust?”
“Certainly. He would be pleased to see you—he has some news he will like to share.”
“Yes, my brother told me that his son has been called to the bar. I was calling to offer my
congratulations.”
“He will be most gratified to receive them.” Perry hesitated for a moment and then said,
“Perhaps I ought not to delay you now, Mr. Knightley, but I do have a question—that is, I wished to
have your opinion on a certain matter.”
“Oh? Well, I have no urgent business at the moment; if you have time to ask the question, I have
time to answer.”
“It is very good of you, Mr. Knightley. I wanted to know—would you think me extremely foolish
if I were to set up a carriage for myself?”
“What sort of carriage?”
“That is not yet determined, exactly. Mrs. Perry is extremely anxious that I conserve my strength
and not become chilled or overheated as I visit my patients.”
“So it would only be used to visit patients? Would a donkey cart serve?”
Perry saw the twinkle in Knightley’s eye and smiled reluctantly. “Although Mrs. Perry’s desire
for a carriage is always supposed to be for my benefit, I cannot swear that that is her only reason for
wanting such a thing. I do not think a donkey cart would satisfy her. Be thankful, Mr. Knightley, that
your wife will not feel the need to improve her style of living.”
Your wife. Knightley just had enough time to feel a rising panic that Perry had some particular
female in mind—Miss Fairfax, perhaps, or worse, Emma—and that he would have to deny or deflect
the supposition, before Perry relieved him by going on with his question.
 “It seems that a new carriage will cost something near two hundred pounds; is that so?”
“A new bespoke demi-landau would be about one hundred and fifty pounds. You might find an
older one for less.”
“True. I suppose if it were not very ancient it might be acceptable. And you only pay for it once.”
“Oh yes, the cost of the carriage itself is only paid once—but then the tax on it is due every year.
And if you used it constantly, the hire of horses to draw it would be enormous.”
“I think Mrs. Perry’s idea was that we would keep horses for the carriage.”
“Ah. Well then, you need to buy the horses and pay the yearly tax on them, hire a groom and pay
the tax for him, keep the horses fed and their injuries treated…”
Perry sighed. “I must go over my accounts again. I fear Mrs. Perry will be disappointed.”
“I daresay you will be able to afford one in time.”
“I hope so; it has been her desire for the last year, made more intense by the sight of Elton’s new
chariot.”
“I have heard reports that it is very fine. Have you seen the new Mrs. Elton yet?”
“Only at church, although Mrs. Perry has called on her and found her very charming and
agreeable.”
As this was exactly what Knightley would have expected the easily pleased Mrs. Perry to think, it
gave him no enlightenment as to her real character. Emma’s judgement would be more informative.
He was hoping to get to Hartfield that evening and see if Emma had formed an opinion.
“Well, I ought to let you see Dr. Hughes,” said Perry. “And I should be visiting Old John. I thank
you for your advice, Mr. Knightley.”
“Not at all, Perry.”
Dr. Hughes was in his study and stood to greet Knightley when he was shown in.
“My dear sir,” said Knightley, gripping his hand warmly, “I believe you are completely healed.
On your feet to greet me and back in your study, working—I congratulate you!”
“Thank you, Mr. Knightley. I have not yet regained my full strength, but Perry has given me
permission to dine at the Gilberts’ tonight—so long as I use my cane, of course.” He glanced fondly
at the handsome cane his son had given him. “He had no need to issue such an order, however; I am
quite sure I will use it to the end of my days, whether my leg pains me or not. It is a great pleasure to
have it near me…a token of my son’s affection.”
“You have reminded me that I called to offer my congratulations on more than your health; John
tells me that Richard has been called to the bar.”
“Indeed, he has. I am very sensible of your part in bringing it to pass.”
“I did nothing at all.”
“Not to bring that about, but if you had not helped Richard in his distress in January—”
“You forget,” Knightley interrupted, “that you promised never to speak of that again. I don’t
suppose you would care for me to remind you of the time you assisted Mrs. Harrison…or Mr.
Jessup…or Mr. Fielder…”
Dr. Hughes looked up, startled. “However did you hear about Mr. Fielder? Never mind. You have
said enough to silence me. And that puts me in mind: have you seen Weston lately?”
“Not for several days.”
“He wanted your opinion on some point of law—something about a dog killing sheep, I think;
but whether it was his neighbour’s dog or his own I do not know.”
 “I will call at Randalls, then, after my visit here.”
It was no hardship to go to Randalls now that Churchill was gone. Knightley had rather avoided
the society of the Westons during the young man’s sojourn with them, and he missed his usual
companionable talks with them both. With the interloper now back in Yorkshire, he could again see
his friends without battling to keep his manners civil in the presence of one who was—he now knew
—his rival for Emma’s hand.
It had been a week since he had been inspired to follow the example of the fellow in “The Lass of
Killashee”:

He woo’d by stealth with sighs and smiles

And gently stole her heart away.

He wished that the writer of the song had been a little more specific about how exactly the
wooing had been done. He had been mindful to smile as much as he could whenever he was in
Emma’s presence, but he felt idiotic grinning at nothing in particular, and more than once she had
asked him why he smiled. And as for sighing, he knew exactly what would happen if he sighed in
front of her: she would enquire if he was quite well and he would have no rational answer. Of course,
the song probably did not mean that sort of sigh; no doubt it meant sighs that accompanied soulful
and longing looks at the young lady. He supposed he ought to try that, although how it could be
classified as wooing by stealth he could not see. He was beginning to wonder if it was all nonsense.
The housemaid at Randalls answered the door to his knock and informed him that Mr. and Mrs.
Weston were at home and were, in fact, in the drawing room with Mr. and Mrs. Elton.
“Will you ask Mr. Weston if he would prefer to see me now or whether I ought to come back at
another time?” said Knightley.
The housemaid curtseyed and departed. Knightley presumed that Weston would choose to see
him now rather than putting it off; he was the last man to stand on ceremony, and would not be able
to imagine that a new bride paying a return visit to well-wishers could be at all offended in having
that visit shared with another. And if that was so, he would soon meet Mrs. Elton. He had been
hoping that she would be the sort of woman who would make a good companion for Emma. If she
were as accomplished and intelligent as Jane Fairfax and had a warm and engaging manner, she
would be exactly what Emma wanted. Moreover, as the vicar’s wife, she would be a more suitable
friend for Emma than Harriet Smith. If Mrs. Elton were a pleasing but rather shy young woman, she
would call forth Emma’s compassion, and Emma would take pains to draw her out and make her
comfortable. He would be delighted to watch her skill in doing so.
Then again, if Emma had a perfect companion who answered all her wishes, she might be content
to let his friendship fall by the way. Perhaps it would be better for her to have no pleasant
companions at all, so that she would rely on him for all the comforts and joys of friendship.
He had no more time to debate within himself whether he wished Mrs. Elton to be lively or shy
or not agreeable at all, for the housemaid came back to say that Mr. Weston wished him to be shown
in.
“Well now, Knightley, this is quite a happy accident that you should visit just now,” said Weston,
rising to greet him. He turned to a young woman, tolerably pretty and very fashionably dressed. “I
told you, didn’t I, madam, that you would meet the owner of Donwell Abbey before many days had
passed? Mrs. Elton, may I present Mr. Knightley?”
“How do you do?” said Knightley, bowing. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Elton,
Mrs. Elton—allow me to wish you every happiness on your marriage.”
“So you are the Knightley that my caro sposo has been telling me of almost since the first day of
our acquaintance!” said Mrs. Elton. “I am very glad to meet you at last!”
 Not a shy young lady, then, thought Knightley, and not particularly well-schooled in polite
conversation. He glanced at Elton to see if he would be discomfited by his wife’s ill-judged use of
Italian and the incorrect use of his name. But Elton seemed oblivious to his wife’s lack of refined
speech.
“Mrs. Weston,” said Knightley, smiling and making his bow to her. “I hope you are well?”
“Very well indeed, Mr. Knightley, I thank you.” She smiled back at him as she said it, and he
knew she had slightly emphasized the Mr. to give Mrs. Elton a hint as to the proper form of address.
“Please be seated.”
“You are often calling here, Knightley, I think,” said the unheeding Mrs. Elton. “Mr. E. tells me
that you are very fond of society—always calling on one friend or another.”
“I am indeed fond of society, though I am not alone in that inclination,” said Knightley. “Most of
my neighbours are the same.”
“I believe you are correct; I have quite determined that Surrey must be the friendliest place in
England,” Mrs. Elton said. “We have had so many invitations to dine already, and I have not yet been
here a week! But then I am accustomed to dining out frequently; in Bath we did not eat at home
above three times a week. And when I am staying at Maple Grove—the seat of my sister and brother,
the Sucklings—we are asked to dine with one or another of their friends once or twice a week. Of
course we did not mind the journey—their barouche-landau and their chaise are equally comfortable,
so there was not a moment’s inconvenience.”
She reminded him of Mrs. Whitney—the same over-confidence, the same volubility, the same
desire to impress him. In a very short space of time she contrived to mention their new carriage, her
great love of music and the esteem in which her musical taste was generally held, the size of the park
at Maple Grove, her numerous acquaintance among the elite of Bath, and the inferiority of all the
other estates in that country to her brother’s seat. Within five minutes of meeting Mrs. Elton, he was
quite certain: he was in no danger of losing his friendship with Emma to that of Mrs. Elton.
“I suppose you have returned several visits already?” asked Mrs. Weston, when there was a
pause in the conversation.
“Some half-dozen, I should think. We are going on to Hartfield in a few moments—can we have
been here a quarter of an hour already? Mr. E, look at the time!—and then we will call on your
cousins, Mr. Weston, before we return to the vicarage.”
Knightley determined to wait several hours before going to Hartfield himself; although it would
be entertaining to see Emma manage Mrs. Elton’s impertinence, he did not think he had the patience
to listen to her prattle for a second time that day. Moreover, he needed time to think before he went to
Hartfield again; the lime walk was beckoning. He would go there just as soon as he had satisfied
Weston’s curiosity about the point of law.

The air in the lime walk was cold enough that Knightley was thankful there was no wind. The
winter was almost spent; in a week or two the daffodils would send their little spears up out of the
earth and the birds would begin to build their nests in earnest. There was no sign yet of the trees
beginning to bud, which disappointed him: it might have been a good omen for the fledgling hopes
he could not help nursing.
 The question before him was this: might he be able to look longingly at Emma—to try the
“sighs” that the song mentioned—without frightening her or making her uneasy? Could he reveal just
a hint of his true regard with his eyes? Not enough, of course, to provoke any sort of response from
her, but enough to spark a change in her perception of him—to help her see him as a man rather than
a relative.
Perhaps he ought not to take such a risk. The thought of meeting her eyes with his feelings
advertised on his countenance seemed too bold. If she met his gaze with alarm on her face, he would
feel wretched. He would not know how to proceed. She might avoid his eyes thereafter, or speak
coldly to him. He could not bear that.
He paced the full length of the lime walk and turned back again. If he did too much too quickly,
he risked losing her; if he did nothing, he would certainly lose her. The longer he thought on it, the
more certain he became that he had no choice. He would have to take his chance. How long had it
been since he had needed to screw up his courage and follow through with a pre-determined course
of action in spite of unruly nerves? How long since he had been afraid of anyone—either of what
they might do or what their opinions might be? He smiled wryly. The great Mr. Knightley, landowner
and magistrate, fearing nothing from anyone…except a young woman who had the power to cast him
into despair or bestow on him the greatest blessings of earthly existence.
He went to Hartfield in the late afternoon, when he judged there was the least chance of finding
Harriet there. He was correct; he found Emma and her father alone in the drawing room. As they
went through the familiar ritual of greetings, Knightley watched Emma closely. She did look
sincerely glad to see him. He let his gaze linger on her face for a moment longer than he usually did,
but she soon turned away, clearly unconscious that he was doing anything out of the ordinary. He sat
in his usual chair and watched Emma resume the needlework that his coming had interrupted.
“What is that you are working on?” he asked.
“Merely embroidering the hem of a gown for our youngest niece,” said Emma. “It is a new
pattern; do you see?” She held it out for his inspection.
“Very beautiful,” he murmured, daring to say it with his eyes on her face. His boldness went
unnoticed. She nodded happily and went back to stitching.
“Mrs. Weston gave me the pattern. My skill is not equal to hers, of course, but I think Isabella
will not be ashamed to have little Emma seen in this.”
“No, indeed.”
Mr. Woodhouse, with his hands folded on his lap, was beginning to nod, and Knightley fidgeted
uncomfortably. To sit motionless staring at Emma, waiting for the proper moment to give her a
soulful glance, would be absurd. He took a newspaper from the table by his chair, unfolded it, and
took refuge behind it.
“The Eltons called today,” said Emma. “Mrs. Elton said she met you at Randalls.”
The newspaper was lowered again.
“Yes, they were there when I arrived.” He paused before saying, “She seems to be a very
sociable young lady.”
“Yes; she may be the least reticent woman I ever met.”
Knightley grinned. “How very unfortunate for the gossips of Highbury: speculation is all at an
end. There will be no mysteries surrounding her; everyone will discover all there is to know about
her within the week.”
“Some items of information will no doubt be repeated often enough that there will be no danger
in anyone forgetting them; I suspect she found a way to tell every new acquaintance about Maple
Grove and the two carriages kept by her sister and brother.”
“I concur with that suspicion. She certainly found a way to inform me.”
 “And are you as eager as you were to show her all over the Abbey and let her see your poultry-
yard?” Her left eyebrow was raised and the impish smile he loved was on her lips.
He lifted the newspaper again to hide his face before he answered, “I think I ought to wait for
warmer weather. June—or even July, perhaps—would be a better month for such an expedition.”
He grimaced to himself; he had blundered just then by hiding behind the newspaper. It was such
a confirmed impulse to conceal his regard that he had done it without thinking. He ought to have
taken advantage of the opportunity. It would have been perfect: they had been smiling at each other.
Well, he would do it now. He peeked over the top of the newspaper. Emma had looked back down at
her sewing, still smiling at his little joke. Now then. He took a deep breath. Slowly he brought the
newspaper down, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. He hoped he did not look as anxious as he felt
—if only he could calm his pounding heart! He assumed what he hoped was a love-struck expression
and looked at her steadily, his face a frozen mask, willing himself to remain in this extremely
uncomfortable pose until she should notice him and meet his eyes. He must hold this position….hold
it…
She looked up. Instantly he was on his feet, walking toward the fire. He grabbed the poker and
jabbed at the fire vigorously, angry with himself for his cowardice, but knowing that it was hopeless
for him to continue trying to carry out this plan. “The Lass of Killashee” was a complete failure as a
guide to wooing by stealth: smiling alone would not carry the day, and he now knew that sighing was
not practicable for him, either. Perhaps there was some other way of winning a fair lady covertly;
surely he could think of someone, in literature or in life, who had succeeded in doing so.
“Are you cold, Mr. Knightley?” Emma’s voice sounded amused, and he realized he was still
prodding the fire.
“No—yes,” he said, and put the poker back in its place. “I wonder, Emma…might I look into
your library for a moment? I believe there is a book on your shelves that I wanted to read again.”
“Of course, Mr. Knightley. Shall I accompany you?”
“No, no, there is no need. I will be back very shortly.”
He needed a place to think, away from Emma’s eyes. The library was cool and silent, and he let
himself sink into a chair for a moment and close his eyes. It would all be so comical if his whole
happiness—and Emma’s—did not depend on it. If Emma married Churchill she would be miserable;
he was certain of it. And as for himself—well, he did not want to think about what life would be like
if he lost her.
Frank Churchill would not be so inept, of course. He had great charm and address, and was no
doubt entirely too skilled in the art of flirtation. He, Knightley, had no such facility; it was unlikely
that he had ever been considered a charming young man.
“Charm strikes the sight, but merit wins the soul.” Memory plucked the quotation out of the
confusion in his mind and made him smile. One could always rely on Pope for an apt quotation. But
was Pope to be trusted any more than the anonymous bard who had penned “The Lass of Killashee”?
Knightley was inclined to think he was; he had always found Pope’s work to be full of good sense.
For, after all, would not a reasonable young woman appreciate the thoughtfulness and consideration
of a good man more than the glib flattery and empty compliments of a coxcomb?
Merit wins the soul. Knightley would become the kindest friend Emma had—the most
sympathetic, the most faithful supporter in all her joys and sorrows. In return, she would recognize
his merit and give him her heart. It would all be very gradual and natural, and there would be no
more posturing or desperate stratagems. He got up and searched the shelves around him for a book to
bring out with him. He found Sir Charles Grandison, whose hero, though a little dull, at least had the
virtue of winning a wife through his merit.
 On Knightley’s return to the Abbey, he was told that Larkins was waiting for him in the library.
Larkin’s face was sober, and he gave his news without the usual eagerness.
“I think you should know, Mr. Knightley, that there has been a death in the parish.”
His heart sank. “Who?”
“Matthews—one of the hired men at the Bradley farm.”
“He married the kitchen maid here several years ago, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“Yes, I remember. He was from a workhouse. Orphaned, I believe.”
“Quite right, Mr. Knightley. His wife was an orphan, as well. I remember you remarking on the
satisfaction it gave to see two young persons so alone in the world find happiness together.”
“I wish the happiness had not been so brief. Was he ill?”
“No, Mr. Knightley. An accident with one of the horses.”
Knightley shook his head. “That is a very great pity. There were children, were there not?”
“Three—one of them a babe in arms.”
“And no family to help her.”
“Mrs. Catherwood is there, I believe.”
“Of course, she would be. That woman is a blessing to this parish.”
“To be sure, she is.”
“I will call on the widow tomorrow, Larkins; I dine at the Gilberts’ this evening.”
“Very good, Mr. Knightley.”
Knightley sat at his desk when Larkins had left, musing on the tragedy of this unexpected death,
and wondering how many deaths the parish had seen in the last twelvemonth. Five, he thought. Two
children, an old woman, a middle-aged man, and now Matthews. It was fewer than might be expected
for a parish of this size.
He found himself staring at the filigree box that held his pencils. Emma had made it for him
when she was about fourteen, and it always made him smile. It was not perfect—one side was clearly
done in haste, with the paper rolls spaced too far apart and not rolled tightly enough, and another side
worked so neatly that he was quite sure it had been the work of Miss Taylor. He could imagine that
Emma, having become impatient with the tedious work, had grown very careless and slack and
perhaps threatened to abandon the project altogether. Kind-hearted Miss Taylor would have rescued
the piece by finishing it herself. He reached out and touched the box. Emma’s fingers had formed
these little rolls of paper and carefully arranged and glued them…for him. He had always found the
box amusing, but now it was precious. He shook his head at his sentimentality. It was only a box, an
ordinary box, made and given when they had been nothing more to each other than friends. And yet it
made him happy to have it near him.
The clock struck the hour and it recalled him to the business at hand. He really ought to look over
those papers Larkins had left before he went to dress for his evening at the Gilberts’. There would be
time enough later to labour over the problem of how to make Emma aware of his merit without
boasting about himself or making his affection obvious. He had determined to show so much
consideration and kindness to Emma that she would think him the best man she had ever known, but
herein lay a dilemma: all the small kindnesses he could imagine doing were things that he usually did
anyway, and would therefore cause no change in her ideas about him. And any benevolence more
grand would not be stealthy. Perhaps he might….
No, he needed to put it out of his mind now. Unless he began at once, he would not have time to
finish examining the documents. And he could not be late to the dinner, not when Dr. Hughes would
once again be a guest! It would be lovely to be dining out with him again; it had been many months
since the after-dinner conversation had been enriched by the good doctor’s wisdom. He would be
back at the table tonight, just the same as ever…with the addition, of course, of his beloved cane. The
cane his son had given him. Yes, the cane that reminded him of his son, even when he wasn’t there.
He ought to have thought of it before—especially with Emma’s filigree box sitting on his desk! He
would give something to Emma; something that she would see all the time, and be reminded of him.
It would have to be a gift chosen carefully: not so insignificant that it would be put out of sight and
never looked at, but not so impressive that his secret would be laid bare. What could he give her?
The clock struck the quarter hour and brought back his errant mind to those documents.
Reluctantly he put the first page in front of him, comforting himself that he had the key now, and it
would only be a very little while before he would decide on the perfect gift.
 2

“If John knew,” said Knightley to Madam Duval late that night, “that I end nearly every evening in
the library, stroking my cat and telling her all the events of the day, he would have me shut up
somewhere.”
The cat did not even pause in her purring.
“Heaven knows what Baxter makes of my behaviour. He has stopped asking when I will retire to
bed, and as he does not allow the fire in the library to die out until after I am asleep, he must realize,
at least in part… I only hope he is not listening at the door while I natter on.”
He had a sudden impulse to creep across the room and fling open the door to see if any of the
servants would be found lurking there. A moment’s reflection told him that such a discovery would
embarrass him even more than the servant, and that, after all, he would really rather not know.
“Well, Madam, I believe I must go to my rest now. Tomorrow will be taxing: there will be the
call of condolence on the new widow and a wedding-visit to pay to the Eltons. I do not know which
visit I dread more. And I must speak to Larkins about Gilbert’s proposition.”
He put the cat down on the floor, took up his candle, and walked over to the window.
“And as for talking to you every night, Emma, that is a piece of lunacy no one would credit me
with. The cat, at least, is present when I talk to it.” He chuckled softly and added, “‘I am two fools, I
know, for loving and for saying so’…to a lady who is a mile distant and very likely asleep. However,
it is now become such a habit to wish you a good night that it seems to me you would miss it if I did
not. I am very much afraid that I have become a besotted fool, but I cannot help it. I am, at least, your
besotted fool, my dearest Emma, and as such I bid you goodnight.”

As it happened, the visit to the new widow’s cottage was the more difficult call. He had been
making such calls for years, as was his duty, but he had never become inured to the scenes presented
to him. The raw anguish on the face of Annie Matthews, the muffled sobs of her children, the
sorrowful murmurs of the neighbours who had come to express their sympathy all conspired to make
him feel, for a moment, that this was a bleak world without consolation, where tragedy lurked at
every turn. He gave the widow a few words of sympathy, and assured her that she had nothing to fear
as to her future welfare, or that of her children. He knew she valued this small attention and he would
not have shirked it for anything, but he also knew how little he could do to lessen the screaming ache
of her grief.
He returned to the Abbey, thankful that he would not be able to call on the Eltons for several
hours yet; the contrast between the true sorrow in the one place and the false elegance and vanity in
the other would be too much to bear in close juxtaposition.
He busied himself with letters, documents and leases until Larkins came for his usual meeting.
They were busy for an hour before they had finished with the accounts, and then Knightley closed the
ledger and said, “I called on Mrs. Matthews today, Larkins. Is Bradley doing anything toward her
support, do you think? She has no family, you know, and she cannot go back into service with those
children.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Knightley, but I don’t think he could do much. He is a kind-hearted man, but
the farm is not large and I should think he has little spare income for supporting the widow of one of
his farm labourers.”
“Look into it, will you? We might manage a small pension for her—through Bradley, of course
—if there is need for it.”
“Certainly, Mr. Knightley.”
“Now, there is another matter I need to speak to you about. Gilbert had a proposal for me last
evening; you know he has a new bailiff—Perkins, I think the name is.”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley. I may say I was surprised at Mr. Gilbert’s taking on such a young man with
so little experience.”
“Just so. I think there was a promise made to his father or some such thing. At any rate, he seems
a good fellow—intelligent and eager, but as you say, quite young and inexperienced. Gilbert
wondered if I might let you mentor the youthful Perkins—perhaps he could come twice a week for a
half-day or so and observe you as you go about your duties. There will be compensation for your
time, of course.”
“I am honoured, Mr. Knightley, to be of service to Mr. Gilbert.”
“Good. Gilbert says he would particularly like you to show Perkins your system of accounts, and
also acquaint him with the improvements that tenants can make on their farms. I thought you might
show him the Foote place, as a sterling example of what only a few months’ careful labour might
produce.”
“Very good, Mr. Knightley.”
“I think that is all for today, Larkins. I will speak with Gilbert tomorrow.”
“Perhaps you should know, Mr. Knightley, that the freeholder Munnings and Tadgett, the head
gardener at Hartfield, are at loggerheads.”
“Munnings’ farm borders some of the grounds at Hartfield, does it not?”
“It does. It seems there is some dispute about the boundary. There is a wall in disrepair, and
some pigs got through. Munnings says the wall is on the Hartfield property, and Tadgett says the wall
stands on Munnings’ ground.”
“Has Munnings any record of the boundary?”
“Not to my knowledge. The farm has been in the family for generations, of course, and these
things have not always been arranged in a regular fashion.”
 “No. Well, perhaps there is some record at Hartfield that would give the answer. I suppose it is,
strictly, none of our business, but I would hate for the dispute to come to Mr. Woodhouse’s ears; it
would trouble him greatly.”
“Will you be going to Hartfield today, Mr. Knightley?”
“I have every intention of doing so, but first”—he stifled a sigh—“I must pay the Eltons a
wedding-visit.”

Mrs. Elton was all that was gracious and voluble. Indeed, conversation with her bore some
resemblance to talks with Miss Bates in that Knightley had very little to do except listen. He far
preferred the conversation of Miss Bates, however; with her there was no presumption, no preening,
no flaunting. Mrs. Elton spent most of the fifteen-minute call discoursing at length about the wealth
of the Sucklings, the delights of Maple Grove, the offerings and resources of Bath, and the dismal
selection of ribbons, muslins, and gloves at Ford’s. He did not retain any clear idea of what Mrs.
Elton said; he managed to nod in the right places and give short answers when they were required,
but his attention was caught quite early in the visit by a beautiful little ormolu clock sitting on a
secretaire cabinet, and he spent much of the time wondering if a clock would be a good gift for
Emma. A lovely little time-piece would be looked at a dozen times a day. He might get it for them
both—Mr. Woodhouse and Emma, and then his motives would not be conspicuous. If only he could
be certain that it would be placed where she would see it! There was already a handsome clock in the
drawing room, and as Mr. Woodhouse abominated change of any sort, it seemed unlikely that a new
clock would be allowed to displace the old. And then, too, Emma would think it a strange gift. They
had no need for another clock, and it was unlike him to give the Woodhouses gifts for no particular
reason, especially expensive ones. Then again, he needed to do something.
He looked around the drawing room for more inspiration. A chinoiserie vase? A brass inkstand?
A gilded mirror? No, none of them would answer his purpose. Whatever he gave needed to be
unremarkable, and any of these things would be too obviously out of the ordinary.
It was time to be going, anyway, and he took his leave quite happily, more than ready to go to
Hartfield. If he found Emma alone, he could talk to her about the boundary dispute and explain to her
what was needed and she would be able to help him. Mr. Woodhouse, if confronted with the
knowledge that there had been any sort of altercation between his head gardener and their near
neighbour, would be shocked and grieved beyond anything.
When Knightley arrived at Hartfield, Mr. Woodhouse was out-of-doors taking his three turns, but
Harriet was there with Emma to share in the greetings and dash his hopes of a private word.
The young ladies, it appeared, were just embarking on a discussion about the impending visit of
the little nephews. Knightley settled into his usual chair and watched as Emma, with all the light of
animation on her face, talked to her friend.
“As I was saying, Harriet, Henry and John will be here then.”
“Oh, yes, the dear little boys,” said Harriet. “Such delightful young gentlemen! I was so pleased
to make their acquaintance at Christmas.”
“They were equally delighted to make yours, Harriet. I have often remarked how fond you are of
children, and they of you.”
 Harriet blushed and thanked her. “But the little Knightleys are so clever!” she went on. “I am
sure I do not know when I have seen such intelligent children.”
“Well, Isabella takes great care with their education, and so does John. I only wish there were
more I could do, but at such a distance, you know…”
Mr. Woodhouse came in just then, full of concern for the trials of his guest, as Knightley had
been sitting without him for, he was quite sure, a very long time.
Knightley made his usual denials and expressed his thanks for Mr. Woodhouse’s solicitude, and,
after Emma and Harriet had begun to talk between themselves again, began the subject of the
boundary.
“I have heard of an instance, sir, where a wall between farms was suffered to get into disrepair
because the owners of both farms believed the wall stood on the property of the other. It is a pity, for
the difficulty would be avoided if the landowners each had a record of his land’s boundaries.”
“Very true,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “It is most distressing to think there might be some
disagreement over such a thing! I have even heard that sometimes men are driven to go to law to
settle a dispute of this nature.”
“Indeed; I have often been appealed to arbitrate quarrels of this kind. But there is another
consideration, too. A man such as yourself, who has such good neighbours, would not like them to
undertake needless expense. Suppose a wall between your property and theirs was in need of repair,
and the farmer—say, for example, Mr. Munnings—mistakenly thought the wall was on his property
and repaired it at great expense. It would be a very sad thing, would it not? You would not mind the
expense of repairing a wall that is yours to repair, but you are too kind-hearted to wish that Mr.
Munnings should unnecessarily take so much upon himself.”
“Oh! dear, of course not. I am much obliged to you for drawing my attention to the matter.”
“I wonder—are the records of Hartfield easily to hand? We ought, perhaps, to make certain we
know which land and which walls belong to the grounds here.”
“I dare say it is all written down somewhere, but I really do not know where. It has always been
understood, I think. But, as you say, one of our neighbours may be under some misapprehension. I
daresay we ought to make an attempt to find the record—if you would not mind joining me in the
search. Perhaps after we have a little tea...”
“Certainly, sir.”
Mr Woodhouse subsided into silence, and Knightley’s attention was drawn back to the
conversation of the young ladies.
“I am certain we can find out how to get a telescope,” Emma was saying. “We had one, of
course, when I was young, but I was less careful of it than I ought to have been, and it broke. I
remember thinking, last time the boys were at Hartfield, that it would have been an excellent
amusement for them while they were here.”
“Oh—yes, an excellent amusement indeed,” echoed Harriet.
“Mr. Knightley, do you know how one might procure a telescope, such as would be suitable for
children?”
“You do not think John and Isabella would object, do you?”
That idea had evidently never occurred to Emma. Her brow wrinkled for a moment as she
answered, “No, I cannot imagine John and Isabella would have the least objection.”
Knightley was not certain of this—he could envision John wanting to provide such scientific
equipment himself, even if it were to stay at Hartfield—but he was willing to let it pass. He would
not stifle her kindly impulses. If she was trying to find ways to amuse and even instruct their
nephews, he would do all he could to forward her design. He was pleased that she turned to him for
advice and relied on his counsel in such matters.
“There are available at several locations in London; the best would be Berge’s place in Picadilly.
I would be delighted to get it for you.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Knightley! That is very generous.”
“I cannot allow you to be the only benefactor,” said Knightley.
“I?” said Emma, surprised. “I do very little for them, truly.”
Her modesty in the matter was very becoming, thought Knightley. He knew she did much for
them.
“My dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “I think perhaps Mr. Knightley will join us for a cup of tea, if
you would be so kind as to ring the bell. And then, Mr. Knightley, we might look for that document.”
As Emma went to ring the bell, Knightley reflected on the absolutely perfect opportunity that had
sprung from Emma’s own lips. It was a gift that she would see constantly, and so be a silent reminder
of him. Yet it would not provoke any suspicion and could not be in the least inappropriate, since it
was not a gift particularly for her, but for their nephews. He could imagine John and Henry asking
her where it came from and her saying, “Uncle Knightley got it for you—isn’t he a good uncle?”

The nightmare came again that night. This time it was Mrs. Elton who ordered that the lime walk
be cut down, in order to make the Abbey look more like Maple Grove. Again, a word from him to the
workmen would halt the destruction, but he was no more successful in getting to them than he had
been before. As he tried to get out of the house and to the lime walk he discovered that the Abbey
had somehow changed: rooms had disappeared or been rearranged. He lost his way again and again
in the corridors and bedrooms; for some reason he always ended up in the library. To make matters
worse, Elton was following him around (still fluttering Mrs. Whitney’s fan), trying to convince him
to give up Donwell and take the vicarage instead. “For you have no wife and family,” reasoned Elton,
“and have no need for such a large place.”
Emma was there, too, always leaving a room just as he entered it. He kept thinking that if he
could only speak to her, she could get a message to the workmen. Finally he found her standing at the
window in the library, and she turned to smile at him. All thoughts of the workmen and the lime walk
vanished, and he knew he must declare his love. And then, just as he was reaching for her hand, Mrs.
Hodges appeared and urged him to eat breakfast. He thanked her for her concern and dismissed her,
but she would not leave. So agitated was she that she began prodding him in the back.
“Mrs. Hodges, I beg you,” he said, “calm yourself!” But she continued to poke at him with a
bony finger, and to his astonishment, began to growl at him. He turned to look at her, and her form
changed into that of a bear…and then into that of a dog…and then into…
He woke. Madam Duval was walking across his back, purring loudly.
“Oh,” he said with a sound that was something between a sigh and a groan. “Oh, Madam. I
almost held her hand.”
 Knightley called on Gilbert that afternoon to tell him that Larkins would be happy to mentor
Perkins.
“That is a relief,” said Gilbert. “I was a little afraid that he disliked me and would refuse my
request; I do not think he has ever smiled at me.”
“Believe me,” said Knightley, “Larkins’ smiles—or lack thereof—are no measure of his regard. I
cannot remember the last time he smiled at me—but I am certain he holds me in esteem, if not
affection. I am sure he holds you in the highest respect.”
“That is good to hear. I am persuaded that Larkins’ regard is not awarded indiscriminately.”
“By no means. Oh! I meant to ask: have you heard anything else about the Crow’s Nest?”
“No, and I’ve made a point of listening for news. There is something afoot in this parish,
however. There have been many thefts, most of them petty, and I doubt any of them have come to
your ears. In fact, I’m sure there are a great many that have never come to my ears, either. Still, it
seems there is a concerted effort by someone—or perhaps a group of someones—to deprive the
residents of Langham of some of their moveable property.”
“Do you think it is connected with Cooper in any way?”
“Hard to say. I told you what the old woman said to my wife—that the scoundrel Finchley was
Cooper’s cousin. I do keep wondering if there is some connection between these thefts and those
fellows at the tavern.”
“Fellows?”
“Oh, the usual collection of young men that gather there of an evening to play cards and drink.
Nothing definitely against any of them, but not exactly men of good repute.”
Knightley wondered if Edmund Gilbert knew anything—surely these were the “lads” he had
referred to when they talked at the Coles’ dinner. Perhaps he could have a quiet word with him
another time. He had no leisure to find him now, and tomorrow was Sunday. And there would be no
time on Monday, either, for on Monday he was going to London to buy a telescope.

12 March
Donwell Abbey

Dear John,
Yes, the new Mrs. Elton is now among us. I imagine that Isabella will soon hear from Emma on
the subject, tho’ I think Emma will likely moderate her words for her sister. You will have a fairly
accurate picture of Mrs. Elton’s character when I tell you about the call the Eltons paid to the Abbey
today as they returned my wedding-visit. You will be pleased to learn that in her estimation, the
Abbey compares favourably with Maple Grove, the seat of her sister’s husband. You have never heard
of the place before, you say? Neither had I, which now seems incredible, as I gather that it is the
pride of Somerset. As Maple Grove has been in existence for, I take it, something less than a century,
and is evidently decorated in the first stare of fashion, the only resemblance Mrs. Elton could
produce between Maple Grove and Donwell is the air of refinement and—she almost said “wealth”,
but replaced it just in time with “prosperity”.
She is much disappointed with the card-parties in Highbury. Her hostesses, one and all, have
neglected to serve ice at their gatherings (where does she suppose they will get it from? This is not
Bath), and, worse, no one has taken the trouble to purchase new packs of cards for each table. She
has evidently not grasped the fact that it is done in the large parties of Bath in order to prevent
cheating, not as a proof of elegance. Or perhaps she has understood the reason, and is in fact
suspicious of Mrs. Goddard or Mrs. Perry, supposing them to be regularly cheating the other ladies
out of a sixpence or two. I could believe either of her.
Harry—you remember, Mefford’s son that I took on as a footman—contrived to drop a loaded tea
tray just outside the drawing room while they were here. You would have enjoyed the scene. Baxter
was in a state of muted agony for the rest of the visit; Harry became amusingly over-cautious:
mincing delicately across the drawing room and warily offering teacups in the manner of an infirm
old woman. Mrs. Elton was at first aghast, and then, recovering, overpoweringly arch. “These things
happen frequently in a bachelor establishment, I understand,” she said. “I beg you would not feel
obliged to invite us for a dinner. There is not the least need for it; and as your household is
accustomed to very simple arrangements, it would be shocking to tax them with so much preparation
and ceremony.” I suppose I might have been affronted if I had not had the felicity of observing
Baxter’s face at that moment; the outrage on his countenance was beyond price. I think in future
Harry will be spared the duty of serving guests.
Tell Bella that Madam Duval is very well—much better than I am, in fact. This morning she woke
me out of a deep, refreshing sleep (complete with a particularly pleasant dream) by walking around
on my back and purring in my ear. I have retaliated by hiding all my pencils from her. I fear she will
not profit from the lesson, however.
Give my love to Isabella and the children.
Yours,
George
 3

The telescope was a thing of beauty. Knightley took it out of its box to marvel at its perfection once
again. With its polished dark wood and shining brass it would be admired by anyone who saw it.
Emma could not fail to be fascinated by the instrument, and she would no doubt urge their nephews
to use it often while they were at Hartfield. And she would think of him every time she did so.
The library door opened.
“Mr. Spencer to see you, sir,” said Baxter. “Shall I show him in?”
“Certainly, Baxter.”
Baxter disappeared and Knightley carefully set the telescope back in its box.
“Good morning, Mr. Knightley.”
“Good morning Spencer. I hope I see you well?”
“Tolerable, thank you. I called to see you yesterday, but Baxter said you had gone to London.”
“Yes, I went to get this”— he gestured toward the telescope—“for Hartfield.”
Spencer came nearer to look at it. “It is beautiful. Is Miss Woodhouse to deliver it to Mrs.
Goddard, then? Mrs. Goddard is extremely grateful for your patronage. I may say that I had not
expected you to purchase a telescope of the highest quality for the use of a small country school—but
I ought to have known you would give nothing but the best.”
Knightley looked blankly at Spencer.
“Mrs. Goddard’s school? I don’t understand. The telescope is for my nephews.”
“Is it?” said Spencer in some perplexity. “The story I heard was that Miss Smith told Miss
Woodhouse that the school needed a telescope, and Miss Woodhouse asked you where one could be
got, and you offered to procure it yourself. Was that not the case? Miss Smith told Mrs. Goddard, of
course, who told it to the Bates’, which is where I heard the news. Was Miss Smith mistaken?”
“Do you mean to say,” said Knightley slowly, “that Emma was only asking on behalf of Mrs.
Goddard?”
“That is what I understood.”
“But they were talking about my nephews only a moment before…” Knightley looked at the
curate helplessly. “I suppose they might have turned the subject while I was talking to Mr.
Woodhouse, and—oh, mercy. They all expect it to go to the school.”
“And you thought it would go to your nephews?”
“I thought Emma wanted one to keep at Hartfield for the amusement of the little Knightleys,”
said Knightley, heavily. “I cannot think what I ought to do about it now.”
“It seems to me that nothing need be done; no one but our two selves know of the mistake.”
“But I wanted—” Knightley stopped. There was no way he could say what he wanted.
“You wanted it to go to Hartfield…to Miss Woodhouse…as a sort of gift.” There was a faint
smile on Spencer’s face.
Knightley stared at him. A dozen responses whirled through his head: denials, protests,
excuses…but what he blurted out was, “How did you know?”
“I have known for several months.”
Knightley felt as if he ought to sit down. “Several months?”
“Yes. You did not know it yourself then, I believe.”
“But when…how…”
“You told me of a young lady who had said you were no judge of anyone’s character, and who,
according to you, persisted in defending the indefensible conduct of a young man.”
“I remember now. But surely you could not have deduced the state of my affections from that!”
“No. I inferred it from your reluctance to tolerate the idea of her marrying the fellow, even if he
turned out to be very respectable. In fact, you said that if he was, after all, a worthy man, it would be
worse, for then there would be nothing to stop her marrying him. I could think of no reason for you
to wish her single rather than married to an estimable man unless you wanted to marry her yourself.
However, you did not seem to be aware of the logical conclusion to be drawn from your statement.”
“No, I was not. I have been partial to Emma as a friend for many years, and I suppose that
blinded me…And did you know of whom I spoke? I cannot believe that I said her name.”
“Oh, no, you said nothing about the lady’s identity, other than her being a connection of your
family’s. At one time, I thought it might be Miss Fairfax—you seemed to admire her. I even asked
you if she was a relative of yours. But you said she was not.”
“And, of course, you learned that Emma is.”
“Yes. But I did not immediately guess her to be the one—she is much younger than you are, and
you did not seem to be pursuing her.”
Knightley gave a short laugh. “No. I could hardly have behaved less like a lover. So what was it
that enlightened you?”
“Mr. Churchill. Not only did he fit your description of a captivating young man, but you seemed
very disinclined to praise him, or, in fact, to discuss him at all. If someone mentioned him, you
seemed always to introduce a new topic. Most unusual for you. And one day I saw him and Miss
Woodhouse and Mrs. Weston walking through the town, followed at a little distance by yourself. The
look on your face…”
Knightley sighed. “I wonder how many other people have guessed the same thing?”
“I have no way of knowing, of course, but I would be greatly surprised if anyone else is aware. I
would not have realized it myself if I had not known you were in love and been looking for the lady.”
“I hope you are right. I am now inclined to say nothing at all to anyone, lest I let something slip
unawares.”
Spencer grinned. “I hardly think you can avoid talking completely. Perhaps, however, you ought
to stay away from the topic of tender feelings—yours or anyone else’s. In fact, when we spoke of my
tender feelings not long ago, you made another comment that confirmed to me the state of your
heart.”
“You are making me more alarmed by the minute.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“No, it is good of you to put me on my guard.”
“You are not prepared to say anything to her now, I collect.”
“No.”
“Profiting from my example?”
“In part.”
Spencer nodded. “I daresay you are right to wait.”
Both men were silent for a moment.
“Well, it is still a very fine telescope,” said Spencer. “The school will be very grateful.”
“I will be glad when they have it. I confess, I don’t want to see it any more.”
“Perhaps…shall I deliver it to the school for you?”
“I would be most grateful, Spencer.”

A week passed before Knightley had time to visit the Donwell rectory. He found Dr. Hughes in
the garden, sitting in the sunshine among the daffodils that were finally blooming.
“A very pleasant day for the month of March,” said Knightley.
“Yes, indeed. I believe it is the finest weather we have had yet this spring.”
“And your gardener has been busy, has he not? There seems to be a new flower bed just beyond
the gooseberry bushes.”
“Yes. It is to be a bed of roses, larkspur, and hollyhocks. Mrs. Hughes is particularly gratified, as
Miss Fairfax says that the illustrious Campbells have hollyhocks in their magnificent garden.”
“You have seen Miss Fairfax recently, then?”
“She and her good aunt were here not two hours ago. It was very good to see them again,
particularly as there is a possibility that Miss Fairfax may be leaving Highbury again soon.”
“Oh? I had not heard anything of that.”
“No—I believe it was only yesterday that a letter arrived from the Campbells, inviting her to join
them in Ireland.”
“And she is thinking of going?”
“Miss Bates spoke as if the matter were undecided, but Miss Fairfax seemed to indicate that she
would not. She seems not to want to leave her aunt and grandmother.”
“A very praiseworthy inclination.”
 “Indeed. And she may be reluctant to leave her friends in Highbury so soon; according to Miss
Bates, a deep and sudden friendship has blossomed between Miss Fairfax and the new Mrs. Elton.”
“Ah, Mrs. Elton. You have met her, I presume?”
“Oh, yes, we had the Eltons to dine last week. At that time she was full of talk about her
friendship with Miss Woodhouse, and their plans for a musical club.” Dr. Hughes’ eyes twinkled. “I
confess I could not imagine Miss Woodhouse presiding over such a thing.”
“My dear sir, do you imagine that Mrs. Elton would allow anyone else to preside over anything
in which she was taking part? Oh—I beg your pardon, I ought not to have spoken so freely.” Dr.
Hughes should not be forced to listen to the derision of the wife of a fellow clergyman, even if the
couple in question were the Eltons.
Dr. Hughes chuckled. “No, I suppose you ought not. Still, I suspect you have assessed her
accurately. From Miss Bates’ conversation today I gather that Miss Fairfax has gained the
ascendancy over Miss Woodhouse in Mrs. Elton’s esteem and friendship.”
“Yes. I have heard much of their intimacy in the last week.” He was about to add his own
opinion about why it had happened, but checked himself. Dr. Hughes was a keen enough judge of
human character to surmise the truth on his own.
“I am very glad,” said Dr. Hughes, “that Miss Fairfax has opportunity to be in the company of
new faces. Miss Bates’ circle is extremely affable, but a little restricted, and not at all what Miss
Fairfax is accustomed to.”
“Very true, sir.” It still nettled him that Emma had not befriended Miss Fairfax after what had
seemed to be a very promising beginning, and had left her to the mercy of Mrs. Elton. Anyone who
had Miss Fairfax’s interests at heart must be troubled at this, and he felt that the next logical question
from the rector would be why Miss Woodhouse did not proffer companionship to the lonely girl. He
could not defend Emma in this; nevertheless, he could not bear the thought of Dr. Hughes thinking ill
of her. Hastily, he introduced another subject.
“By the way, have you heard anything of how Mrs. Matthews is faring?”
“I believe she is as well as any new widow could be. Nothing can take away the distress of
losing her husband, but at least she is spared the additional grief of being suddenly without support.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“You are not surprised to hear about her little pension, I believe,” said Dr. Hughes wryly. “You
must beware of letting your compassion get the better of your financial stability.”
“I hope she knows nothing of it.”
“No, no, I had it out of the farmer Bradley.”
“He volunteered the information? I had not thought him so indiscreet.”
“Ah, no…” Dr. Hughes looked uncomfortable. “He did not exactly volunteer it.”
“You asked him, then?”
“Not in so many words.”
“May I enquire…?”
Dr. Hughes sighed and said reluctantly, “I asked him if Mrs. Hughes and I might arrange a little
pension for Mrs. Matthews, and he said it was only right that I should know…”
Knightley laughed. “Well, I am under no compulsion to take your advice, then. If my compassion
will get me into trouble, I hate to think what yours will do.”
 The meeting at the Crown the following Wednesday was rather tedious. Mr. Weston was not
there, owing to illness, and the absence of such a sensible, cheerful man meant that ideas and
proposals were less cogent and the arguments about them much longer than usual. Knightley was a
little worried about Weston; he was not the sort of man who curtailed his activities for trifling colds,
and he wondered if he was not seriously ill.
When the meeting adjourned, he stood indecisively outside the door of the Crown; he had not
been at Hartfield for two days, and his inclination was to go there and look for another opportunity to
be of service to Emma. On the other hand, he really ought to call at Randalls and be sure that Weston
was not suffering from more than a mild complaint. Rather unwillingly, he turned and walked
through the town toward Randalls.
As he passed Mrs. Goddard’s school, the door opened and Emma came out. His heart could not
help the little leap it gave when she saw him and smiled. He stood and waited for her to come down
the short path that led to the small gate he held open for her.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley! I have just been admiring the telescope you took so much
trouble for.”
“Then you approve it?”
“Very much! I have never seen one so fine. You truly are the most generous man.”
Well, that was something. If the telescope had not fulfilled the purpose for which he had chosen
it, at least it had added to his virtues in Emma’s eyes.
“Are you going home?” he asked.
“No, to Randalls. Perhaps you have not heard that Mr. Weston is ill. I think it is not much more
than a cold in the head, but I am constrained to deliver Serle’s receipt for neat’s foot jelly, at Papa’s
insistence, in case the Westons’ cook might not know how to prepare it.”
They both smiled at the notion, but the situation was too well understood to need any comment.
“Should you mind if I accompanied you? I had planned to call and see how Mr. Weston is
myself.”
“I would be very pleased to have your company,” said Emma, smiling up at him. “I fear I have
still not grown accustomed to solitary walks. I only hope that William Larkins is not waiting
anxiously, account-book in hand, for your return.”
Knightley laughed. “I am free of William Larkins’ notice for the afternoon. He is giving his
attention to the mentoring of John Perkins, Mr. Gilbert’s new bailiff. At this very moment he is
probably showing the young man the new drain Mr. Foote has installed.”
“Is that the farm where the little blind boy and his mother live?”
“It is. Have I told you of the Catherwoods?”
“No, but Mr. Spencer told Miss Bates all about them. Poor little fellow.”
“Yes, but I must say he is a favourite in Donwell now; everyone is eager to show him kindness.”
“Ah, that is very good. Still, he will not be a little boy forever. I do hope he will continue to be
treated with kindness and sympathy.”
 “Spencer had the same thought, and has some scheme in his mind for teaching the boy music or
another skill as he grows, so that he will have a useful occupation.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Emma heartily. “It must be a relief to his mother, too. Think
what she must have felt when she learned he was blind!”
Emma’s ready sympathy, so natural and artless, touched his heart. All the Woodhouses were
kind, of course, but Emma had an intelligent compassion. She might laugh at the foibles of such as
Mrs. Elton, but anyone in true distress was the object of her genuine concern. If only her compassion
could be awakened toward Jane Fairfax! Jane’s health was indifferent, and more than that, she was
suffering under the constant attentions of Mrs. Elton. If Emma had been more her companion, the
poor girl would not have been compelled to spend so many hours in company with such tiresome
hosts. He had hinted to Emma that she ought to be more Jane Fairfax’s friend, but perhaps he should
make a more forthright appeal.
Emma interrupted his thoughts by saying, “Well! I hope William Larkins is a good teacher for
Mr. Perkins. I cannot say I would care to be taught by him—I think he would frighten me with his
stern propriety—but perhaps Mr. Perkins is made of something more resilient.”
“It is only Larkins’ way, Emma. I have never known him to be unkind.” It was in Knightley’s
mind to add something about the solitary life of an old bachelor being poor soil for cultivating a
gentle manner, but he stopped himself. That statement would likely be used by Emma to tease him
about his bachelor life, and if he were drawn into a discussion about the comparative advantages of
matrimony, he would be in exactly the position Spencer had warned him about. There was no telling
what he might accidently reveal.
They arrived at Randalls to find Mrs. Weston at home to visitors, happy to report that although
Mr. Weston was enduring a miserable cold, she had no doubt that he would be better by the morrow
if he continued resting quietly in bed.
“But he is ill enough that he needs to be in his bed?” asked Knightley.
Mrs. Weston smiled. “I daresay he might sit quietly in the drawing room without any material
harm being done, but with all the visitors who have come to enquire after his health this afternoon, he
would have got very little rest if he had remained here. Although to say the truth, I fear he is almost
equally restless knowing that he is being denied enjoyable conversation with our callers.”
“And there you see the burden that comes with being universally well-liked,” said Emma with a
smile of her own. “I hope it has not given you cause to regret your marriage to such an amiable man.
So we are not the first to express our anxiety about Mr. Weston? But at least I have brought, at Papa’s
insistence, a receipt of Serle’s that may help to restore the invalid.”
“How very thoughtful! You will convey our heartfelt thanks to him, I know. Miss Bates brought
a receipt for a salve that she said was remarkable for soothing a sore throat, and his cousin a book
which he hoped Mr. Weston would find amusing, so we are very well supplied. I only fear the illness
will not last long enough for all the remedies to be tried.”
“Was Miss Fairfax with her aunt?” asked Knightley.
“No, Miss Bates said that she was spending the day with the Eltons—I believe they were to go
walking together.”
“I do wonder at Miss Fairfax consenting to spend an entire day with them,” said Emma.
“We cannot suppose that she had any great enjoyment at the vicarage, my dear Emma,” said Mrs.
Weston, “but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a good creature, but as a constant
companion must be very tiresome. We must consider what Miss Fairfax quits before we condemn her
taste for what she goes to.”
Here was the opening Knightley was looking for, and he made use of it.
 “You are right, Mrs. Weston,” he said. “Miss Fairfax is as capable as any of us of forming a just
opinion of Mrs. Elton. Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen
her.” He looked at Emma and smiled to soften his reproof. “But she receives attentions from Mrs.
Elton which nobody else pays her.”
There, perhaps that would make her think. And it did: he could see a slight blush on her cheeks.
“Such attentions as Mrs. Elton’s I should have imagined would rather disgust than gratify Miss
Fairfax. Mrs. Elton’s invitations I should have imagined anything but inviting.”
“I should not wonder,” said Mrs. Weston, “if Miss Fairfax were to have been drawn on beyond
her own inclination by her aunt's eagerness in accepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her. Poor Miss
Bates may very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater appearance of
intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in spite of the very natural wish of a little
change.”
That would appeal to Emma’s compassionate side, thought Knightley. Now, if he could just
remind Emma of the superior elegance of Jane Fairfax, it might prod her into cultivating a friendship
with her on more grounds than just pity.
“Another thing must be taken into consideration, too,” said Knightley, after a moment’s thought
about how the idea might be best conveyed, “Mrs. Elton does not talk to Miss Fairfax as she speaks
of her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest-spoken
amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common civility in our personal
intercourse with each other—a something more early implanted. We cannot give anybody the
disagreeable hints that we may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently. And
besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs.
Elton by her superiority both of mind and manner, and that face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all
the respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably never fell in Mrs.
Elton's way before—and no degree of vanity can prevent her acknowledging her own comparative
littleness in action, if not in consciousness.”
He felt the eyes of them both upon him with something more than their usual interest; he felt that
they were trying to discover his motive in saying such a thing; perhaps Emma could see that he was
trying to manoeuvre her into a better friendship with Miss Fairfax. Her hazel eyes were too
penetrating, and rather than stare back at her, he looked down at the floor. He noticed that the lower
buttons of his gaiters had come unfastened, and he bent down to fasten them again.
“I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax,” said Emma, her voice not quite natural.
Perhaps she thought that he overrated Miss Fairfax’s merit. But he had not spoken more than he
really believed. “Yes,” he said, “anybody may know how highly I think of her.”
“And yet—” Emma’s voice caught, and he glanced up at her. The expression on her face was
impish, but with a shade of something else—he couldn’t determine quite what.
“And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it is. The extent of your
admiration may take you by surprise some day or other.”
So, she had her own suspicions. Why had he not been more cautious in praising the lady? And
had she speculated about this for some time, or was it his panegyric just now that had made her
wonder? It was an easy enough thing to deny, of course, but it was exactly the kind of situation he
had been so carefully trying to avoid—discussing attachments and matrimonial matters—and with
Emma and Mrs. Weston! He could feel himself flushing, and hoped that the tugging he was doing on
the thick leather would account for it.
“Oh, are you there? But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me a hint of it six weeks
ago.”
He paused, hoping if she would tell him how long she had wondered the same thing. But she said
nothing, and after a moment he went on.
 “That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare say, would not have me if I
were to ask her; and I am very sure I shall never ask her.” He finished with the buttons and sat
upright again.
“You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you.”
She seemed to believe him; that was something to be thankful for. But then perhaps she had not
suspected anything; perhaps it was her wish that he marry Miss Fairfax, and she had only been
testing the idea with him! Perhaps she was trying to make a match between them. And if that was so,
she obviously had no interest in him for herself. A chill gripped his heart; the thought that all his
tenderly nourished hopes might die so suddenly here in the drawing room at Randalls paralyzed him
for the instant. He ought to ask; it was best to know for certain. It was another moment, however,
before he trusted himself to speak naturally.
“So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax.” His voice sounded flat, but he
could do no better.
“No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for matchmaking for me to presume to
take such a liberty with you. What I said just now meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of
course, without any idea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the smallest wish
for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane anybody. You would not come in and sit with us in this
comfortable way if you were married.”
He could remember her protesting the idea when he had accused her of matchmaking with Elton
and Harriet, and he was still sure she had not been honest then. But there was a different note in her
voice now, and he really did think she was sincere. The constricted feeling around his chest began to
lift; she did not desire him to marry another woman. And she had opened the way for him to put an
end to her suspicions.
“No, Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take me by surprise. I
never had a thought of her in that way, I assure you.”
There, that would settle any doubts she might have as to his intentions. But perhaps he ought to
make sure she knew that an alliance with Miss Fairfax was not even in the realm of possibility. He
did not think her perfection, and he ought to tell Emma so.
“Jane Fairfax is a very charming young woman—but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a
fault. She has not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife.”
“Well,” said Emma, looking pleased, “and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?”
“Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken; he asked my pardon and
said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or wittier than his neighbours.”
Emma reflected that Mrs. Elton did, and that her self-satisfaction would prevent her from
recognizing any amount of superior breeding or elegance in another woman. She was inclined to
support Mrs. Weston’s idea that Miss Bates’ eagerness in promoting intimacy between Mrs. Elton
and Jane was the true reason for so much time spent in each other’s company. Knightley watched
Mrs. Weston during this speech. She seemed amused by something, and he was afraid he had not
convinced her of his complete lack of interest in forming an attachment to Miss Fairfax.
“Jane Fairfax has feeling,” said Knightley, keen to make his sentiments absolutely clear. “I do
not accuse her of want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong, and her temper excellent in
its power of forbearance, patience, self-control; but it wants openness. She is reserved—more
reserved, I think, than she used to be. And I love an open temper. No, till Cole alluded to my
supposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax and conversed with her, with
admiration and pleasure always—but with no thought beyond.”
There, he could say no more. He suddenly had a panicked idea that perhaps one of them might
ask him what other qualities besides openness of temper he would require of a lady who might attach
him. He could, of course, easily describe to them the characteristics of the woman who could win his
heart, but it was impossible to think that he would reveal nothing about his affections in the course of
such a speech. Therefore, he changed the subject to something completely innocuous, and in a very
short while he said his farewells and escaped.
 4

2 April
Wellyn House
Brunswick-square

Dear George,

The sudden death of the Hon. Reginald Howard means that instead of defending him against the
accusations of The Crown next week as I expected to, I am at liberty to bring the boys to Hartfield. I
will arrive on Wednesday and travel home again on Friday.
Henry and John desire me to say that they hope you will be at Hartfield when we arrive, but if
you are not, we shall certainly be at Donwell on Thursday morning.
Bella desires me to say that she is sending a ribbon with her brothers so that Madam Duval can
have a bow around her neck. Bella is a little afraid that you will tie the ribbon too tightly, but has
been comforted by my assurance that I will remind you that such a thing is not good for cats.
Isabella desires me to say that little George asked for you the other day, and she is sure baby
Emma would have asked for you if only she could talk.
I am now quite exhausted with delivering the messages of everyone else, and have nothing
further to say.

John

“Poor John,” said Knightley to Madam Duval, as he folded up the letter. “His one full day at
Hartfield is the very day Emma is giving her dinner party for Mrs. Elton. He will not be pleased to be
thrust into company like this.”
The cat twitched her ears at his voice, but continued to lie curled in the corner of one of the
library chairs. The firelight illuminated her white fur, making her almost glow in the dark room.
“I wish I might somehow use John’s visit to my advantage in my quest for Emma’s hand,”
continued Knightley, “but I can think of nothing about the circumstance that would help my suit. It is
maddening to think that with so many advantages—living nearby with free access to the house and a
close family connection—I still can think of no way to attach her.”
He got up and went over to the window. It was a cloudy, moonless night, and he could not even
see as far as the gravel walk. It did not matter; in his mind’s eye he saw Hartfield, with all its
inhabitants serenely sleeping.
 “Almost I am tempted, Emma, to ask you outright if I might be allowed to try to win you.
Almost.” Lately the thought had come more and more frequently: presume upon their friendship so
far, and no farther. Refuse this notion of wooing by stealth and make his efforts open instead of
secret. But then…the faces of Spencer and Robert Martin were always there, reminding him of the
risk in doing so. The consequences of a refusal would be devastating.
“I think there is no hurry,” he told Emma, coming to the same conclusion that he always did.
“Churchill is gone, possibly never to return. He cannot win you from a distance. Unless—”A sudden
fear contracted his heart, and he swallowed before going on. “Unless it already too late. Unless he
has already engaged you—secretly!”
It was an absurd notion and he knew it, but it took hold of his imagination and would not be
dismissed. He paced away from the window and then back again.
“Perhaps before he left for Yorkshire he asked for your hand. Yes, I can see him doing it, full of
eloquent flattery and expressions of utmost devotion! You would have demurred, of course, from
being engaged to him—on your father’s account, at least—and he might have persuaded you –he is
just the sort of fellow to do such a thing!—to consent to a secret engagement.”
He allowed his forehead to lean against the cold glass of the window pane and let his mind run
through the possibilities. Emma already lost to him. Emma willing to leave Highbury forever. Emma
now carrying on a clandestine correspondence with Churchill. Perhaps even at this late hour, instead
of sleeping, she was writing him a letter, assuring him of her love! And perhaps Churchill, while
attending his aunt, was also covertly making Enscomb ready for its new mistress.
“No, Emma,” he whispered. “No. You would not. You could not. I know you; you love your
father too much to do such a thing. You are too honourable.”
He raised his head to look again out the window. He could see almost nothing in the blackness,
but once more the vision of Hartfield, with all its elegance and stability, came to his mind. He took a
deep breath, and slowly the pounding of his heart eased.
“Oh, Emma,” he said. “If you knew how often I fall prey to foolish fears—silly, fanciful,
preposterous fears—you would laugh at me, I think.”

Knightley was not at Hartfield when John and the boys arrived, but they did walk over to
Donwell to see him the next morning. After the first boisterous greetings with his nephews were
over, and John, faithful to his promise to Bella, oversaw the decoration of Madam Duval with a blue
satin bow, the boys were taken outdoors by Mrs. Hodges to see the fish ponds. Knightley took John
into the library to show him the proposal for draining the land around the Fisher farm and creating
another smallholding. The work was set to commence within the month, and he wanted to know
John’s opinion about altered boundaries and about how many buildings should be erected on the new
farm. John was not one to approve anything without full understanding, and his insight was valuable.
“I suppose you know by this time,” said Knightley after the plans had been thoroughly talked
over and put away, “that there is a dinner party at Hartfield tonight.”
“Oh, yes. It seems my visit was exquisitely timed. It is evidently to be a large party—for
Hartfield.”
 “Yes: you and I and the Eltons and Mrs. Weston—Weston is in town, you know—and I assume
Miss Smith will make the eighth.”
“You are mistaken in that assumption, dear brother; it is Miss Fairfax, not Miss Smith, who is to
complete the company.”
“Oh!” So Emma had taken his rebuke to heart and was making efforts to give more attention to
Jane Fairfax. He was ridiculously pleased about it.
“I do hope you will not add to Emma’s burdens tonight,” said Knightley.
“Burdens? What burdens?”
“If you do not yet understand the vexation Emma must be enduring in hosting a dinner for the
Eltons, you will after this evening.”
“I see. And how is it that I could I add to the burden of such a dinner?”
“Oh, by making no secret of the misery you feel in being subjected to such a very difficult
ordeal. You are hardly a convivial guest at these gatherings, John.”
“True, I suppose. I very much dislike—Well, never mind.”
A noise at the window drew the attention of the two men. It was Henry, tapping on the window
and waving at them.
“Little monkey,” said John, waving him off. “I suppose I ought to go and rescue Mrs. Hodges; it
is time to be going back to Hartfield, anyway. Those clouds look like rain.”

Knightley was a little surprised to find that his admonishment to John about being agreeable at
the dinner party had been heeded. He found John in the centre of the room, talking pleasantly with
Jane Fairfax. Content to leave them to their friendly chat, he found Mrs. Weston standing alone and
went to greet her.
“I hope you are feeling well?” he began. He reckoned that her baby was about three months from
making its appearance, and although he could not allude to that fact directly, she would understand
that he would know from Isabella what the last months of pregnancy were apt to be like.
“I am very well,” she answered, “A little tired now and then, but no more than is to be expected.”
“I am very glad to hear it. And I may say that I have never seen Weston look so well and happy.
You have done him good.”
A slight blush coloured her cheeks as she thanked him, and then said, “And is not Emma looking
well?”
He glanced around to find her; there she was, talking to her father. “Looking well” was hardly the
term he would have used. Beautiful… radiant… lovely… perfect… any one of those words
expressed his views more accurately. He tore his eyes away from her.
“She is; and Mr. Woodhouse, too. He was remarkably free from illness this winter.”
 “Yes. I think Emma has taken greater care of him than ever since I was married. I do not think I
have ever seen a daughter—of her age, at least—so devoted to her father.”
“Nor have I,” said Knightley. It was this view of Emma that had calmed his fears the week
before when he had wondered if Emma had entered into a private understanding with Frank
Churchill. Emma cared too much for her father to embark upon such a disgraceful alliance. Mrs.
Weston’s words could not but strengthen this comforting opinion.
“My dear Jane!” came Mrs. Elton’s voice, clear above the low murmurs of the other guests.
“What is this I hear? Going to the post office in the rain! This must not be, I assure you. You sad girl,
how could you do such a thing? It is a sign I was not there to take care of you.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Elton, I have not caught any cold.”
“Oh! do not tell me. You really are a very sad girl, and do not know how to take care of yourself.
To the post-office indeed!”
This would be interesting, thought Knightley. Mrs. Elton would not like to concede defeat, but
Jane Fairfax, for all her gracious patience, had iron at her core and would not be easily moved. He
wondered what the outcome of the contest would be.
“Mrs. Weston, did you ever hear the like?” said Mrs. Elton. “You and I must positively exert our
authority.”
Thus appealed to, Mrs. Weston entered the lists.
“My advice I certainly do feel tempted to give. Miss Fairfax, you must not run such risks. Liable
as you have been to severe colds, indeed you ought to be particularly careful, especially at this time
of year. The spring, I always think, requires more than common care. Better wait an hour or two or
even half a day for your letters, than run the risk of bringing on your cough again. Now do not you
feel that you had? Yes, I am sure you are much too reasonable. You look as if you would not do such
a thing again.”
Poor Jane, thought Knightley. She had now not only the overbearing Mrs. Elton, but also the
kindly Mrs. Weston and inevitable common sense arrayed against her wishes.
“Oh!” said Mrs. Elton, on the attack again, “She shall not do such a thing again. We will not
allow her to do such a thing again. There must be some arrangement made, there must indeed. I shall
speak to Mr. E. The man who fetches our letters every morning—one of our men, I forget his name—
shall inquire for yours, too, and bring them to you. That will obviate all difficulties, you know; and
from us, I really think, my dear Jane, you can have no scruple to accept such an accommodation.”
Knightley saw John roll his eyes at Mrs. Elton’s manner of speaking about the servant—as if the
Eltons had such a vast number of menservants that she could not be expected to remember his name!
“You are extremely kind,” said Jane, still fighting valiantly, “but I cannot give up my early walk.
I am advised to be out of doors as much as I can. I must walk somewhere, and the post-office is an
object; and upon my word, I have scarcely ever had a bad morning before.”
Miss Fairfax was holding her own. She made a good point, and was demonstrating that all the
sound reason was not on the other side.
Mrs. Elton, however, refused to acknowledge any advance made by her opponent. “My dear
Jane, say no more about it. The thing is determined, that is”—she paused to give a little laugh— “as
far as I can presume to determine any thing without the concurrence of my lord and master. You
know, Mrs. Weston, you and I must be cautious how we express ourselves. But I do flatter myself,
my dear Jane, that my influence is not entirely worn out. If I meet with no insuperable difficulties
therefore, consider that point as settled.” It appeared that Mrs. Elton was going to employ Napoleon’s
method of crushing the enemy by main force.
But Jane refused to be crushed. “Excuse me, I cannot by any means consent to such an
arrangement, so needlessly troublesome to your servant. If the errand were not a pleasure to me, it
could be done, as it always is when I am not here, by my grandmamma's—”
“Oh! my dear; but so much as Patty has to do! And it is a kindness to employ our men.”
It began to look as if Mrs. Elton read Seneca and agreed with him about never admitting defeat.
Jane, however, had a different tactic to employ: a strategic withdrawal to distract the enemy. She
turned back to John.
“The post-office is a wonderful establishment!” she said. “The regularity and dispatch of it! If
one thinks of all that it has to do, and all that it does so well, it is really astonishing!”
“It is certainly very well regulated,” said John. It amused Knightley to see him contribute to the
diversion. By now the whole party was listening to the conversation.
“So seldom that any negligence or blunder appears!” Jane went on. “So seldom that a letter,
among the thousands that are constantly passing about the kingdom, is even carried wrong—and not
one in a million, I suppose, actually lost. And when one considers the variety of hands, and of bad
hands, too, that are to be deciphered, it increases the wonder!”
John, aware that this new topic, once firmly established, would terminate the previous one,
launched into an explanation of the skill of the clerks at the post office. Mr. Elton, unconsciously
contributing to the cause, said that he could never have been any good in that position, as deciphering
the correspondence from members of his own family gave him much difficulty. Mrs. Weston
observed that poor handwriting was frequently caused by haste, and that the less time one took in
writing a letter seemed directly proportional to the amount of time needed for the reader to make
sense of it.
“I have heard it asserted,” said John, now interested in the topic for its own sake, “that the same
sort of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master teaches, it is natural
enough. But for that reason, I should imagine the likeness must be chiefly confined to the females,
for boys have very little teaching after an early age, and scramble into any hand they can get. Isabella
and Emma, I think, do write very much alike. I have not always known their writing apart.”
Knightley could never have mistaken Emma’s writing for Isabella’s. However, it would not do to
flatly contradict his brother.
“Yes,” said Knightley slowly, “there is a likeness. I know what you mean—but Emma's hand is
the strongest.”
“Isabella and Emma both write beautifully,” said Mr. Woodhouse fondly, “and always did. And,”
he added with a melancholy smile, “so does poor Mrs. Weston.”
“I never saw any gentleman's handwriting—” said Emma, but Mr. Elton began to say something
at the same moment, and Emma, noticing that Mrs. Weston was listening to the vicar, fell silent.
What had she been about to say? Knightley wondered if perhaps she had been on the point of
saying something about his own handwriting. She had seen it often enough. He felt confident that she
would be complimentary in her description. He usually took pains to write carefully and clearly; he
had no need to be ashamed of his hand.
Mrs. Elton ceased speaking, and Emma began again.
“Mr. Frank Churchill writes one of the best gentlemen's hands I ever saw.”
She was praising Churchill’s writing? He could not let it pass unchallenged. “I do not admire it. It
is too small—wants strength. It is like a woman's writing.”
“Mr. Knightley! For shame!” said Emma, looking indignant. “It does not by any means want
strength!”
“No indeed!” added Mrs. Weston. “It is not a large hand, but it is very clear and certainly
strong.”
 Knightley was troubled; Emma looked more annoyed than he cared to admit. And how was it
that she was so familiar with Churchill’s handwriting? Was there any chance that she…? No! He had
already decided that they could not possibly be corresponding.
“Have you any letter of his about you now?” Emma was asking Mrs. Weston.
“No; I have heard from him very lately, but having answered the letter, I put it away.”
“If we were in the other room—if I had my writing-desk,” said Emma, “I am sure I could
produce a specimen. I have a note of his. Do not you remember, Mrs. Weston, employing him to
write for you one day?”
“He chose to say he was employed—”
“Well, well, I have that note, and can show it after dinner to convince Mr. Knightley.”
There were many disturbing things about this statement, but Knightley chose not to explore them
immediately.
“Oh! When a gallant young man like Mr. Frank Churchill writes to a fair lady like Miss
Woodhouse, he will, of course, put forth his best.”
There was no time for the ladies to make any rejoinder. Dinner was announced, and the guests,
with Mr. Woodhouse and Mrs. Elton leading the way, went into the dining room. Knightley’s spirits
had plummeted in the last five minutes and it was now almost of no consequence to him that Emma
had willingly gone in to the dining room arm-in-arm with Jane Fairfax.
He was thankful that the party was numerous enough that his silence at dinner was not
noticeable. Why had Emma kept that note from Churchill? Obviously, if she was willing to show it to
him it could not contain anything very private. The contents must, in fact, be rather trivial. But then
why would she keep it? Was Churchill so dear to her that she treasured every scrap that had some
connection to him? The whole situation was very disconcerting.
When the ladies left them, John looked around the table at the four men.
“Well,” said he, “It was only four months ago that we sat around the table together at Randalls,
and already one of the bachelors has taken my advice to get a wife.” He glanced at his brother and
said with a grin, “It doesn’t take long.”
“Not long at all,” said Elton, “always providing that the lady is willing. Some ladies have
difficulty knowing their own minds.” It wasn’t the words so much as the bitter tone that aggravated
Knightley.
For mercy’s sake, man, thought Knightley. You’ve got a wife—let the past alone! And to say such
a thing at Hartfield, where you are actually dining…
John seemed amused. “Yes, that is a difficulty. However, you found a willing lady, and secured
her. Perhaps you ought to advise George here as to how to accomplish that.”
“We had better wait for Weston before giving such instruction,” said Elton. “He is coming later
this evening, I believe.”
“I heard only that he might come if he returned from London in time,” said John. “I would not
depend upon it.”
“Oh, I think he will,” said Knightley. “Do not you think so, sir?” He turned to Mr. Woodhouse,
who has been gazing absently at the tablecloth.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Knightley,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “I was not attending. What is it that
you asked?”
“I only said that I thought Mr. Weston would be at Hartfield tonight, as he said he would come.”
“Oh! Yes, poor Mr. Weston, obliged to travel all the way to London! And the roads will be wet,
you know, as we have had a vast deal of rain. I believe there was even some sleet today—Emma did
not go out of doors. I do hope Mr. Weston will arrive safely. I cannot help but worry a little, Mr.
Knightley. It would be a very dreadful thing for us all if there were to be an accident of any kind.”
“So it would,” said Knightley. “But I cannot think there is any great likelihood of a mishap
occurring. By the by, sir, I understand that Mr. Munnings is very grateful to you for having the wall
that borders his farm repaired.”
“I was very grateful for your bringing it to my attention. What a very good idea it was to verify
Hartfield’s boundaries. There might have been sad consequences if something had been done in
error.”
“I suppose, John,” said Knightley, “that you have seen many cases where mistakes about where
boundaries lines are drawn resulted in serious legal ramifications.”
“Oh, yes. I remember one lawsuit...”
Knightley applauded his own wisdom. Having got John onto the topic of interesting court cases,
the rest of the time before they joined the ladies would be filled, and he would neither have to
contribute anything nor listen to any more irritating speeches. John was a good storyteller, and he
could not imagine Elton changing the subject before it was time for them to leave the table. And
when they joined the ladies, he might possibly be able to sound Emma out about the letter. Perhaps
he could ask her something about a note he had written to her, and if she offered to get it for him to
see, then he would know that she kept every note she got. Now, what was the last thing he had
written to her? He could not remember. It had been a long time since he had written to Hartfield; for
weeks he had been happy to take the excuse of needing to impart information about some trivial
matter in order to go to Hartfield and do so in person. There must be another way to see which letters
she kept.
Knightley was not required to open his mouth again until the men rejoined the ladies. He and
John had settled themselves near Emma and Mrs. Weston and he had just time to hope that somehow
in their conversation he would find a way to discover if she always kept the notes of those who wrote
to her, when Weston came in and they all had to stand again and greet him. Knightley was happy to
see him, of course, but he wished he had come a half-hour later. Weston, in his genuine happiness to
see his friends, and his loud way of talking, dominated the conversation in the room, and as Emma
was nearly as interested as Mrs. Weston in all he had to say, there was no chance of a little quiet
conversation with her while Weston was telling of such small items of London news as the death of
Fanny Burney’s father, a fire in a Cheapside warehouse, and a rumour that a massive new bridge
would be built in Southwark later in the year.
And then he pulled a letter from his pocket and gave it to his wife, saying, “I found this waiting
for you at home; I took the liberty of opening it. Read it, read it—it will give you pleasure; only a
few lines—will not take you long; read it to Emma.”
He did not wait until they had finished looking at it before he said, “Well, he is coming, you see;
good news, I think. Well, what do you say to it? I always told you he would be here again soon, did
not I? Anne, my dear, did not I always tell you so, and you would not believe me? In town next week,
you see—at the latest, I dare say, for she is as impatient as the black gentleman when any thing is to
be done. Most likely they will be there tomorrow or Saturday. As to her illness, all nothing, of course.
But it is an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, so near as town. They will stay a good
while when they do come, and he will be half his time with us. This is precisely what I wanted. Well,
pretty good news, is not it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read it all? Put it up, put it up; we will
have a good talk about it some other time, but it will not do now. I shall only just mention the
circumstance to the others in a common way.”
Here was the most unwelcome news in the world. Churchill returning! And spending half his
time in Highbury! And to make matters worse, Emma had not received this news with indifference.
He did not see that genuine delight on her face which Mrs. Weston’s showed; to his eye she looked
disconcerted. It was not to a degree which anyone but himself would notice, but still, the news had
affected her. The anxiety he had been afflicted with since the conversation about handwriting was
fast deepening into depression.
Emma, always polite, expressed her satisfaction in the forthcoming event, and Weston nodded his
head happily at her sentiments, and then, seeing Knightley looking in his direction, came over to him.
“I suppose you may have overheard, just now, a little of what I was saying to Mrs. Weston and
Emma. My son Frank will be among us again soon. Yes, the Churchills are coming to London, on
account of Mrs. Churchill’s health—or so she says. But Frank will be near us, and will no doubt
spend a good deal of his time in Highbury. A very good thing for the neighbourhood here, you must
agree!”
Knightley did not see how any neighbourhood could be improved by the presence of Frank
Churchill, that glib, insinuating, selfish…
“The neighbourhood will certainly be livelier,” said Knightley judiciously. “I only hope he will
not be so much in demand at the Highbury tea-parties that he neglects to spend time at Randalls.”
Weston chuckled. “No fear of that, I am sure. Well, I must go and tell the others.” He excused
himself with a half-bow and went to tell Mr. Woodhouse his news.
The rest of the evening seemed very long to Knightley. He wished he might leave, but could
think of no good excuse to do so. He felt very little like conversing and sat next to Mr. Woodhouse,
who was content to be quiet with him. After tea was carried round, he lost his companion, for Mr.
Woodhouse sat down to cards with Elton and the Westons. The other five persons sat together, rather
ignoring Mrs. Elton’s attempts to centre the conversation on herself.
“Well, Emma,” said John unexpectedly, “I do not believe I have anything more to say about the
boys; but you have your sister's letter, and everything is down at full length there we may be sure. My
charge would be much more concise than hers, and probably not much in the same spirit, all that I
have to recommend being comprised in, do not spoil them, and do not physic them.”
Emma smiled. “I rather hope to satisfy you both, for I shall do all in my power to make them
happy, which will be enough for Isabella; and happiness must preclude false indulgence and physic.”
“And if you find them troublesome you must send them home again.”
“That is very likely. You think so, do not you?”
“I hope I am aware that they may be too noisy for your father, or even may be some
encumbrance to you, if your visiting-engagements continue to increase as much as they have done
lately.”
Emma looked surprised. “Increase!”
“Certainly; you must be sensible that the last half year has made a great difference in your way
of life.”
“Difference! No indeed I am not.”
John smiled at her incredulous expression. “There can be no doubt of your being much more
engaged with company than you used to be. Witness this very time. Here am I come down for only
one day, and you are engaged with a dinner party! When did it happen before, or any thing like it?
Your neighbourhood is increasing and you mix more with it. A little while ago, every letter to
Isabella brought an account of fresh gaieties—dinners at Mr. Cole's, or balls at the Crown. The
difference which Randalls, Randalls alone makes in your goings-on, is very great.”
This was so true that Knightley found himself saying aloud, “Yes, it is Randalls that does it all.”
He could hear the bitterness in his tone. Well, so be it. He was in a bad humour, and did not care to
come out of it.
“Very well,” continued John. “And as Randalls, I suppose, is not likely to have less influence
than heretofore, it strikes me as a possible thing, Emma, that Henry and John may be sometimes in
the way. And if they are, I only beg you to send them home.”
 “No,” said Knightley emphatically. “That need not be the consequence. Let them be sent to
Donwell. I shall certainly be at leisure.” He would not let Randalls bring about a quick end to the
boys’ visit. His nephews, at least, should not be injured by Churchill’s advent.
“Upon my word, you amuse me!” exclaimed Emma. “I should like to know how many of all my
numerous engagements take place without your being of the party, and why I am to be supposed in
danger of wanting leisure to attend to the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine—what
have they been? Dining once with the Coles, and having a ball talked of which never took place.”
She turned and nodded to John, saying, “I can understand you—your good fortune in meeting with so
many of your friends at once here, delights you too much to pass unnoticed.” She turned back to
Knightley and said, “But you, who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from Hartfield,
why should you foresee such a series of dissipation for me, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear little
boys, I must say that if Aunt Emma has not time for them, I do not think they would fare much better
with Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours where she is absent one.” Her left
eyebrow lifted as she added, “and who, when he is at home, is either reading to himself or settling his
accounts.”
In spite of his fears, in spite of his resentment, and in spite of the whole wretched evening, he
could feel himself beginning to smile. Her teasing look was a balm to his soul, and he would have
continued the conversation in hopes of still more friendly banter, if Mrs. Elton had not chosen that
moment to address him.
“Oh, Knightley! I have been meaning to tell you—Serena wrote to me last week to say that she is
thinking of new-furnishing her dining room. I told her she could do no better than to come to
Donwell Abbey and see yours. They are hoping to come here, you know, within the next month or
two, in their barouche-landau, and explore. They will be enchanted with the Abbey, Knightley—I
really think I cannot use any other word than enchanted. I have no doubt they will ask to see all over
the house, so I give you fair warning. I would not like your housekeeper to be taken by surprise and
unprepared for such a viewing. Of course, Serena may not ask outright: Mr. Suckling may be the one
to make the request. Serena can be timid at times. Not so timid as to be tiresome, you know, but just a
little more than she needs be. Women who are overly timid are a positive plague, I think. I know that
brides are always a little in the background, at first, but I hope I am not one of those inconveniently
shy women who hide behind of veil of bashfulness so that one can hardly get them to say anything. I
abominate that sort of behaviour—I have quite a horror of the idea.”
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Elton,” said John gravely. “You need have no fear. There is not the slightest
danger of anyone thinking that of you. You are perfectly safe from any charge of too much
diffidence.”
 5

The guests departed Hartfield before the hour grew late; only Knightley stayed on to talk to his
brother. Mr. Woodhouse went up to bed and Emma withdrew to the nursery to ensure that everything
was as it should be. The two brothers sat in the empty drawing room, which was still awaiting the
tidying hand of a servant. John absently shuffled the deck of cards left on the table, and Knightley
watched him.
“So, George, did my behaviour satisfy you tonight?”
“I was amazed at your civility, John. The entire party is in your debt. You do have undoubted
powers of conversation when you choose to employ them.”
“Well, you managed to awaken my compassion for Emma. I can afford to be amused by Mrs.
Elton, but I do not have to tolerate her society frequently.”
“It was kind of you to talk so much to Miss Fairfax.”
“I like her,” said John. “She is quiet but very intelligent, and there is that in her situation that
warrants a great deal of sympathy.”
“She bears it well.”
“She does, but I do wonder if she is under more strain than is commonly supposed.”
“Oh?”
“I mentioned in passing my hope that she would someday be married and have a family, and she
nearly cried—I saw a tear.”
“I am sorry to hear it.” Knightley rose from his seat and stirred up the fire. He hoped that
Emma’s invitation to Jane Fairfax this evening was evidence of a growing friendship between the
ladies; it would do Miss Fairfax good.
“I suppose you’ll be off to the Easter quarter sessions next week,” was John’s next comment.
“You’ll miss all the gaiety that comes with the visits of Mr. Frank Churchill. Highbury will be lost
without you.”
“Oh, they have Mrs. Elton. They will do very well.”
John snickered.
 “And you leave for town in the morning?” Knightley was not in a humour to talk about the
possible advent of Frank Churchill.
“Yes. Will you come to see me off like a good brother?”
“Of course. I will even shed tears at your departure, if you like.”
“No, no, you’ll start John howling if you do. The watchword in partings is ‘cheerfulness’.”
“Ah. Well, I can manage that. As your carriage departs I will look absolutely radiant.”

Knightley wished the quarter sessions had not come just at this time. If Frank Churchill was
spending half his days at Highbury, he did not want to be so many miles away. Perhaps, if he were at
home, he might do something—something to prevent an attachment or a declaration. He had no very
firm idea as to how he might avert such things, but nonetheless it made him nervous to be here at
Newington, so far removed from the scene of action.
Well, it could not be helped. He tried to put the thoughts aside as he heard case after case: a
woman accused of vagrancy, a fifteen-year-old boy who had picked the pocket of a coal merchant, a
workhouse inmate who was supposed to have stolen a fellow inmate’s clothes, a man who had left his
family at the charge of the parish, a farm labourer accused of stealing several small items from his
master’s house…a seemingly endless procession of petty larcenies, assaults, frauds, and
housebreakings, motivated by greed, poverty, revenge, or malice. He was thankful to be spared the
more difficult trials of the assize judges, who presided over cases of murder and the more serious
crimes. He would never be compelled to order anyone hanged. As it was, he did his best to find the
truth in the haze of lies that came from the accused or the prosecutors—or both.
Once case appeared to him to be completely straightforward. The defendant, a man aged about
forty-five years, was accused of assaulting a young man. The older man looked very respectable,
though poor. Upon being questioned he admitted that he had hit the young man—the son of a
gentleman—but could not regret it. When asked the circumstances of the attack, he said that he had
been walking with his daughter, a comely girl of about sixteen, when the young man had addressed
her “in a manner that was entirely too free”. The father had remonstrated against such talk, and the
young gentleman had responded by saying something yet more coarse and lewd. Whereupon the
older man had hit the young man in the face and given him a bruise which had lasted almost a week.
Knightley did not like the young man, whose fashionable waistcoat and supercilious air reminded
him forcibly of the man who might even now be insinuating himself into Emma’s life. In his opinion,
the father was quite justified in his actions, and although he could not help the jury rendering a
verdict of “guilty”, he immediately gave the man a free pardon.
 “It is a pleasure to be in your library again, Mr. Knightley,” said Dr. Hughes, sinking into a chair
and leaning his cane against the table which stood beside it.
“And a far greater pleasure for me to have you here, sir.”
“I thought you would not return until tomorrow, but I was out this morning and saw William
Larkins and John Perkins, who told me you were back.”
“I had opportunity to return earlier than I had thought I could, and arrived late last evening.”
“You have no great love for Newington, then? You seem to have been in a desperate hurry to
leave.”
“Not at all.” He had been desperate to get home, not desperate to leave; they were two entirely
different things. “Any news of note while I was away?” He could hardly suppose that Dr. Hughes
would know anything about possible romantic attachments at Hartfield, but even so, he held his
breath while he waited for his answer.
“Not news, precisely, but there was an incident I thought you ought to hear about. My wife called
on the widow Hunt the other day, and as she was walking home, she passed a tree—you know the
one—the large oak that stands a stone’s throw from the road.”
“Yes, I know it—right where Upton’s land begins.”
“That is the one. As I say, my wife was passing that spot when she heard the sound of sobbing.
You know how tender-hearted Mrs. Hughes is, Mr. Knightley: she could not do otherwise than
investigate. And she found a woman there, weeping. She put an arm around her, to comfort her, you
know, and the woman flinched as if my wife’s touch gave her pain. When she grew calm, my wife
gently questioned her and she said that she was a Mrs. Cooper, whose husband keeps the Crow’s Nest
in Langham. She would not say why she was weeping or what she was doing in Donwell or anything
else, but my wife’s fancied it was something to do with her husband.”
“She thinks he is mistreating his wife?”
“Well, Mrs. Cooper would say nothing directly, and of course we must not ‘answer a matter
before we hear it’, but it impressed my wife so. I know that even if my wife’s guess is correct, there
is nothing you can do unless Mrs. Cooper brings an indictment against her husband, but I thought
perhaps you should be aware.”
“Thank you. I don’t suppose you know anything against the Crow’s Nest that could invite the
justified interference of a magistrate?”
“Not really. The reputation of the place is not of the highest sort, but I have not heard of anything
definitely illegal.”
“If you do hear of anything, will you tell me?”
“I will. You may, however, have a difficult time getting anyone to prosecute or be a witness, for
fear of reprisals.”
“I know it.” Knightley sighed. It was not his duty to ferret out crimes; it was the duty of victims
to report them and pursue justice. Still, a place like the Crow’s Nest did no one any good, and he
wished for the excuse a legal indictment would give him to make changes there.
 “I have a happier bit of news,” Mr. Hughes said. “Richard is coming home for a month; he
arrives on Monday.”
“Ah, that is good news. And he is going on well, John tells me.”
“He is. You have heard from Mr. John Knightley recently?”
“I saw him last week when he came to bring his little boys to Hartfield.”
Dr. Hughes’ face broke into a wide smile.
“Ah, little Henry and John! I do hope that on one of their visits to the Abbey you will bring them
by the rectory. Mrs. Knightley brought them at Christmas, but I was still in bed at that time, and saw
them for only a few minutes.”
“I will, certainly. I am going to Hartfield today and will arrange it all with Emma.”
He had been planning to go to Hartfield as soon as his breakfast was finished, but the morning
post had brought a letter which needed an answer without delay. Then Rooker, the head gardener, had
requested to speak to him about the preparation of the ridges in the melon and cucumber beds, which
had necessitated a visit to the kitchen gardens, and he had only just come into the house again when
Dr. Hughes had arrived.
Dr. Hughes stayed for nearly an hour, and Knightley fought to keep his mind on the conversation
instead of wondering if Frank Churchill had come to visit frequently while he was gone—or if he
was at Randalls even now. Worse, suppose he was at this moment seated in the drawing room at
Hartfield, dazzling Emma with his charming conversation and handsome face? Dr. Hughes stayed to
eat the cold meat which was brought to them in the library, and then expressed his thanks, took his
cane, and walked slowly back to the rectory.
Knightley watched from the window until he was out of sight, and then set off for Hartfield
before he could be delayed again. It was cloudy, but as warm as a day in late April might be expected
to be, and he was not terribly surprised to find Emma out of doors with the little boys, examining
something on the ground.
“Uncle Knightley! Uncle Knightley!” shouted the boys as they ran to him. He embraced them in
turn, and submitted as they tugged him by the hand to where Emma was standing.
“Come, Uncle Knightley, and see the snail!”
“Wait a moment,” said Knightley. “It would be impolite for me not to greet your aunt first. Hello,
Emma.”
She smiled. “Hello, Mr. Knightley.”
“And now, where is this snail?”
“Here it is, Uncle,” said Henry. “Is it not a fine snail?”
Knightley bent down to examine it. “As fine a snail as I ever saw.”
“I want to give it a name and keep it in the nursery,” said John sadly, “but Aunt Emma says I
may not. I want to call it Peter.”
“Peter would be happier out of doors,” said Knightley. “Would you like to sit always in your
nursery or would you rather be out in the garden?”
“I would rather be in the garden.”
“Well, there you have it.”
Knightley straightened up and turned to Emma.
“Is your father well?”
“Yes, perfectly well. How was your time at Newington?”
“Tedious. I am thankful to be back.”
 “Is it the comfort of your own library that you miss when you are away? Or is it the company of
William Larkins?”
“Perhaps I miss Hartfield.” His heart missed a beat. It was as close to a hint as he had ever given.
“Perhaps you miss me.” She had not caught the hint; he could tell by her eyebrow that she was
teasing him, and he treated her statement as lightly as she expected him to.
“Perhaps.”
“Does my face ‘make a sunshine in a cloudy place’ as Shakespeare’s heroine’s did?”
“Yes, indeed it does, although I must be pedantic and inform you that it was Spencer who wrote
those words, not Shakespeare.”
Emma laughed. “Only you, Mr. Knightley, could agree with a gallant compliment and then in the
same breath issue a correction to the object of your flattery.”
Her words hit home. How could he possibly win her with such behaviour? He was a fool.
Churchill, for example, would never have done such a thing. The little boys interrupted them then,
wanting to show Uncle Knightley a new book Aunt Emma had given them.
“Yes, do come in,” said Emma. “Papa will like to see you. Will you stay and dine with us?”
He yielded immediately. Given enough time and conversation, he was bound to learn how often
Churchill had been there without needing to bring the subject up himself.
He sat with Mr. Woodhouse for a little while, sure that among the small items of news which
formed the bulk of their conversation there must be some intelligence to be gleaned about Churchill.
There was not, however. Before Mr. Woodhouse told him much of anything beyond the slight ill-
health of the nursery-maid, Emma and the boys pressed him to join them in playing with their box of
letters, and he would have found it difficult to refuse them, even if Mr. Woodhouse had not added his
judgement, saying, “Ah, yes, Mr. Knightley, go and help amuse the little boys. Emma has been
playing with them all the morning in consequence of Ellen’s cold, and I think she had better go and
rest.”
Emma smiled lovingly at her father. “Dear Papa, I am very much obliged to you, but I am not in
need of rest at present. The boys have been as good as gold, and many of our games have been quiet
ones.”
“Well, perhaps if Mr. Knightley will join you, you will be all right. You will keep her from too
much exertion, will you not, Mr. Knightley?”
“Most certainly.”
The next two hours gave Knightley almost no opportunity for private discussion with Emma; the
boys were nearly as expert as Mrs. Elton at keeping the conversation centred on themselves. Still,
Knightley enjoyed this interval of cheerful domesticity. It was all too easy to imagine the same scene
with Emma as his wife and the children being their own.
At four o’clock the nursery dinner was sent up, and Ellen declared herself quite well enough to
preside over it. Knightley gave Emma his arm as they went downstairs to join Mr. Woodhouse in the
dining room.
“My dear sir, I hope you find the soup to your liking,” said Mr. Woodhouse as the dinner began.
“Not everyone can eat peas-soup without ill-effects, although Serle is most careful when preparing
ours. We do not eat it very often here, but I think most people of a healthy constitution will not suffer
from a small serving.”
“It is excellent soup,” said Knightley. “The flavour is remarkable and it is certainly very
wholesome.”
“It is indeed,” put in Emma. “You remember, Papa, how you asked Mr. Perry if he recommended
peas-soup for a constitution such as yours, and he said there would be nothing better.”
 “Ah, yes, my dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “I remember now. That was the day that Mr. Churchill
came to call, was it not?”
Knightley started. In the comfortable family atmosphere, he had almost forgotten that person’s
existence. He cleared his throat. “So, Mr. Churchill has been here?”
“Oh yes, although there has only been the one visit. He has wished very much to come more
often, but has always been prevented.”
Only one visit? Knightley’s relief was palpable. He was still convinced that a young man who
was determined to come would have found a way to do so, and his apathy in the matter meant that he
probably did not care much. And more encouraging still was the fact that Emma did not seem to
regret Churchill’s absence in the slightest. She might not have said anything about it, but he thought
he would have been able to detect if she were unhappy at the young man’s non-appearance.
Knightley enjoyed his dinner to the full, and when he was invited to remain and play
backgammon with Mr. Woodhouse, he gladly accepted. Emma sat nearby and watched the progress
of the game, offering encouragement and advice to her father, and teasing remarks to his opponent. It
seemed to Knightley that he had never had such a good evening. To be part of a quiet family circle
like this, knowing that he was bestowing happiness as well as receiving it would have been enough,
but after so many fears, to be allowed to hope again was a very sweet sensation. He stayed on even
after the game was finished, pushing aside the thought that there was much to be done at the Abbey
after his time away. This was far more important. He once more had the luxury of hope, and he was
going to savour it.

The next few days were busy enough that Knightley had no time to visit Hartfield. This would
have been cause for anxiety only a week previously, but now he could attend to his own business
rational and unperturbed. His security was shaken, however, the following Tuesday, when he learned
from Weston, during the parish meeting at the Crown, that the Churchills had removed to Richmond
some days before, the noise of London being injurious to Mrs. Churchill’s nerves. This was not a
happy development, although Knightley refused to be alarmed. A Frank Churchill who could be
apathetic from sixteen miles away would probably continue to be so even from only nine miles away.
Nine miles was really not that much closer than sixteen. Richmond could still be considered a fair
distance from Highbury.
Knightley, walking home to Donwell after the meeting, found Miss Bates walking on the same
road, and accompanied her the rest of the way. She was going, she said, to call on Mrs. Hughes.
“And have you really seen Mr. Richard, Mr. Knightley? I am so very eager—such a nice young
man—known him from quite a small child. I do believe it has been above six months since I have
seen him—he was here, I know, very briefly a month or two ago—I do not believe he saw a great
many friends on that visit. A barrister now! And only just the other day, it seems, he was running
about and his mother scolding him for doing something naughty! I shall not tell him so, however—I
do not believe young men enjoy being reminded of their infant days! We have high hopes that he will
attend the ball, seeing as he is already here. And there can never be too many gentlemen at a ball—
isn’t that so?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Knightley, “Did you say there was to be a ball?”
“Bless me, have you not heard? No, I suppose you could not have—so recently decided—there
was a letter from Mr. Churchill to the Westons several days ago saying that the Churchills were
removing to Richmond on account of Mrs. Churchill—the noise of London, that is—too much for
her nerves—and as soon as they had settled there he wrote again—just this morning—that is, the
letter arrived just this morning—Mrs. Weston came and showed it to us, you know—and the letter
begged that the ball might be resurrected, as it were—and Mrs. Weston is to ask her husband when
she sees him—for he has not been at home today, and does not yet know of the new letter—but as I
say, when she sees him, she will ask him to talk to Mrs. Stokes about the ball being held there next
week.”
It was nothing. He knew it was nothing. The mere fact that there was after all to be a ball did not
change anything. He could not at all account for the sudden plummeting of his spirits. Regardless, a
change of topic was absolutely necessary.
“How is Patty’s brother getting on?”
“How very kind of you to enquire!” said the gratified Miss Bates. “I think he is quite well, Mr.
Knightley. He has not gone back to that tavern where he was cheated, and I think it is a very good
thing, for sometimes young men do get a taste for gambling for high stakes, you know, Mr.
Knightley, and among company who are not as nice in their habits as might be desired. –I declare, is
that good Mr. Spencer? How do you do, Mr. Spencer?”
“Good day, Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley. I am very well, thank you. I was coming to see you, sir, if
you had a moment.”
“I do. Come to the Abbey now.”
The little group walked on until they reached the rectory and said farewell to Miss Bates there.
The men went on in a companionable silence. They had seen each other more frequently of late, and
talked of everything but the state of their hearts—what was there to say about that?—but each was
grateful for the unspoken sympathy of the other.
“Now then, Spencer,” said Knightley after they had been relieved of their coats and hats and
settled into the library, “what is it you wanted to see me about?”
“Well, sir, I was thinking that I might go and visit my family in Norfolk. Dr. Hughes is able to
preach again, and I would only be gone for two weeks. Dr. Hughes has given the scheme his
approval, but I wished to consult you as well.”
“There is no need for that, Spencer, but you certainly have my blessing. I hope you will give my
regards to your family.”
The entrance of Baxter just then interrupted them. “Excuse me, Mr. Knightley, but Mr. Larkins is
asking to see you for a moment. Shall I ask him to wait?”
Knightley turned to Spencer. “Should you mind if I see him? He will not stay long.”
“Please, do.”
“Very well. Send him in, Baxter.”
Larkins came in briskly, made his bows and greetings to the men, and informed Knightley that he
had met Hamilton on the road and been told that draining the land around the Fisher farm might
commence in the next day or two, if it pleased Mr. Knightley.
“Thank you, Larkins. I will speak to him about it. How are you getting on with Perkins? Has he
learned much, do you think?”
 “A very able young man,” said Larkins. “I believe it will not be long until there is no need for
my tutelage.”
“And was he impressed with the Foote farm?”
Larkins chuckled. “He was impressed with the occupants, at any rate.”
“So he admired all that Foote has done to improve the place?”
“He seemed to admire Mrs. Catherwood more. After our first visit he asked me about her three
times, and was anxious to go back and, as he said, learn more of the farm’s workings. We have been
there twice since, and were invited to dine with them. I have never seen anyone so eager to accept an
invitation.”
Knightley glanced at Spencer, who had gone white.
“I would not be surprised,” went on Larkins, “if Donwell were to lose the Catherwoods to
Langham before Christmas.”
“May I ask—would you say he is a good man?” asked Spencer resolutely. “Is he likely to treat
the boy well, and so on?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so.”
Spencer nodded, and Knightley said, “Was there anything else, Larkins?”
“No, nothing else, Mr. Knightley. I wish you good day, sir. And you, Mr. Spencer.”
The door closed behind him. Knightley took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh.
“I’m sorry, Spencer.”
“No, it is better that I should know.”
“I’m afraid it’s a bit of a shock.”
“Yes. But I have, after all, been praying that she and the boy would be cared for, and here is an
answer to that prayer. I ought to be grateful. I will be grateful. Tomorrow.”
“You are a far better man than I, Spencer. I would never be able to give thanks…”
“Has anything happened, Mr. Knightley? Mr. Churchill has not been visiting much, has he?”
“No. In fact, my hopes had grown stronger this last week or so. But I heard from Miss Bates, not
two minutes before you joined us, that there is to be a ball next week in Highbury—and Mr.
Churchill will be present. It should not worry me, I know—but it does.”
“Perhaps if you dance with her…” Spencer’s eyes twinkled briefly.
“I think not. My dancing must be quite inferior to Churchill’s, and I would rather not give Emma
the opportunity to compare my level of skill to his.”
“I understand. I suppose you must attend, even if you will not dance?”
“I think I must.”
The men were silent for a moment before Spencer roused himself and said, “Well, I must go, I
think. I will write to my father and tell him that he shall soon see his long-lost son. I confess, I am
thankful to be going away for a little time, until I am more used to the idea of Mr. Perkins and—” he
gestured meaninglessly. “You know.”
“I know. I think your visit could not be better timed. And if you return to discover that I have left
on a sudden journey to foreign parts, you will know that I have followed your wise example!”
“I trust it will not be necessary in your case, sir.”
“I don’t know, Spencer. At times I think I am foolish to hold out any hope at all.”
 6

“I saw Emma today,” said Knightley to Madam Duval. “She was all aflutter over tomorrow’s ball.
It is to be a very grand occasion, as they have compelled guests to come from the highways and
hedges—that is to say, they have invited people from beyond the bounds of Highbury. The Gilberts,
the Whitings, the Hughes’, and a whole tribe of Huttons. And there is to be supper, of course. Quite a
splendid affair. Are you listening, Madam?”
The cat’s ear twitched, but otherwise she remained curled into a comfortable ball, her eyes shut.
“I cannot see how I am supposed to enjoy the evening. I will not dance, of course, and I do not
think I will be able to hide in the card room—not only do I have very little taste for cards, but I
would spend the whole time wondering what Churchill and Emma are doing. But to stand and watch
Emma dance with Churchill will be no joy at all, either. And they will dance, you know, probably
more than once.”
He got up from his chair and began to pace slowly across the floor. “I quite envy Spencer, away
in Norfolk. Well, not envy, exactly—but I am certain he feels some relief in going away from the
scene of circumstances which are so distressing. I wish…well, there is no use wishing, but of all the
men who deserve a good wife, I think he is the foremost. It is hard to believe that heaven thought it
better to bestow a wife on Elton than on Spencer. Of course, the wife bestowed was Augusta
Hawkins, and perhaps Providence saw her more as a penalty than as a reward. Still, Elton has yet to
regret his choice, and he may be so blind as to never regret it. I wish he were not a clergyman,
Madam. No one demands perfection from a vicar, but I would rather the shepherd of any flock lead
them by his example. Spencer, now—he is a model of how a rejected suitor ought to behave. He kept
on at his post for weeks fulfilling his duties, steadfast and patient and only a little paler than usual…I
only hope I would do as well in his place.”
Knightley stopped by the library window and looked out. “I hope, Emma, my love, that I will not
be put to the test. It had seemed to me recently that I would not be. I have been telling myself for a
week that I have nothing to fear from the ball—that Churchill will not pursue you, that you will not
fall in love with him, that Churchill will go back to Richmond after the ball and never come to
Highbury again—but I cannot depend upon it. I am afraid of what the ball may bring forth.” He
traced with his finger the pattern of the lead between the squares of glass. “And yet…I am glad you
will have opportunity to dance, dearest Emma. I would not deny you that pleasure.”
 Knightley entered the ballroom and blinked a little. He had never seen the room so well lighted
or so tastefully festooned with greenery and ribbons. It was well filled with people already, even
though it still lacked ten minutes until the hour the ball was to begin. He looked around for Emma,
his eyes gliding over the assembled throng, lighting briefly on an Otway here, a Gilbert there—and
then, like Troilus of old, he saw his Criseyde and his eyes stopped. Emma was there by the fire, and
by the greatest good fortune, she was standing alone. She was smiling, watching something across
the room. “In beauty first so stood she, matchless,” he thought.
For a moment he watched her, conscious of the double nature of his feelings toward Emma. She
was the dear, familiar friend who teased him and received his own teasing, who knew him for what
he was, and whose mind he could almost read—usually. At the same time, her beauty and elegance
smote him in a manner that took his breath away and rendered him helpless, and he felt it would
somehow be fitting for him to kneel at her feet and kiss her hand.
He moved toward her, but before he had taken many steps, it was evident that he had lingered too
long. Frank Churchill and the Westons approached her and began an animated discussion, which
ended with Emma going off with Churchill and Mr. Weston approaching Mrs. Elton and asking her to
dance. Ah, so that was it. Mrs. Elton would be expecting to lead the way, and Emma must sink to
being one of less consequence.
“How do you do, Mr. Knightley?”
It was Mrs. Cole, looking resplendent in a rather vivid green ballgown, wishing to exchange
polite pleasantries. He was able to oblige her, even while noting from periodic sidelong glances that
Emma and Churchill were standing together, talking.
At the stroke of the hour, the musicians began tuning their instruments.
“Well, Mrs. Elton,” said Weston, loudly enough that a quarter of the room could hear him, “what
shall we dance to first?”
And Mrs. Elton, basking in the privilege of being the leading lady of the first set, deliberated for
a moment before choosing “Miss Moore’s Rant” as the tune for the first dance.
As the musicians arranged themselves for playing and the dancers began to form two lines,
Knightley moved to where a few chairs had been set out for the convenience of those who wanted to
watch the dancing. It was crowded, as the card-players had not yet departed for the card room, but he
stood where he might see Emma. He caught her looking at him once, twice. She was smiling happily
at the prospect of the dance before her.
The first strains of music were heard, and the eyes of every dancer were on the lead couple, to
see what steps were to be used in this dance. The figures chosen by Weston and Mrs. Elton were
simple enough, and it was not long before Emma and Churchill began. He had determined
beforehand that he need not observe that particular couple as they danced, but he found he could not
help doing so. Emma was delightful to watch: lively yet graceful, confident without being showy.
The sight reminded him of the night at the Coles’, when her dance with Churchill had suddenly
illuminated the desires of his heart; it was at once a pleasant and a painful memory.
She danced her two dances with Churchill, and then had two with Weston and two with Edmund
Gilbert. He could not stare at her without intermission, of course—his attention was often claimed by
other people, for one thing—but he was able to look at her frequently. He saw very little to sustain
the hopes that had been growing for the last fortnight. He could no longer delude himself into
thinking that Emma was indifferent to Churchill, or he to her. He gave her marked attention, and even
when the two of them danced with others, they often smiled at each other or exchanged remarks
between the dances. The sense of foreboding that he had been dismissing was very real now.
Whenever Emma caught his eye, she smiled at him, and he could not help an answering smile; to
ignore her friendly glances would indicate that he was angry with her, and he most certainly was not.
But it was an effort to do it.
As Emma finished her dances with Edmund Gilbert, Knightley surmised that they had now come
to the last two dances before supper. He was rather glad of it. He had, for the last hour, been seated
beside Mr. Whiting, a gentleman with a small estate near Langham. There was no harm whatever in
the old fellow, but he did have a tendency to ramble on in his speeches, which were mostly of the
plaintive sort, and to see hazards and dangers lurking in every commonplace occurrence. He was, in
fact, very like Mr. Woodhouse in some ways, only rather more discontented.
There was the usual confusion and mingling of people and the babble of small talk as dancers
found new partners, and then order gradually pervaded again as the company sorted itself into pairs.
Emma was asked by Richard Hughes, and was unfortunately placed just below Mrs. Elton and
William Cox in the set. Elton caught Knightley’s eye; he was asking Mrs. Perry to dance, and she
was saying that she was promised to someone else. He saw Elton look around—most of the other
ladies had partners, and were walking with them even now over to the set. The ball thus far had been
remarkable for having an equal number of dancing men and women; Knightley wondered if there
was a young lady who was too tired to dance and was sitting out—Jane Fairfax, perhaps? No, she
was standing up with Churchill near the top of the set. The music began, and the lead couple began
their dance. Emma would not be dancing for a little while—she was closer to the bottom of the set.
“And so I informed him,” went on Mr. Whiting, who had never paused in his narrative, “that
James told me that there were gypsies about. ‘Well, that explains why there are chickens missing,’ I
said. I did, indeed; I do not believe in mincing words. I have no time for such thieves and idlers. No
time at all.”
Mr. Whiting’s thin voice droned on while Knightley watched Elton make his way over to where
they were seated with the others who were observing the dance. Instead of sitting down, however,
Elton walked about—Knightley could almost have called it strutting instead of walking—and spoke a
word or two to various people. In another moment, he saw something that explained it all: Harriet
Smith was still sitting down. Elton’s refusal to dance with her meant that there was no one else to ask
her. It was intolerably rude for Elton to ignore Harriet in this way, but the disgrace would have been
much less if he had left the ballroom altogether. To flaunt his discourtesy like this was contemptible.
He looked for Emma; she was closer now, but facing away from him, and he could see only the
slightest part of her face. She was smiling and saying something to Richard. Good, safe Richard, who
would be ineligible to marry until his debt was fully repaid.
Elton sauntered into view again; he was now saying something to Mrs. Hughes, who was seated
close by Harriet.
“Insufferable!” escaped Knightley’s lips.
“Very true, very true,” said Mr. Whiting. “And I don’t think there is a farm near Langham that
has not suffered from those marauding gypsies. This is the time of year, you know, when they start
their travelling, and there’ll be bands of them roaming around until the autumn. And the magistrates
do nothing—nothing at all—to eradicate the problem—that is—” he paused, suddenly remembering
to whom he was speaking, “some magistrates have done nothing.” He took out a handkerchief and
blew his nose.
The sudden silence of Mr. Whiting enabled him to hear, even over the noise of the music, the
voice of Mrs. Weston, who had left her seat to ask Mr. Elton if he did not dance.
“Most readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me.”
“Me! Oh no—I would get you a better partner than myself. I am no dancer.”
 “If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance, I shall have great pleasure, I am sure—for, though beginning to
feel myself rather an old married man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very
great pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs. Gilbert.”
“Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady disengaged whom I should be
very glad to see dancing—Miss Smith.”
Elton turned around and looked at Harriet as if he were surprised to see her there. “Miss Smith!
Oh! I had not observed.” Knightley saw him glance at his wife, who was almost directly before them.
She, in her turn, had turned her head to see the scene and was smiling back at him—a rather
conspiratorial smile.
“You are extremely obliging—and if I were not an old married man—but my dancing days are
over, Mrs. Weston. You will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your
command—but my dancing days are over.”
It was a deliberate insult. Aimed at Harriet, of course, but also including in its scope Mrs.
Weston, who after a faltering “Oh!” returned to her seat, and Emma, whose face he could not see, but
the set of whose shoulders were eloquent enough to him. Elton strolled along past the observers, and
to Knightley’s disgust, dropped into the seat next to his.
“Well, Knightley, are you enjoying the dance? I suppose you had your fill of these amusements
when you were young.” Elton glanced at his wife, who was grinning triumphantly at her husband,
and he returned the look before turning back to Knightley. That Elton should feel no shame in such
an action made him seethe with anger. The man had done an appalling thing, and yet felt triumph
instead of remorse.
“Perhaps you have chosen the better way in deciding to sit out,” resumed Elton, “rather than
endeavour to evade undesirable dancing partners.”
“Excuse me,” said Knightley briefly, and stood. He took a deep breath and strode over to Harriet.
She looked up at him with watery eyes.
“Miss Smith,” he said, “Will you do me the honour of dancing with me?”
A little gasp of surprise preceded the smile that spread over her face. She nodded and he held out
his arm to her. She rose and took it, and he led her to the bottom of the set. They stood opposite each
other, waiting their turn to begin, Harriet’s eyes now bright with pleasure and her face displaying a
most winsome smile. He could see for an instant what Robert Martin had seen in her; a beautiful girl,
easily pleased and completely unassuming. A conceited girl would have let mortification and
resentment make her sullen all evening, but Harriet had brushed aside the sting and now looked as
happy as she could be.
He hoped Emma would be glad of this. He looked at her. She was just about to begin dancing,
but their eyes met and he could see the gratitude in her heart. He had told Spencer once that if he ever
danced in public for the sake of a woman, it must be due to true love. And he had been right, for here
he was, dancing—not with his love, perhaps, but for her. Or would he have offered to dance with
Harriet if she had not been Emma’s friend? He did not know; he would like to think that his chivalry
was enough to have prompted the action regardless. At any rate, there was no more time to ponder
the question. He must observe the dancers so that he would not embarrass Harriet and himself by
blatant missteps or wrong turnings. In a very short while, it was their turn to begin.
Harriet could not be called an elegant dancer, but she was very enthusiastic. Knightley enjoyed
watching her delight. He hardly spared a thought for his own dancing—he saw Emma watching him
once, and it crossed his mind to wonder if she thought him vastly inferior to Churchill. Well, it was
no matter. He was doing this to spare the feelings of Harriet, Mrs. Weston, and Emma, and in a small
way, to show up Elton. It amused him that the name of the tune to which they were dancing was
“Revenge.” The second dance seemed a continuation of the first, and was just as enjoyable. How
long had it been since he had danced? Five years, he thought; the last ball had been one in London
that John had made him attend.
Supper was announced. Gradually the assembled company funnelled themselves into the
passage. The men escorted the partners they had had for the last dance, and Knightley was
particularly thankful that Churchill had been dancing with Jane Fairfax and not Emma. Knightley
ushered Harriet into the corridor and through it to the supper-room at the other end. A glimpse of the
room showed that Churchill was already seated next to Miss Bates and her niece, and so there was no
question of trying to keep Emma from being seated next to him. Emma was, in fact, just sitting down
with Richard Hughes and his parents.
“Well, Miss Smith,” said he, “will you bear me company during the supper? There are some
empty seats over there—quick, before Mr. Otway sees them and steals them from us!”
Harriet giggled and showed surprising agility in threading her way through the crowded room to
the empty chairs.
It was a fine supper; Mrs. Weston and Mrs. Stokes had outdone themselves. But it was not
merely the white soup, ham, roast lamb, cheesecakes, millefeuille, and other dishes that made the
supper unexpectedly agreeable, it was the company of Harriet. Perhaps it was because Emma was not
there overshadowing her friend with her brilliance, but Harriet seemed much less empty-headed than
he had thought her. To be sure, her understanding was not quick, and she would never rise to the level
of witty banter, but she showed genuine interest in what he said, and there did not seem to be a
particle of self-conceit in her. They began by talking of his little nephews, for whom she expressed
great affection, and that led to discussion of the whole Knightley family, their London home, London
itself, and the curiosities, amusements, and exhibitions to be seen there. Harriet had never visited the
great metropolis and was well entertained by his descriptions of Astley’s and the Royal Menagerie.
She was in the middle of asking him questions about the Tower of London when they became
aware that the supper was over and people were going back to the ballroom. He thanked her for her
company and she curtsied very prettily and they went back into the ballroom where people were
standing around in little knots, talking. One of the Miss Coxes greeted Harriet, and he left them
together.
He noticed Emma then, standing alone and beckoning him with her eyes. He walked over to
where she was standing.
“Thank you, Mr. Knightley,” were her first words, “for your kindness to Harriet. That was well
done of you.”
He knew he had done right, and the satisfaction of that had been reward enough for him, but to
have Emma thanking him from the heart with such a look of gratitude on her face was pure felicity.
“No need for thanks, Emma,” he said. “Any man ought to have done the same. Elton was
unpardonably rude—such behaviour is absolutely intolerable. And not only his behaviour—I saw his
wife’s part in the incident. The looks she gave—I could hardly have believed that a woman with any
feeling at all could be so cruel.”
“I could scarcely credit my ears,” said Emma. “I had not thought them as malicious as this.”
“They aimed at wounding more than Harriet. Emma, why is it that they are your enemies?”
She had never yet told him outright that Elton had asked her to marry him and that she had
refused, and he wondered if she would tell him if given the opportunity. She looked a little startled at
his words, and he could not help smiling as he waited for her to speak. She was a perfect lady,
however, and did not open her lips, though her gaze faltered. He became more explicit: “She ought
not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may be.” He waited for her to confirm what he
implied, but her training held good. She would not break the firm rule that a lady should never speak
of a rejected suit, in order to spare the feelings of unlucky suitor. Elton did not deserve such
consideration, but Emma was not about to stoop to his level. “To that surmise, you say nothing, of
course,” said Knightley, letting it go, “but confess, Emma, that you did want him to marry Harriet.”
 She did not hesitate at all before saying, “I did, and they cannot forgive me.”
He could not approve of that, or of the lies she had told in denying it, but he would not make the
mistake of chiding her again; she knew what he thought, and she seemed already to regret her
actions.
“I shall not scold you,” he said, smiling. “I leave you to your own reflections.”
“Can you trust me with such flatterers?” she asked. “Does my vain spirit ever tell me I am
wrong?”
He was heartened. She was no longer supremely confident in her own understanding; perhaps
there had been a lesson learned through all of this. But here was an opportunity to give her a word of
sincere praise, and he took it.
“Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit. If one leads you wrong, I am sure the other tells you
of it.”
“I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There is a littleness about him
which you discovered, and which I did not: and I was fully convinced of his being in love with
Harriet. It was through a series of strange blunders!”
He could not have asked for a more satisfactory explanation from Emma’s lips. She had
acknowledged his judgement of someone else to be superior to her own. It must have cost her
something to say it. And after all, she was not always wrong. He would admit his own error in
judgement.
“And in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the justice to say that you would
have chosen for him better than he has chosen for himself. Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities,
which Mrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless girl—infinitely to be
preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more
conversable than I expected.”
She looked pleased to hear him say this, and he would have said more if they had not just then
heard Mr. Weston calling out, “Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all
doing? Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy! Every body is asleep!”
“I am ready whenever I am wanted,” Emma returned, smiling.
Knightley bowed to the inevitable: his comfortable talk with Emma was over. Well, he would
part from her pleasantly.
“Whom are you going to dance with?” asked Knightley, bracing his heart against the possibility
that it would be Churchill.
She paused for a moment and then said, “With you, if you will ask me.”
His heart turned over. He had been determined that he would not dance with her, but he could not
refuse. He offered his hand to her.
“Will you?”
“Indeed I will. You have shown that you can dance, and you know we are not really so much
brother and sister as to make it at all improper.”
The thought was absurd. “Brother and sister! No, indeed.”
They took their places in the set, and the opening strains of “Lady Mary Ramsey” filled the
ballroom. They were near the top of the set, and it was not long before they were in motion. He
forgot to think of how she might judge his dancing, forgot to think of what damage he might be doing
to his own heart if Emma married another. He could only think of how perfectly matched they were.
They never fumbled a hand-clasp or a mis-timed a dos-a-dos: they anticipated each other’s
movements. For this moment they were in complete harmony. It was the first time they had danced
together; it might very well be the last, too, but he would enjoy it to the full. Harriet had smiled while
dancing with him, but she had done it for the joy of dancing, and for the relief of being plucked out
of disgrace and set in a place of privilege. Emma’s smile was for the pleasure of dancing with him.
Her smiles may have been on account of friendship, and his on account of love, but so long as they
were both happy to be dancing with each other, he would not ask for more.

Knightley did not dance anymore that evening. He sat down again and watched Emma dance in
turn with the elder Mr. Otway, Mr. Cox, and Mr. Perry. He thought she must sense the difference
between dancing with them and dancing with himself. The instinctive concord between them could
not have been felt only on his side. He was inclined to let himself be sanguine.
His fledgling hopes were crushed, however, by the last dance, the boulangerie. Emma was asked
by Churchill, and she consented. To dance twice with the same partner at a ball like this was an
unmistakable signal, and all the jealous anxieties that he had dismissed a moment ago came trooping
back. Knightley would have liked to slip away—the ball was almost over, and likely no one would
notice if he did not remain until the bitter end—but he was seated beside Mrs. Perry, whose garrulity
he could not dampen. He turned his eyes away from the dancers, however, and tried to keep his
attention on what the good lady was saying.
“And did you hear about that incident earlier with Miss Hutton? No? You see her there with that
elaborate arrangement of ribbons and feathers in her hair—not in the best of taste, in my opinion, but
a very sweet girl all the same—it was just after finishing supper, and almost everyone had gone back
to the ballroom, but Miss Hutton had lingered behind—I believe she was talking to young Mr.
Howard—and as she was walking out of the room, she came too near to the lighted candle in the
sconce and singed the large feather at the back of her head. It could have been a frightful accident, of
course, and the smell of burnt feather is not pleasant—but luckily there was no real harm done.
Naturally, the feather was ruined and Miss Hutton found it difficult to remove it without letting her
hair down, so Mr. Churchill, who was there also, said ‘I believe Miss Bates may have a pair of
scissors—she always keeps such things in her reticule’ and he went away and came back a moment
later with a pair of scissors, and snipped the feather off. Such an obliging young man—so good
natured and handsome. I tell Mrs. Cole that she ought to be glad that her daughters are too young to
break their hearts over him, for it’s most likely that he has already made his choice.” She nodded
significantly at the dancing couple.
The dance came to an end at last. Mr. Perry appeared and claimed his wife, and the crowd began
to thin. Carriages were called for, and those who were waiting for them gathered in a little knot by
the door. Emma’s carriage was one of the first, and Knightley had hoped to escort her to it, but was
forestalled by hearing Weston say, “Come, Emma, here is your carriage now. Frank, my boy, will you
see to Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax? Ah, Knightley—I’ve called for your carriage, too. All right now,
Emma, here we are—mind the puddles—the rain has been heavy during the ball, I think.”
Knightley had no choice, then, but to stay there by the door, close by where Churchill was
making himself agreeable to Miss Bates and her niece.
“And of course,” Miss Bates was saying, “in the evenings Jane reads to us—she is a beautiful
reader, Mr. Churchill—for we often have our little supper and then sit in the parlour and Jane reads to
us—first she read out Camilla—and now she is reading Belinda—such an absorbing book, I think—I
suppose you have read it?”
“Indeed,” came the smooth voice of Churchill. “I believe it may be my very favourite novel. I
feel a great kinship to Mr. Hervey—and to Mr. Vincent, too, for that matter. They—”
“Oh!” interjected Miss Bates. “As to favourites, you know, I cannot say that it is not becoming
my favourite as well…” Miss Bates chattered on happily.
But Knightley had heard what she had not. Churchill had finished his statement quietly while she
had been talking, and what he had said was, “They both had secrets.”
 7

“He said that he has secrets, Emma,” said Knightley at the library window late that night.
“Secrets. I know what he means, of course, and it is no great mystery. If he thinks that his pursuit of
you is known only to himself, he is a very great simpleton. Dancing twice with you, talking—flirting
—with you between dances, smiling at you entirely too often…he has all the subtlety of a clanging
church bell. Everyone must realize that you are his object.”
He paused as he remembered Mr. Weston’s smiles and Mrs. Perry’s significant glance, and
heaved a deep sigh. “And I suppose you know it too. You are too intelligent to be blind to such
obvious attentions. My dear Emma, don’t be taken in. See though his polished façade to the sort of
man he really is. He would not make you happy; no one so selfish as he is makes a good husband.
You are clever enough to discover his true character if you desire to. And you can be more clever
still, Emma, if only you would—clever enough to discover what I cannot yet tell you. There is one
heart, one true and honest heart, that you have captured. It is a willing prisoner, Emma, and for the
moment asks nothing more than leave to go on being in thrall.” He meditated for a moment before
continuing.
“I think this merits a little more pondering, Emma. I foresee an hour or two spent in the lime
walk tomorrow morning. I can think more clearly when you are not here to distract me. I bid you
goodnight, my love.”

The lime walk wore its Spring costume for Knightley’s contemplative pacing. He wished Emma
were there to enjoy the beauty of the spot and exclaim over its perfections, but then he would be even
less able to think. And he desperately needed to think and to make some sort of plan for his actions.
Frank Churchill was pursuing Emma. In this endeavour he undoubtedly had the support of the
Westons, and very possibly the Churchills. Mrs. Churchill might be reluctant for him to marry at all,
if she thought his doing so meant she would lose her hold on him, but there could be no objection to
Emma being the bride. On Churchill’s side, the path was clear.
And now, what was Emma thinking? Was she happy to be pursued? Was she in love with
Churchill? He searched his memory of the ball. He had watched her through most of it, and while she
had smiled at Churchill often, and spoken to him whenever he addressed her, she had not sought him
out. He was quite certain that her eyes had not followed Churchill around the room. As far as
Knightley knew, she had never initiated a conversation with Churchill, and had certainly not slyly
insinuated herself into his company. He felt these things to be evidence that she was not in love with
Churchill, at least not yet.
And what could he do to prevent such a disaster? Short of offering himself as an alternative
suitor, he could not think of anything. The very few times he had attempted to reveal Churchill’s
faults to her, she had defended the fellow, and he was afraid that to try it again would have the effect
of pushing her into Churchill’s arms.
Should he continue to go to Hartfield regularly? Or was it true that absence made the heart grow
fonder? Would Emma love him better if his visits to Hartfield stopped? He doubted it. And, really,
there was no point in even considering it, for even aside from the fact that Mr. Woodhouse required
his presence often, he knew that he would never be able to keep himself from seeing her. He was
never happier than when in her presence, and he could not give it up. He would be very careful; he
would not scold her or lecture her or do anything else that might annoy her, but only be a pleasant,
faithful friend. And in order to maintain his sanity, he would do his utmost to refrain from
speculating about the state of Emma’s heart and be content to merely be in her presence.
It was not a very satisfactory plan—it would require great self-control on his part and would do
nothing to keep Emma from falling in love with Churchill—but the alternatives were open wooing or
careful avoidance, and he knew he could not follow either of them.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley.” Larkins was waiting in the library when Knightley came in
from the lime walk.
“Ah, Larkins. Good afternoon. Sorry to be out when you came—I hope you have not been
waiting long.”
“Only a little while, Mr. Knightley, but I thought you should know that there has been a problem
with some gypsies in Highbury.”
“Oh?”
“Miss Smith was attacked—”
“Attacked! In Highbury?”
“Perhaps ‘importuned’ would be a more accurate word than ‘attacked’—and it was not in
Highbury, precisely, but rather half a mile outside it, on the Richmond road. Miss Smith and another
young lady—Miss Bickerton, I believe—were accosted by some gypsy women and children, I
understand, begging for money. They became quite impertinent and the young ladies became
alarmed. Somehow Miss Bickerton was able to flee the scene, but Miss Smith was left there with
them and quite frightened out of her wits.”
“Poor girl—how very distressing for her! And how did she get away?”
 “Sir Galahad arrived,” said Larkins with a rare glimmer of humour in his eyes. “That is to say,
Mr. Frank Churchill passed by and frightened the gypsies off and escorted Miss Smith to Hartfield.”
“And you say it happened this morning?”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley, not two hours ago.”
“I have always suspected you of omnipresence, Larkins, and now I am certain of it. How else
could you hear of it so soon?”
“Miss Woodhouse sent a message to Mrs. Goddard, for there was no knowing what she would
think after Miss Bickerton arrived alone, and it was all over Highbury within a half-hour. I believe
the message to Mrs. Goddard included a statement to the effect that you would also be informed of
the disturbance.”
“I expect there is a note for me at my writing desk, then. Yes, here it is.”
He opened Emma’s note and scanned the contents. “Yes, Miss Woodhouse says much the same
as you did. Well, I must go and see about it. Has Burton been alerted in his role as constable, do you
think?”
“I do not know, Mr. Knightley.”
“Well, I will see him first, and then visit the gypsy camp.”
He met Burton on the road; the constable was on his way to Donwell to ask Mr. Knightley what
ought to be done about this incident with the gypsies. They turned toward the Richmond road
together.
“And what do you think of this business?” asked Knightley. He did not know Burton well, but he
had a good opinion of his judgement as far as he knew him.
“I don’t know quite what to think yet,” said Burton. “It doesn’t seem that much harm was done
—the story I was told, at least, was that Miss Bickerton ran off as soon as a gypsy child came near
the young ladies to beg. I don’t say it’s a pleasant thing to be asked for money by strangers, but it
does seem that Miss Bickerton’s reaction was excessive.”
“Well, I daresay she was frightened because the child was a gypsy—their reputation precedes
them wherever they go.”
“I know it, sir. And also that their reputation is often well-deserved. But not always, Mr.
Knightley. Not always.”
“You seem to have some personal feeling in the matter.”
“I knew a gypsy once, sir, when I lived at Sutton. He worked as a tinker and stayed behind when
the rest of them moved on. He had fallen in love with a woman in the village, you see. They married
and took a house and he kept on working as a tinker for a little while. But he had a hard time of it.
Every time something went missing, he was suspected of being the thief. Finally, a horse was stolen,
and public feeling was such that he was very nearly taken for it. The real culprit turned up, though,
and justice ran its course. But the gypsy took his wife and left after that. He told me he was going to a
place where people wouldn’t know he was a gypsy—although I think his face would give him away.
At any rate, they left, and I don’t know where they went.”
“That is a sad case,” said Knightley. “I confess I have never made a friend of a gypsy. I see
plenty of them, of course; they come before me frequently at quarter sessions—not only as
defendants but also as witnesses or victims. There seems to be kind of a culture of crime in that
community, and no doubt they do not think their offences so very bad.”
“From what my friend said, they often see the settled people as antagonists, bent on harassing
and persecuting them. If someone is cheated or robbed, it seems to the gypsies a kind of justice.”
 “But they very often commit crimes against each other as well.”
“True. I imagine the conscience gets hardened a bit when one is in the habit of law-breaking—it
was one of the reasons my friend was willing to leave the band.”
“I expect you’re right, Burton.”
The gypsy camp was so recently deserted that the ashes of cooking fires were still faintly warm,
but the shallow fire-pits, the symmetrical holes in the ground from the poles of bender tents, the
flattened grass between the holes, and the marks left by a horse and trap were the only things visible
to show that the gypsies had been there.
“Should we pursue them, Mr. Knightley?” asked Burton doubtfully.
“I think not. I do not consider this incident important enough to bring to the petty sessions, nor
would I wish to subject Miss Smith and Miss Bickerton to the discomfort of being witnesses at a
trial. It would really be a matter for a local magistrate, and as I am the local magistrate, and the
penalty I would assign would be to leave the district, there is very little point in chasing them.”
“I shall return to Highbury, then, and assure the citizens of their safety.”
“And I shall go to Hartfield to do the same.”

“And then, Uncle Knightley, Miss Bickerton was very frightened and gave a great scream, like
this: ‘Aaaahhhh!”
Mr. Woodhouse was startled into wakefulness by Henry’s shriek.
“Emma, my dear! What is the matter? What has happened? Is there any danger?”
“No, Papa,” said Emma, getting up quickly to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder and kiss his
cheek. “There is nothing the matter, nothing at all. Henry was telling a story, and forgot to speak
softly. Henry, you must ask the forgiveness of your grandpapa.”
“I am very sorry, Grandpapa,” said a duly contrite Henry. “I beg your pardon.”
“That is quite all right, Henry, only you must remember that we have all been greatly alarmed
today, and that we must speak very quietly, so as not to upset the nerves of the ladies, who are
suffering for it.”
Knightley glanced at Emma, who was controlling her smile with difficulty. Miss Smith had been
calm for hours, and Emma had never been more than mildly perturbed by the event.
“I think they are recovering well, sir,” said Knightley.
Mr. Woodhouse looked from one tranquil young lady to the other. “Yes, Mr. Knightley. It is a
great mercy that their minds are not greatly disordered by this terrible occurrence. Poor Miss Smith—
poor Emma—they are so delicate! I do not think they should go beyond the shrubbery again, unless
you are there to protect them. They must stay at Hartfield. Dear, dear—that such dangers should be
lurking around Highbury! Nothing of this sort was ever seen in my younger days. All the young
ladies must stay at their homes; they will be safe if they do not wander the roads.”
“My dear sir, your kind heart does you great credit,” said Knightley. “I think you have hit upon a
very wise plan. All the young ladies should stay in their homes.” He looked at Emma, saw her
startled expression, and smiled. It was a lovely idea—that he would be required to be Emma’s escort
whenever she left the house! But not practicable, of course.
 “Stay in our homes, Mr. Knightley?” Emma’s voice was incredulous.
“Yes. For the rest of the day, the young ladies should stay at home. By tomorrow, the shadow of
danger will be entirely past, and they may once again walk freely about Highbury.”
Emma smiled at this method of managing her father’s fears.
“I was hoping I might have the boys with me tomorrow,” continued Knightley. “They have not
been at the Abbey much on this visit, and Dr. Hughes would particularly like to see them. May I
borrow them for a few hours?”
“You may, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma. “The resulting tranquillity at Hartfield will be most
welcome.” She glanced at her father with affection, and Knightley smiled in sympathy. Emma might
be unaware of how often the two of them communicated without speaking openly, but he revelled in
every instance of it.

The little boys had a glorious day with Uncle Knightley. They were first brought to the Abbey to
revisit the fish-ponds and be fussed over by Mrs. Hodges, and afterwards to the Rectory, where Mrs.
Hughes gave them gingerbread and Dr. Hughes talked kindly to them and gave them each a shilling
when they went away. It was a splendid day for a walk, and the trio ambled down the path to
Langham, and then back toward Highbury by way of the Kingston road, in order to inspect the bridge
that had given everyone such trouble. Knightley charged the boys with finding any cracks in it, and
they undertook the task with a gravity that made Knightley want to burst out laughing. They were on
their hands and knees, examining every inch of the bridge, when a young man came walking down
the road toward them. Knightley recognized him as Edmund Gilbert, and called out a greeting to him.
“Mr. Knightley!” Edmund looked somewhat startled. “Have you been in Langham? Is there
anything amiss?”
“No, nothing. I was taking my nephews for a walk, and they have been inspecting the bridge to
see if the repairs were done properly.” He introduced John and Henry, and the boys made their bows
politely, if not gracefully, before resuming their scrutiny of the bridge.
“I meant to ask you, Edmund,” said Knightley in a lowered voice, “if you had any ideas about
these thefts in Langham that have come to my attention.”
“Thefts, Mr. Knightley?”
“Yes. I have heard that there have been many small items taken recently from homes around
Langham. You told me once that you sometimes play cards of an evening with some of the village
lads—no fear,” he added at the panicked look on the young man’s face, “I have never told anyone
what you said. I only wondered if you might have heard something that would shed some light on the
identity of the thief, or thieves.”
“Oh!” said Edmund. “I have heard of the thefts—I suppose there is no one in Langham that has
not—but as to who is responsible, I have no idea.”
 He was lying. His demeanour gave it away as plainly as a full confession would have done. As
accustomed as Knightley was to encountering liars in a court of law, it gave him pain to find one in
Edmund.
“You are certain you don’t know?” A very little pressure might bring a more truthful answer.
“Quite certain.”
“Well then, if you do learn anything, will you send me a message?”
“Of course, Mr. Knightley.” The words were perfunctory, and Knightley was irritated by the
man’s glib insincerity. Somewhat abruptly he bid him good day, and told Henry and John that it was
time to be getting back to Hartfield. The energy of the little boys had flagged, and the journey was
made at a very slow place, giving Knightley time to ruminate on this encounter with Edmund. It was
bad enough, he thought, that the young man had been associating and likely gambling with
undesirable fellows in the village, but now it seemed that he had some guilty knowledge of their
misdeeds. He hoped that it was only knowledge, and that Edmund had not entangled himself in
something more serious. There was no proof of any misconduct yet on Edmund’s part, for which he
was grateful. If there had been proof, he would have been faced with the dilemma of whether or not
to tell Gilbert of his son’s improper behaviour. It was a decision he hoped he would not have to
make.

“I think you should know, Mr. Knightley,” said Larkins a week later, “that the widow Hunt’s
sister is coming to stay with her for the foreseeable future.”
“Oh?” said Knightley, and then after a moment, in a changed voice, “Oh! Miss Castleman, is it?”
“Yes. I regret to say that it is. Mrs. Hunt said it was her sister Catherine, and she looked uneasy.”
“I suppose it was too much to hope that we had seen the last of her.”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley. A year or two ago when that dreadful fever made its way through Sussex, I
thought perhaps—”
“Larkins! I trust you didn’t hope that she would be one of the victims.”
Larkins cleared his throat. “I do not say that I wished it to happen, Mr. Knightley, only that it
crossed my mind that if she did fall victim to it, there might be occasion for…ah…relief.”
“I would not have thought you capable of such sentiments, Larkins. All the same—” Knightley
sighed. “It would have been most convenient.”

2 June
 Donwell Abbey

Dear John,

I will be very willing to escort my nephews home next week. Henry tells me he has never yet
ridden in my carriage, and he is eager to compare it with yours; I cannot deny him the opportunity.
Tuesday will best suit both my plans and those of Hartfield; tell me if this is agreeable to you as well.
I will stay the night with you and take the opportunity to look in on Graham, as you say he is in
Town, before returning home.
Tell Isabella that nothing more has been seen of the gypsies; I am sorry to hear she had any
uneasiness on the subject. Bella need not worry, either; if any marauding gypsies came to the Abbey,
Madam Duval would defend me with her last claw.
Mrs. Hunt’s sister has arrived for some unspecified period of time. You remember Miss
Castleman, of course—the shrewish woman with a crooked front tooth, diminutive in stature, but
stridently voluble in expressing opinions. You were here, I believe, when she publicly denounced Mr.
Morley of the circulating library and threatened to burn all his novels. You gave it as your opinion
that she was mad, although I daresay you based your verdict on her literary opinions more than on
her outrageous behaviour. She has already called the Catherwood boy a freak of nature—thank
heaven Spencer has not yet returned—and infuriated Mrs. Green by calling her a slattern. There may
be bloodshed in the parish before another fortnight passes.
As you express concern about my lonely condition, I must tell you that I have been pulled into
Mrs. Elton’s social whirlpool, and am frequently invited to join in one party or another. I do not—I
could not—accept every invitation that is extended to me, but I cannot refuse them all, either. I am, in
fact, going to dine at the Eltons’ tomorrow night. Not I alone, for which I am profoundly grateful, but
with the Randalls family and, I think, Miss Fairfax. A party of so many will rather dilute the aura of
Mrs. Elton. And then when I have finished my dose of affliction at the vicarage, I can return to my
usual state of tranquillity at the Abbey.

Knightley put down his quill and reflected that “tranquillity” was not precisely the word to
describe his state of mind. For three weeks he had, with Spartan-like discipline, followed the plan he
had formulated for his own behaviour. He walked to Hartfield nearly every evening and spent the
time there with as much emotional detachment as he could command. When he arrived home again,
he confided to Madam Duval only the events of the day that had nothing to do with Emma. He
continued to bid Emma goodnight at the library window, but he made no long soliloquies. It was a
very great effort to hold himself in check, and the suppression of most of his Emma-ward thoughts
reminded him of a swollen stream only just held back by an unstable dam. In spite of this, all was
outwardly serene, and he congratulated himself on his ability to sail calmly over the sea of
tumultuous passions with not only the appearance but also the reality of a measure of peace. It was,
however, a fragile peace, and it was shattered the very next day.
 8

“Mr. Spencer, sir.” Baxter’s quiet voice announced the visitor.

“Ah, Spencer,” said Knightley, smiling and rising to meet him. “You’ve returned. I hope you had
a good journey.”
“Only tolerable, sir. I was very happy to get to the end of it.”
“And your family was well? You gave them my greetings, I hope?”
“Very well, thank you. My father sends his best compliments and thanks for the kindness you
have shown me.”
“Please, be seated, Spencer. Will you have anything to drink?”
“No, I thank you. I trust you are well, Mr. Knightley.”
“Well enough, although a new worry has appeared while you were gone, in the form of a
newcomer to the parish.”
“I know. Miss Castleman. I have been back in Donwell less than one whole day and no fewer
than five people have already told me about her and what she said about James Catherwood.”
“It must be a comfort to know they respect you enough to bring the troubles of the parish to
you.”
“Not at all; it irritated me to the last degree. I told them all to stop gossiping.”
Knightley would have laughed if the curate had not looked so annoyed. He could imagine the
reaction of, say, Mrs. Green to such a rebuke from the young curate.
“That must have disappointed them,” said Knightley. “Knowing how you have championed the
boy they must have expected you to go in search of Miss Castleman with a drawn sword, demanding
satisfaction for the insult.”
“I felt like doing that, of course.”
“Yes, I daresay you did. I fear you will have dealings enough with her in future. She is a woman
who makes her opinions known, and they are usually not offered for the edification of her hearers.”
“Yes, I know the sort.”
 Both men grew quiet, Spencer staring at his shoes and Knightley looking idly out the window.
After a moment, Knightley cleared his throat.
“Did being away help…?” There was no need to elaborate.
Spencer shook his head. “You have heard the saying, ‘What the eyes do not see, the heart does
not rue’? It’s not true, Mr. Knightley.”
“No. I do not think I would find it true, either.” He could not imagine ceasing to care for Emma
merely because she was out of his sight for a time.
“I had a faint hope that I would return to find Mrs. Catherwood engaged to Mr. Perkins; it would
put an end to the waiting, at least. Waiting is never comfortable, Mr. Knightley, but waiting for
something one is dreading is the worst of all possible tasks.”
“They are not engaged.”
“I know it. If they were, some busybody would have told me by now.”

The shattering of Knightley’s peace took place at the Eltons’ dinner that evening. It was not a
quiet dinner of the sort that was given at Hartfield; this was a noisy affair. Between the parading of
Mrs. Elton, the glib speech of Churchill, the laughter of Weston, and the small talk of the others,
Knightley’s head had begun to ache before an hour had passed. There was some satisfaction,
however, in seeing Miss Fairfax looking very well. She seemed more animated than he had often
seen her, and she entered into the general conversation without much prompting.
The talk around the table at dinner touched on the progress of the gardens at Randalls and the
vicarage, the great trouble the Eltons had had in procuring the Stilton now gracing the table, and the
chances that the newly-crowned Louis XVIII would not be a second Napoleon, but it always drifted
back, under the guidance of Mrs. Elton, to topic of the Sucklings and the visit they were to make to
Surrey in their barouche landau.
“I do so long to introduce you to Serena, Jane,” said Mrs. Elton. “She would dote upon you—
positively dote! And if there were any hesitation on the part of a prospective employer, she would be
able to answer their doubts absolutely! It is the very thing most to be desired as you seek a position.
And time is slipping away, Jane: it is June now.”
“I have received word from the Campbells, ma’am—they are not planning to return until
August.”
“Well, and what is that? A month’s delay. A month is nothing, my dear Jane, nothing at all.
When a good situation is desired, it is folly to delay making plans.”
“Upon my word, Mrs. Elton,” broke in Churchill, “you keep an excellent table! My aunt prides
herself on keeping the finest cook in the country, but I venture to say that even his kitchen could not
produce a better roast goose than this one!”
Mrs. Elton smiled graciously. “Thank you, Mr. Churchill. I may say that if I had not told Cook to
baste it continually with dripping while it was roasting, it would not have been half as good.”
Knightley saw Jane’s grateful glance at Churchill, and Churchill’s answering smile. There was
something about that smile that gave Knightley pause; he could not put it into words, but it impressed
him as more than a relatively impersonal smile of acknowledgement. It was a fleeting impression, but
strong enough that Knightley puzzled over it. Of course, Churchill had met and known Jane in
Weymouth, and had seen her frequently in Highbury, but it was still not the kind of smile he would
have expected from that level of acquaintance. After a few minutes of trying to classify the exact
nature of the smile he had seen in that instant, he gave it up, but he found himself watching Churchill
more closely. He did not observe anything more of interest during dinner, but when the ladies retired
to the drawing room, Churchill’s eyes followed Miss Fairfax out of the room, and his eyes lingered
on the door even after she had vanished. It was not an absent-minded gaze, but something more
admiring, and the look seemed somewhat out of place for a suitor of Miss Woodhouse’s.
He pondered this incongruity while the men lingered at the table, and his mind was still on it
when they rejoined the ladies. The notion troubled him, even as he told himself that it was very likely
nothing. Those who tried to interpret the actions of other people were often mistaken—witness the
number of people who had wondered if he himself were attached to Jane Fairfax! Surely—surely—
he had not looked at her with the sort of intimate, knowing smile he had seen on Churchill’s face
(yes, those were the words he had been searching for to describe it!), but he must have done
something else that could have been construed as more than simple friendliness. There could be—
there must be—any number of explanations for Churchill’s behaviour. He was trying to think of one
when Mrs. Weston spoke at his side.
“Mr. Knightley?”
He looked up to see the eyes of the company upon him.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, flushing. “I was not attending.”
“It is no great matter; I merely asked if Mr. John Knightley will be coming to fetch his little boys
home.”
“No, I am delivering them to London myself next week.”
“No doubt it will be a relief to Miss Woodhouse to have that responsibility lifted,” said Mrs.
Elton. “Caring for children can be so fatiguing—for inexperienced persons, that is. Children are so
apt to fancy themselves the centre of the universe—so inclined to demand and manipulate and be
impertinent—that unwary young ladies may be dreadfully overwhelmed. I quite pity Miss
Woodhouse.”
“Oh, I think she has not felt herself much encumbered,” said Knightley. “The little Knightleys
are under good regulation. Moreover,” he added, “it is not entirely outside the realm of her
experience to encounter impertinent and self-centred persons. She has always been equal to it.”

“I tell you, Madam,” said Knightley to the cat that night, “I know how preposterous it sounds. ‘I
am unsettled by Frank Churchill’s behaviour because he smiled at Miss Fairfax and also watched her
when she left the room.’ When I hear myself say the words, I can suppose that there is nothing in it—
that I have myself, like Cowper, been ‘creating what I saw.’ But when I see those looks again in my
mind’s eye, I cannot quite dismiss it. I have had an hour of sober reflection now, and I still do not
know what to make of it. It was not merely the smile of a flirt; that behaviour would not be surprising
in him, reprehensible as it would be. No, this was a smile that seemed to assume reciprocation.”
He pondered it all for another moment and then made a helpless little gesture with his hands.
“Well, there is nothing to be done, of course. I suppose I ought to put it out of my mind. I have
become rather adept at that, you know.”
He rose and went over to the window to take his usual formal leave of Emma. “Good night,
Emma.” He turned away, but then felt impelled to turn back and add, “I was given reason for
suspicion tonight, Emma. No doubt it is nothing of consequence, but… No, try as I might, I cannot
quite believe that it is nothing. Oh, my love, be careful with your heart. I cannot bear the thought of
your being deceived. I will watch—” He stopped abruptly and forced himself to turn away from the
window. He would keep his resolution; he had been doing so well—he must not give way now. He
would go up to bed and close his mind to any more thoughts of Emma.

The lime walk was under threat again. This time it was Churchill who had ordered it cut down.
Suddenly Knightley knew that Churchill had instigated all the previous threats to the lime walk, as
well; he wondered that he had not realized it before. The workmen were not yet felling trees, and if
only Knightley could talk to them before they began to work, all would be well. He left the house
without delay, and to his surprise, there were no obstacles to bar his path to the lime walk. The
distance had inexplicably increased tenfold, but he was making good progress as he hurried along.
He saw Spencer coming toward him, and he called out, “I have no time to talk now, Spencer—I must
stop those workmen from cutting down the lime walk!”
“But Mr. Knightley!” said Spencer, “I saw Miss Woodhouse just now in the lime walk, sleeping
peacefully beneath one of the trees! She will be crushed!” And in the distance they could hear the
sound of an axe.
He was running now, every muscle strained to its utmost, his breath coming in gasps. The world
was silent but for the pounding of his feet and the steady blows of the axe. The lime walk was in
sight, but he was not getting any nearer to it. He saw the top of a tree shudder, lurch, and fall. He
cried out.
The sound of his own voice wakened him. He lay there panting and sweating, unable to move for
a moment. Slowly the terror subsided, leaving in its wake a horrible sensation of dread and
helplessness.
 “And how was the journey?” asked John when the first noisy greetings with his sons were over.
“No mishaps, I hope?”
“None at all. It was quite an unremarkable journey—much to the disappointment of Henry. He
wished us to be beset by highwaymen.”
“Highwaymen? Whatever for?”
“He said he wanted to see me fight them off.”
John laughed. “That would be a sight indeed.”
“I was thankful to be spared the necessity of making the attempt.”
“You left everyone well? Emma? Mr. Woodhouse? Mrs. Elton?” John’s lips twitched.
“All very well, and, I am sure, all grateful for your kind enquiry.”
“I am the soul of benevolence. Come, sit down. I am extraordinarily pleased to see you.”
Knightley looked suspiciously at his brother. “Is there some sort of single female you have
invited to dine with us tonight? Mrs. Whitney, perhaps?”
“Rest easily, dear brother. Mrs. Whitney will not trouble you with her presence on this visit; she
is too busy planning her wedding.”
“Wedding? Is she going to be married? To whom?”
“Thompson.” John’s eyes twinkled.
“Thompson? But his wife has scarcely been dead a year! And they were most devoted to each
other. Surely he has not fallen for the minor charms of Mrs. Whitney!”
“No, of course he hasn’t. I am certain he has never thought of marrying again. Mrs. Whitney,
however, is sure he is in love with her, and it is only a matter of time before he falls at her feet.”
“But has he given her any indication of regard? What exactly are her hopes founded on?”
“On such common polite nothings as would make you laugh if I enumerated them for you.”
“Suffering from delusions, is she?”
“Nothing quite so grim. Isabella tells me it is not uncommon for ladies who fall in love with a
gentleman to look earnestly for some sign of returned regard; and looking so industriously, of course
they find it. She says she scarcely ever finds a woman in love who does not believe that the man is at
least beginning to return her affection.”
“Interesting.”
“And Isabella would know,” John went on, “for she is the recipient of endless confidences from
all the ladies in our set—especially the younger ones.”
“Is she?”
“Oh yes. She is so kind, you know, and not inclined to gossip maliciously or spread tales.”
“And I daresay her advice is very good,” put in Knightley. “At least, if I were a young lady I
think I would follow her counsel.”
“And you would be prudent to do so.” John looked to be sure the door was shut before saying
quietly, “She is not as clever as some women, you know. But she has wisdom, and that is better than
wit. She is quite simply a good woman.”
“Yes, she is,” said Knightley. “And as your older brother, may I say that she is too good for
you?”
“I know it. Too kind, too patient, too indulgent...”
 “And how do you account for such unmerited devotion on the part of a wise woman?”
John grinned. “Love is blind.”

Love is blind. The phrase kept coming to mind throughout the rest of his short visit to London
and all the way back to Donwell. The evening of his return found him still pondering the quotation,
and wondering whether the truth of it had any bearing on the relations, whatever they were, between
Churchill and Emma. If Emma was in love with Churchill, would she be blind to his faults? She
certainly endured her father’s foibles with equanimity, although they were hardly serious faults of
character. But would she refuse to see anything but good in Churchill? If there was some sort of
connection between the man and Jane Fairfax, would Emma see it? And would she understand it for
the dangerous thing it was?
Noises in the hall outside his library door surprised him, and he looked at the clock. Just after
nine o’clock—who could be calling at this hour?
Baxter entered the room apologetically. “I beg your pardon, sir, but there is a party of men who
wish to see you.”
“Who is it, Baxter?”
“Mr. Gilbert, Mr. Burton the constable, and an unknown”—Baxter coughed—“person.”
“Something official, no doubt?” said Knightley.
“I believe so, sir.”
“Well, send them in, and bring a few more candles. The sun will be setting before long.”
“Very good, sir.”
In a moment the three men were ushered in—the stranger, looking sullen, Burton, looking weary,
and Gilbert, with a gleam of triumph in his eye. Knightley could see that the unknown man’s hands
had been tied together, and Burton nudged him into place in front of Knightley.
“I beg your pardon for disturbing you so late, Mr. Knightley,” began Burton, but Gilbert
interrupted.
“It’s my doing,” said Gilbert. “Burton wanted to secure him for the night and bring him over to
you in the morning, but I was anxious to have the thing settled and persuaded him to come tonight. I
caught Hubbard here—that is to say, Perkins caught him skulking around the stables and found that
he was making off with a new bridle. There was a bit of a scuffle, I understand—Perkins has a lovely
black eye—but a couple of the stable lads lent their aid and they tied him up with this rope and
brought him to me, and now I’ve brought him to you. I’ve no doubt he’s responsible for some of
these thefts around Langham.”
“What makes you so certain of that?” asked Knightley.
“Why, we found this on him,” said Gilbert, pulling out a watch from his waistcoat pocket and
dangling it from its chain in front of Knightley.
“That’s mine, that is,” said the man.
“Of all the foolish lies—it belongs to my son! You see here—engraved to him and given to him
by his grandfather.”
“It’s mine,” said the man, stubbornly. “He gave it to me.”
Gilbert laughed. “Utter nonsense! You ought to think of a better tale before you go up before the
assize judges—oh, yes, my man, that watch is worth more than five shillings, and you will have to be
tried at the assizes.”
Knightley coughed. “I do believe you are being too hasty, Gilbert. Have you asked your son
about his watch since you caught this man tonight?”
Gilbert paused in confusion for a moment before saying, “No, of course not. I knew Hubbard
could not possibly be telling the truth.”
“But he may be,” said Knightley. “Burton, would you take the accused into the corridor and wait
with him until I call for you?”
“Certainly, sir,” said Burton, and led Hubbard out of the room.
Knightley waited until the door closed behind them before he said, “Your son told me several
months ago that he had lost his watch.”
“Oh!” Gilbert looked perplexed.
“You have not seen him with it recently, have you?”
“No—but he has been wearing the new watch—he bought it himself, Mr. Knightley, a month or
two ago—he told me that he was afraid of damaging the one his grandfather gave him and he would
rather wear this more common one as a regular thing. I thought it rather a fine sentiment. Surely he
must have just misplaced his grandfather’s watch on the day you spoke with him, and found it again
afterwards.”
“It is possible, of course,” began Knightley, and then stopped. He wondered if he ought to get
Edmund to confess to his father in the same way he had persuaded Richard to confess to Dr. Hughes.
Confound these young men who got into scrapes and caused their fathers grief!
“You think it is not likely?” said Gilbert, troubled. “You know something, I think, beyond what
you are telling me.”
Knightley sighed. “I do, but I would wish your son to tell you first.”
“Do you think he would? If I asked him outright, do you think he would tell me?”
“I don’t know. Still, I could tell you my suspicion without betraying any confidences. I believe
he lost his watch playing at a game of chance.”
“Oh.” Gilbert’s face clouded. “That puts a different complexion on it—and on a number of other
things, too. Well, I’ll ask him—in such a way that he is not tempted to lie.”
“I’m sorry,” said Knightley. “It’s all very unpleasant.”
Gilbert gave him a keen look. “You think there’s more to it than a few games of hazard or
commerce.”
Knightley nodded reluctantly. “But I have no absolute knowledge or evidence of anything more,
only a feeling.”
“I imagine your feelings about such things are usually right.”
“I suppose I am often right—I don’t know about usually. At any rate, we still have the matter of
Hubbard’s stealing the bridle to deal with. I would be inclined to bring him before the quarter
sessions.”
“Do you think he has anything to do with the thefts around Langham?”
“I do. Holding him over may well decrease the number of crimes committed, even if he cannot
be found guilty for other thefts. And if there is more than one thief—which I think likely—his arrest
may serve as a warning to them.”
Hubbard was duly charged with theft and told that he would remain in the custody of Mr. Burton
until the next quarter sessions, when he would be tried for his crime. The men departed, leaving
Knightley to contemplations even less agreeable than those he had been entertaining before they
came. He could imagine Gilbert’s feelings on the discovery that his son had, at the very least, been
deceiving him. Perhaps he should ask Dr. Hughes to pay a call at the Gilberts’ in the near future—he
could sympathise.
The song had it wrong: ‘I wonder any man alive will ever rear a daughter’, it ran, but in this part
of England it seemed that sons were the ones to cause problems. Daughters were like Isabella and
Emma, and even Harriet and Jane Fairfax—good and innocent and kind—and able to be imposed on.
If Churchill were trifling with Emma or with Jane Fairfax…well, there would be another father to
make unhappy: Mr. Weston would have to be told. What was the matter with young men these days?
Knightley could not help a dour smile at that thought—he sounded like Mr. Whiting. He felt rather
ancient all of a sudden.
 9

Knightley went to Hartfield after dinner the next day. As usual, he deliberated over his motives for
going—was he going to see Emma and bask in her presence in spite of the obvious foolishness of
that action? Or was he sacrificing his own comfort and peace of mind for the sake of kindness to Mr.
Woodhouse, and therefore Emma? Was he being noble or foolish? And was there really any other
alternative? He came to his usual conclusion—that he really had no choice but to go, foolish for
himself or not.
He arrived just as the little company at Hartfield had decided that Emma and Harriet should take
their evening walk a little earlier than usual, in case the clouds on the horizon might turn to rain later
on. Mr. Woodhouse, never quite easy when Emma was from home, was greatly relieved by his
coming in time to act as escort to the young ladies. Knightley could not refuse to accompany them,
and could not be sorry for the time spent in their presence, even if his own heart would pay the price
in the end.
The first part of their walk was unremarkable. They ambled down the lanes around Highbury,
Knightley walking between the two ladies. They talked of little matters: new students at Mrs.
Goddard’s school…the progress of the gardens at Donwell and Hartfield… Emma’s idea, to which
Mr. Weston had concurred, for a small and select party of friends to take a morning drive one day to
Box Hill…Madam Duval’s triumph over another mouse…
There was silence for a few moments, and then Harriet said, “I suppose the little boys are happy
to be at home again, Miss Woodhouse, but I will be sorry not to see them every day as I have been
doing.”
“They will regret not seeing you daily as well, Miss Smith,” said Knightley. “When they were
recounting their stay in Highbury to their parents, they spoke of your kindness to them; and when
John told them they were to see the Diorama next week, their first wish was that Aunt Emma and
Miss Smith could see it with them.”
“Oh! That is the place you told me of, Mr. Knightley, when we were eating supper at the ball. I
do wish I might see it someday. And the Tower, and the Marbles, and the parks, and all the other
remarkable things.”
 “Do you think London a more interesting place than Highbury?”
“Oh, indeed it sounds delightful!”
“Do you think you would enjoy living amid the bustle of London?” Knightley could only think
how bewildered Harriet would be—her gentle demeanour was perfect for Highbury, and even more
perfect for Abbey Mill Farm—but he hated the thought of her caught up in the noise and crowds of
Town.
“I think, Harriet,” interjected Emma, “you would perhaps prefer to have your home in the
country, and only make occasional visits to London.”
“Oh, yes,” said Harriet. “I should much prefer that.”
And you would have had it, thought Knightley, if you had married Robert Martin.
“I am happy to hear you say so; that is just as it should be,” said Emma, and there was a note of
satisfaction in her voice that indicated to Knightley that she had some scheme in mind for Harriet,
and that Harriet’s answer had perfectly accorded with it. He wondered if Emma had talked Harriet
into falling in love with some other man—the object of this new scheme. It could hardly be Martin;
Emma would not look so satisfied if it were. Once again he felt impatient with her for preventing the
best possible match for Harriet. Martin was still the best suitor for Harriet, and it would not be
difficult to persuade Martin to ask again, if only he could be sure that Harriet would accept. It would
take so very little to sway her mind; just a few carefully-worded questions might be enough to make
her think. He might ask her one now—ask her what size of house she preferred, for example. If she
described a house that was similar to Abbey Mill Farm…
He was just determining how best to word his question when Emma said, “I suppose we ought to
be turning back.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Woodhouse, so we should,” said Harriet.
“This path on the left will bring us back to Hartfield, past Mr. Munnings’ fields, will it not?”
asked Knightley.
“It will indeed,” said Emma. “Shall we take it?
“Oh, may we?” asked Harriet. “There are the dearest little calves in one of the fields that I should
like to see.”
“Then by all means,” said Knightley. They turned into the path together, and after going on for a
minute or two, Knightley remembered his question. He cleared his throat to begin, but was prevented
by a booming voice behind them.
“Hello there!”
They turned around to see the Westons and Frank Churchill, along with Miss Bates and Jane
Fairfax, all out walking together. The two groups joined together with greetings and explanations. It
was the greatest good fortune that they had all happened to convene in this way; the other party had
met and merged only a little while before. They would all go on together now. Knightley concealed
his irritation as well as he could; his question would have to wait.
They all walked slowly on to Hartfield, Knightley keeping as near Emma as he could to prevent
Churchill’s taking possession of her, as he would be apt to do. Just as they reached the gates, and
Knightley rejoiced that they would part from these companions and he could ask his question, Emma
suddenly said, “Will not you all come in and drink tea with my father? It is just the sort of visit he
would welcome—to see so many of his friends at once would delight him very much.”
“Of course, of course, nothing we would enjoy more, eh, my dear? Frank? Yes, by all means, let
us all go in and drink tea with Mr. Woodhouse.”
 “Oh! Miss Woodhouse is so kind—we should be delighted, should we not, Jane? Dear Mr.
Woodhouse—I do not believe we have drunk tea with him since—I know you have not, Jane—it is
quite right that we should join the others. I suppose your grandmamma might wonder where we are,
although we did not absolutely tell her we would be back early—I daresay she will assume we have
gone for a long walk, which would surprise her very much, as we have not—you know—but then she
would be pleased to know that dear Jane was able to—if only she will not worry. But she may
conjecture that we have met with friends, as indeed we have—and I believe we shall be able to
accept dear Miss Woodhouse’s most obliging invitation.”
“Hello, Perry!” said Weston as the apothecary rode past and tipped his hat to the party.
“Is that a new horse?” asked Knightley to the Westons. “Whatever happened to the chestnut he
had?”
“Oh, he sold it last week,” said Weston. “He wanted a younger animal, I believe, and this black
certainly was worth the price.”
“By the bye,” said Churchill, “what became of Mr. Perry's plan of setting up his carriage?”
Mrs. Weston was close enough to catch the question, and replied, “I did not know that he had
ever had any such plan.”
Churchill turned to her, puzzled. “Nay, I had it from you. You wrote me word of it three months
ago.”
“Me! Impossible!”
“Indeed you did. I remember it perfectly. You mentioned it as what was certainly to be very
soon. Mrs. Perry had told somebody, and was extremely happy about it. It was owing to her
persuasion, as she thought his being out in bad weather did him a great deal of harm. You must
remember it now?”
“Upon my word I never heard of it till this moment.”
“Never! Really, never! Bless me! How could it be? Then I must have dreamt it—but I was
completely persuaded—Miss Smith, you walk as if you were tired. You will not be sorry to find
yourself at home.”
“Why—” said Miss Bates at Knightley’s elbow, but another voice interrupted.
“What is this?” said Weston. “What is this about Perry and a carriage? Is Perry going to set up
his carriage, Frank? I am glad he can afford it. You had it from himself, had you?”
“Oh—” began Miss Bates.
Churchill chuckled. “No, sir, I seem to have had it from nobody. Very odd! I really was
persuaded of Mrs. Weston's having mentioned it in one of her letters to Enscombe, many weeks ago,
with all these particulars; but as she declares she never heard a syllable of it before, of course it must
have been a dream. I am a great dreamer.” There seemed to be an exaggerated easiness in Churchill’s
statement—something about his tone or his manner that suggested deviousness. “I dream of every
body at Highbury when I am away,” went on Churchill, “and when I have gone through my particular
friends, then I begin dreaming of Mr. and Mrs. Perry.”
“I believe—” came from Miss Bates.
“It is odd though,” said Weston, “that you should have had such a regular connected dream about
people whom it was not very likely you should be thinking of at Enscombe. Perry's setting up his
carriage! And his wife's persuading him to it, out of care for his health—just what will happen, I have
no doubt, some time or other— only a little premature. What an air of probability sometimes runs
through a dream! And at others, what a heap of absurdities it is! Well, Frank, your dream certainly
shows that Highbury is in your thoughts when you are absent. Emma, you are a great dreamer, I
think?”
But Emma was already in the house, going before them to tell her father of the impending
pleasure of having his friends come to drink tea, and leaving the group to wander up the path to the
house in their own time.
“Why, to own the truth,” said Miss Bates into the silence, “if I must speak on this subject, there
is no denying that Mr. Frank Churchill might have—I do not mean to say that he did not dream it—I
am sure I have sometimes the oddest dreams in the world—but if I am questioned about it, I must
acknowledge that there was such an idea last spring; for Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my
mother, and the Coles knew of it as well as ourselves—but it was quite a secret, known to nobody
else, and only thought of about three days. Mrs. Perry was very anxious that he should have a
carriage, and came to my mother in great spirits one morning because she thought she had prevailed.
Jane, don't you remember grandmama's telling us of it when we got home? I forget where we had
been walking to—very likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was to Randalls. Mrs. Perry was always
particularly fond of my mother—indeed I do not know who is not—and she had mentioned it to her
in confidence; she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it was not to go beyond: and, from
that day to this, I never mentioned it to a soul that I know of. At the same time, I will not positively
answer for my having never dropped a hint, because I know I do sometimes pop out a thing before I
am aware.”
They were nearing the house now, and Knightley glanced at Churchill, who was brushing past
him. It was only an instant, but he was sure Churchill looked conscious—perhaps slightly amused,
too, but definitely not unaware. Knightley turned to look at Jane—why, he could not have explained
—but she was behind the others, and so busy arranging her shawl that he could not get a clear view
of her face.
“I am a talker, you know; I am rather a talker,” Miss Bates was saying as she followed the
Westons into the house, “and now and then I have let a thing escape me which I should not. I am not
like Jane; I wish I were. I will answer for it she never betrayed the least thing in the world. Where is
she? Oh! just behind. Perfectly remember Mrs. Perry's coming. Extraordinary dream indeed!”
Knightley and Churchill had both paused at the door to let Miss Fairfax enter first. Churchill
seemed to be watching her face intently, as if to catch her eye. She did not look at either of them,
however, as she passed between them and into the house. Dream, indeed! thought Knightley.
Churchill was concealing something, and it was in some way connected with Miss Fairfax.
They collected around the large round table for tea, Churchill deftly seating himself next to
Emma. There was no lack of conversation as they took their refreshment, for Weston and Churchill
were full of ready speech and the ladies were equally capable of responding. Jane Fairfax seemed a
little more quiet than usual, but as she was never very talkative, Knightley could not be sure. He
watched her and Churchill carefully for any more signs of mutual intelligence, but he could perceive
none.
The cups and plates were taken away after a time, but still they sat. After a little while, Churchill
turned around to scan the small table behind him and then said, “Miss Woodhouse, have your
nephews taken away their alphabets—their box of letters? It used to stand here. Where is it? This is a
sort of dull-looking evening, that ought to be treated rather as winter than summer. We had great
amusement with those letters one morning. I want to puzzle you again.”
“What a very good idea!” said Emma. “I believe the box is in the next room—let me fetch it.”
She was back with it directly, and the contents were spread out on the table.
“Now,” said Churchill, rapidly arranging several letters in a row in front of himself, “can you tell
what this word is?” He slid the letters over in front of Emma. Emma paused only a moment before
saying, “Really, Mr. Churchill, anyone could see that the word is horse without any effort at all! You
must work a little harder on your puzzles if there is to be a game worthy of the title.”
 “I apologise,” said Churchill. “I must do better.”
“Here is one for you,” said Emma, who had been assembling letters herself.
Frank toyed with the tiles for a moment, switching the order of several of them before declaring
the word to be because.
“May I try one, Miss Woodhouse?” asked Harriet.
“Certainly,” said Emma, quickly collecting another row. “Here you are!”
Harriet studied the letters in front of her. “Let me see…R-I-S-S-S-S-O-C…oh dear! What can it
be? Risk? No, that is not enough letters. Cristo…? No, that is not right, either.” Knightley, sitting next
to her, heard all her murmurings.
“We miss the poor little boys dreadfully,” said Mr. Woodhouse on the other side of him. “And
they must miss Hartfield, too.”
Weston, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, was employed in trying to work out a word
that Frank had given him, and it fell to Knightley to say, “No doubt. And yet they must be quite
happy to be home again with their Mama and Papa and the rest of their siblings.”
“Sirco…?” ventured Harriet. “No, that could not be.”
“I have it!” announced Weston, rearranging his tiles. “Include.”
“And Emma writes to them, you know,” went on Mr. Woodhouse. “They will not think we do
not miss them, for I told Emma to mention it in the letter she wrote to them. ‘Dear Henry and John,’
the letter said. I think they must have been very pleased to receive it.”
“Yes indeed, sir,” said Knightley.
“Osic…? Oh, Miss Woodhouse, I do not think I can discover the word.”
“Scissors, my dear Harriet. Try this one here instead.”
“L-W-B-O-E,” spelled Harriet. “Lob…?”
“Emma writes beautifully,” said Mr. Woodhouse, taking up a letter off the writing desk which
was within an arm’s reach of him. “She is writing this to Isabella—such a fine hand, is it not?”
“And here is another one for you,” said Emma to Churchill with a smile much too intimate for
Knightley’s liking.
“Blow!” said Harriet. “No, that leaves the E out of account.”
“Just a moment, Miss Woodhouse,” said Churchill, arranging another set and moving them in
front of Miss Fairfax. She gave a slight glance around the table before giving the letters her attention.
It did not take her long to discover the word. She smiled faintly but said nothing, and pushed the tiles
back toward the centre of the table. They remained in a row instead of mixing with the others, and
Harriet, tired of puzzling over the five letters in front of her, took Miss Fairfax’s word and began to
study it.
“L-N-E-B-D-R-U. Drune…? Bend…?”
“And what do you say to this one, Miss Woodhouse?” said Churchill.
“Blend…? No. Oh, Mr. Knightley, can you tell what this word is?” said Harriet. “I cannot guess
it at all.”
Knightley re-ordered the tiles, one by one, until the word was evident, even to Harriet.
“Blunder!” she exclaimed.
Knightley glanced at Jane; there was a blush on her cheek. Here was evidence indeed of
something between her and Churchill. He had made some blunder connected with that “dream” and
Miss Fairfax knew it. Had Emma not seen Jane Fairfax’s consciousness at the word? How the
delicacy, the discretion of his favourite could have been so lain asleep! Disingenuousness and
double-dealing seemed to meet him at every turn. These letters were but the vehicle for gallantry and
trick. It was a child's play, chosen to conceal a deeper game on Frank Churchill's part.
Harriet, encouraged by the discovery of one word, had begun to study a set of letters abandoned
by Weston. “Cleb…? Ebel..? No, that could not be right.”
Churchill seemed very well satisfied with himself, and was once more assembling letters into a
row. Miss Fairfax was answering a question of Weston’s and ignoring the flirting—for it could not be
called anything else—that Churchill and Emma were engaged in. The sly and demure look Frank
gave Emma when he presented her with a new, short word, and the amusement that the discovery of
it gave her, even as she said, “Nonsense! For shame!” could only denote some sort of attachment. He
wondered that he could sit and look on with so much outward composure while his heart was being
crushed.
“I will give it to her—shall I?” said Churchill with a quick look across the table.
“No, no, you must not,” said Emma, still amused enough to laugh, but eager to prevent him.
“You shall not, indeed.”
Churchill ignored her and handed over the word to Miss Fairfax with sedate civility. “May I
entreat you to study this one, Miss Fairfax?”
Knightley looked furtively as often as he could toward the five little letters that evidently held
such meaning, and it was not long before he could make them out: O-X-D-I-N—Dixon, of course. He
watched Jane’s face and saw the moment she deciphered the word. She was displeased, he could tell,
and when she looked up and saw that Churchill and Emma were watching her, she blushed very
deeply and said, “I did not know that proper names were allowed.” She pushed away the letters
almost angrily and seemed to shut out those across the table by turning to her aunt.
She said nothing, but her aunt must have sensed her impatience, for she said, “Ay, very true, my
dear, I was just going to say the same thing. It is time for us to be going, indeed. The evening is
closing in, and Grandmama will be looking for us. My dear sir, you are too obliging. We really must
wish you good night.”
Miss Fairfax was most willing to depart, and stood immediately, but Mr. Weston, having pushed
back his chair, was blocking her path. She was forced to stay where she was for the moment. A
sudden movement caught Knightley’s eye—it was Churchill, quickly thrusting another set of tiles
toward her. She brushed them aside without looking at them, and moved away as Weston allowed
passage.
“My dear Jane,” said Miss Bates, “have you got your shawl? It is not on your chair—I would
have thought it was on the back of your chair, but it is not—so glad I remembered about it, for I
would not have you out in the damp of the evening without your shawl! Might rain—have you seen
it? My dear sir, have you seen Jane’s shawl? Did one of the servants—oh, very likely—My dear Mr.
Churchill, you are too good—we do not know where it is…”
Miss Bates’ voice was lost in the babble of the other guests who were collecting themselves and
their property in order to leave. Dusk was setting in, and between the dimness of the light and the
bustle of people in the room, Knightley could not see how Churchill and Miss Fairfax parted.
At last they were all gone—even Harriet, who had walked back to Mrs. Goddard’s with Miss
Bates and her niece. Emma helped Mr. Woodhouse settle in to his chair by the fire on the far side of
the room while Knightley began putting the alphabet tiles back in their box. He was curious to see if
he could discover what the final word was that Churchill had pushed toward Jane; they had mixed a
little with the other letters but he thought that the P, A, D, and N were part of that group, although he
could not be sure. He put them all back in the box and closed the lid.
Emma was in danger; there was no doubt now. Frank Churchill was flirting with Emma while he
had some private understanding with Jane Fairfax. He was surprised at Jane Fairfax, but he had no
trouble believing that Churchill might have deceived her or influenced her in such a way that her
behaviour could be explained.
A servant came in bringing candles, and Emma beckoned Knightley to his usual seat by the fire
beside which Mr. Woodhouse had already nodded off.
“Papa was so very pleased to have visitors,” she said, folding a small blanket and tenderly
draping it over the old man’s legs. “I am thankful they agreed to come.”
She was a good daughter, always thinking of her father’s welfare. A good daughter, a good
woman—far too good to be treated so by Churchill. He must—yes, he certainly must, as a friend—an
anxious friend—give Emma some hint, ask her some question. He could not see her in a situation of
such danger without trying to preserve her. It was his duty.
“Pray, Emma, may I ask in what lay the great amusement—the poignant sting—of the last word
given to you and Miss Fairfax? I saw the word, and am curious to know how it could be so very
entertaining to the one, and so very distressing to the other.”
“Oh! It all meant nothing; a mere joke among ourselves.” She was embarrassed, and would not
meet his eyes. There was something she was ashamed of. He tried to draw it out of her.
“The joke seemed confined to you and Mr. Churchill.”
She did not respond to this; instead she restored a stray cushion to its proper place, adjusted the
fire-screen to a precise angle, and then opened her workbox and ferreted in it for some unknown
item. It would not do any good to press her; he knew that now. Her confusion and the acknowledged
intimacy seemed to declare her affection engaged. And with it being so, any interference was
fruitless. It would bring only resentment toward himself—perhaps he would lose even her friendship.
The thought made him sick.
And yet…he could not leave it there. He would feel a far greater grief if her welfare were injured
by his neglect. He would not be able to sleep at night if he felt he might have prevented some evil by
speaking, and had yet said nothing for fear of creating a rift. The memory of it would haunt him all
his days.
“My dear Emma,” he said, for once—perhaps for the last time—not concealing the tenderness he
felt, “do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and
lady we have been speaking of?”
She looked up at him. “Between Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax! Oh yes, perfectly. Why
do you make a doubt of it?”
“Have you never at any time had reason to think that he admired her, or that she admired him?”
“Never, never! Never, for the twentieth part of a moment, did such an idea occur to me!” This
was not one of her expedient denials, he was sure. She was genuinely surprised at the thought. “And
how could it possibly come into your head?”
“I have lately imagined that I saw symptoms of attachment between them; certain expressive
looks, which I did not believe meant to be public.”
“Oh, you amuse me excessively!” She was genuinely diverted—she was doing her utmost to
stifle a giggle. She sat down and her left eyebrow lifted as she said, “I am delighted to find that you
can vouchsafe to let your imagination wander—but it will not do—very sorry to check you in your
first essay—but indeed, it will not do. There is no admiration between them, I do assure you. And the
appearances which have caught you have arisen from some peculiar circumstances—feelings rather
of a totally different nature—” She paused, struggling for words. “It is impossible exactly to explain;
there is a good deal of nonsense in it—but the part which is capable of being communicated which is
sense, is that they are as far from any attachment or admiration for one another as any two beings in
the world can be. That is, I presume it to be so on her side, and I can answer for its being so on his. I
will answer for the gentleman's indifference.”
 Her confidence in her own opinion shook him. He knew he could say nothing to convince her of
his suspicions. She did know something he did not—her laughter over the word Dixon was evidence
enough of that—and perhaps she thought it would explain away whatever he had seen. But how
could she possibly say that she could answer for the gentleman’s indifference unless… No, he would
not believe it of her. She would not enter into a secret engagement with Churchill; he refused to
entertain the possibility.
She was still smiling over Knightley’s supposed stupidity in imagining an attachment, and was in
a mood for teasing him; she would be asking him questions in a moment about what had given him
the idea. He could not discuss it while his heart was raw—she would laugh at something that was not
remotely comical, and his irritation of spirits would be impossible to hide. It was warm in the room,
far too warm; he was wretched enough without adding physical discomfort to his woes.
“I will be off, then,” he said, rising. “Give my farewells to your father when he wakes.”
He fancied that she looked a little disappointed at his leaving so soon, but he could not help it. He
wanted to be alone, to think through this new misery in solitude.

He sat for an hour in the library that night with Madam Duval on his knee, thinking over the
whole depressing situation. He was convinced that Emma had not seen all that he had observed. She
had not seen the looks that Churchill had given Miss Fairfax, or, at least, she had not recognized their
import. She did not know men like he did. Churchill had somehow convinced her of his affection—
he had said or done something to make her believe that she only was in his thoughts. There was
damage done to her heart already. If Churchill did not marry her, he would be open to the charge of
raising false expectations. But, of course, he would marry her—an heiress of such beauty and such
pleasing temperament was a prize too rare to be passed by.
“She is blind,” said Knightley to Madam Duval. “She is blind and I cannot say anything more to
her. If she marries him, he will be happy with her for…a month? Two months? And then he will take
a mistress—he is the sort to whom that would be natural behaviour. Emma will be miserable,
Madam, and I will be able to do even less for her than I can now. She will be far way, in Yorkshire,
broken-hearted, and I will be here at Donwell, broken-hearted.”
The cat sat silently, looking as solemn as he felt.
“No,” he amended, “I am wrong to predict those things with such certainty. I have one slight
hope, Madam: time may yet reveal his faults to her—‘Be sure your sin will find you out,’ you know.
If an engagement between them is delayed, perhaps he may become so obvious that even she will see
his true character.”
 10

Churchill went back to his aunt and uncle in Richmond the next day. Weston brought news of this
to the weekly parish meeting at the Crown, and Knightley therefore sat through most of the meeting
wondering whether he should be dissatisfied or pleased. Logic dictated that he ought to be
disappointed: if Churchill had stayed, he might have made some mistake which showed his true
colours. However, Knightley could not reason himself into any feeling but relief that the man was out
of Highbury. Emma was safer with him in Richmond; for that matter, Jane Fairfax was, too. What
had Churchill said to Jane Fairfax? Was there some deception being perpetrated on that poor girl? He
would love to be a magistrate in this case, asking pointed questions and ferreting out the truth from
all the evasions and polite nonsense. If he could only ask Miss Fairfax for simple information to
make the matter clear! He could not, of course. He could only listen and observe and hope for chance
remarks to fall on his ear and enlighten him. He would never have known that Churchill had made
some kind of blunder if Miss Bates had not—Yes, Miss Bates, of course! Her chatter might be very
illuminating. He determined to call on the Bates’ as soon as he was finished at the Crown. He was
due to see the drainage works with Larkins very shortly, but a brief call—fifteen minutes or so—
would do no harm. Of course, Miss Bates might equally say something which would be the final and
permanent crushing of his hopes, but it was probably better to know the worst sooner rather than
later.

“Oh, Mr. Knightley, so very kind of you to come and see us!—So sorry Jane is not here to see
you—spending the day with dear Mrs. Elton. Such sad news—Mrs. Elton, I mean! Her sister—Mrs.
Elton’s sister, that is, Mrs. Suckling—cannot come now until the autumn. Poor Mrs. Elton was sadly
distracted—she had been so hoping to see Box Hill, with an exploring party—you know that she is
very fond of exploring parties, and it was quite a common thing when she was at Maple Grove—she
was so very eager to do the same with the Sucklings. And she was quite cast down at their being
delayed; one often is, you know, when one has been anticipating a pleasure and then it is put off. And
then she came to us yesterday—just before tea—stay, it was just after tea, I remember the buns being
all eaten up so that we had none to offer her—and said she had a new plan—why should they not
explore to Box Hill now, and go again with the Sucklings in the autumn? For, you know, there is no
reason in the world why she could not see the same place twice. And she came to ask dear Jane
particularly to accompany them—which is not surprising in the least, of course—and she asked me,
as well, which was so very kind in her, I thought, as she had no need—only it was very obliging of
her to ask me to go along.”
“It does sound very—” began Knightley.
“They have not absolutely fixed a day, but are hoping to go in the next week. And Patty says that
she will stay with my mother while we are gone, and will even give up her half-day—if the excursion
falls on a Wednesday—so that we may be easy. So very faithful, Mr. Knightley—Patty is—not
always as careful as she might be about the plates, but a very good-hearted girl. We have been so
thankful that she has persuaded her brother to forego his evenings playing cards at the Crow’s Nest
and stop at home more. And then Mrs. Plover’s son—Patty’s brother said he plays with those young
men and Mrs. Plover said the same, and I said, ‘My dear Mrs. Plover,’ but I did not know how to go
on, because I did not want to worry her—and it may be that there is nothing wrong at that tavern—
stories, sometimes, you know do exaggerate—”
Miss Bates talked on in this way for a full half-hour without once touching the subject of Frank
Churchill. Knightley gave it up, excused himself with as much haste as was consistent with civility,
and hurried to Donwell.
Larkins was waiting, and had been waiting for some time. He said nothing about Knightley’s
tardiness, but his look was reproachful, and he set a rapid pace as they walked toward the Fisher
farm.
“Haying coming along all right?”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley. Clover should be ready for cutting in a fortnight.”
“And how is Perkins? Still an apt pupil, is he?”
“Oh, yes. He brought his account-books to show me last week, and I was pleased to give them
my full approval.”
“Is he still a regular visitor at the Foote farm?”
“No,” said Larkins, sighing. “I do not think there will be a match after all.”
The surge of joy Knightley felt on Spencer’s behalf was concealed immediately, and he
endeavoured to speak as if he had only a mild curiosity in the matter. “Oh? What happened?”
“I cannot tell. I only know that he does not dine there anymore, and he is no longer making
enquiries about improving his little cottage.”
“Well—”
A mumbled oath from Larkins interrupted him.
“What is it?” asked Knightley.
“Miss Castleman approaching,” said Larkins. Knightley looked up to see the small woman
bearing down on them with determination. It was only a few moments until she was standing before
them.
“Mr. Knightley, Mr. Larkins.” She gave them the briefest of curtseys. “You must do something
about him, or I will not answer for the consequences.”
Both men stared at her.
“Him? Who, pray?” said Larkins.
“Him. The man who is following me.”
 Knightley looked around, but could see no one. “Where is he?”
“Not in plain sight, of course,” she said impatiently. “He hides when other people are likely to
see him. But he is somewhere, waiting for you to go away so that he may follow me again.”
The men looked at each other.
“Who is this man?” asked Knightley. “What is his name?”
“I don’t know, nor what he looks like, either. I keep telling my sister that it’s no good asking me
these things—I never see him. But he’s there, all the same.”
“But if you have never seen him, how do you know there is such a man?”
“I know! I hear him sometimes—in the bushes, or behind a wall. And I feel his eyes upon me,
watching me.”
“And what would you like me to do about him?”
“Why, discover him!” she said, as if it were obvious. “Use spies—traps—whatever means are
necessary. Have the constable alerted.”
“But surely you are in no danger,” said Larkins. If this—er, man—hides whenever others are
near… your sister, surely, is with you at the house.”
“I am alone in my room at night,” she snapped. “And I have a knife under my pillow, ready for
him. But I thought you might like to have him taken away before it comes to that. Good day.”
She walked on abruptly, leaving the men to gaze at her retreating form.
“Mad?” said Knightley quietly.
“I fear so. She has always been…difficult…but there is no doubt her behaviour is getting more
erratic and strange.”
Knightley sighed. “I told my brother when she came back to stay in Donwell that I feared there
might be bloodshed in the parish before long. I said it in jest, but…”
“Yes,” said Larkins. “Perhaps we ought to see if something can be done. Would Dr. Hughes—or
even Mr. Spencer—have any wisdom on the subject?”
“I believe Dr. Hughes is visiting the Gilberts today, but I will speak to Spencer when we have
finished at Fisher’s place.”

“How d’ye do, Mr. Knightley, sir?” said Old Maggie in her piercing voice.
“I have come to call on Mr. Spencer.”
“Very well, thank ye kindly,” said Old Maggie, “although my bad shoulder has not improved
with the good weather as I hoped it would. I’ll show you in to Mr. Spencer.”
Knightley wondered if Spencer had ever been tempted to say something outlandish to Old
Maggie just because she would never know. He would hardly be able to restrain himself if she were
housekeeper at the Abbey.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Knightley,” said Spencer when Knightley was ushered in to the parlour. “I
hope I see you well. Please—” he gestured toward a chair, and Knightley dropped into it.
 “I am quite well, although I have had a most unpleasant encounter this afternoon, which I wanted
—No, before we delve into that subject, I have a better piece of news for you.”
“Oh?”
“Mrs. Catherwood is not to marry Perkins.”
Spencer gaped at him, eyes wide. “Are you certain?”
“Larkins told me, and I have never yet found his information unreliable. He does not know what
happened between them, but whatever preparations Perkins had been making have stopped, and there
are no more visits to the Foote farm.”
“Oh!”
Knightley had expected smiles, at least, but Spencer looked grave and perplexed.
“Are you not pleased? I would have thought—”
“Yes, yes, I am…although—No, I…” Spencer ran his hand distractedly through his hair. “I don’t
know what I am.”
There was silence for a moment as Spencer studied the floor in front of him. Knightley felt all the
disappointment of one who rejoices to give a gift, only to see it rejected by the recipient.
“I was making good progress,” said Spencer, “in accepting a match between Perkins and Mrs.
Catherwood. I had resigned myself, I think, and I had no hopes with regard to myself at all. And now
—” He got up from his chair and walked over to the window. “If she does not marry Perkins, then I
will be waiting—again—for another man to claim her hand and divide her from me forever.”
“But what if there is no other? What if she remains single?”
“If she remains unattached, then I will have the greatest difficulty putting down the hopes that
will rise up—that are rising up, even as we speak. I have no grounds for hope—I could not ask again
—and is it not better that she should marry and be happy than for both of us to be alone?”
Knightley sighed. “I understand. I did not see it when Larkins told me the news—all I could
think was how I would feel in the same place—and relief was the uppermost emotion. Not very
rational, I suppose.”
Spencer turned from the window and returned to his seat with a small smile. “Rational or no,
relief was my first feeling, too. My heart is unfortunately much lighter than it was ten minutes ago,
no matter what logic would dictate. It is easier to have her unclaimed by me than claimed by
someone else. We had better change the topic of our conversation before I lose all common sense and
decide to ask her again.”
“Yes, and that reminds me of the reason for my visit. I was accosted by Miss Castleman today.”
Spencer frowned. “I was hoping to consult with you about her, sir.”
“What is your opinion?”
“I believe her to be insane—or nearly insane, and quite possibly a danger to herself or others.”
“Have you heard her speak of someone following her?”
“Yes. And she has accused me of being in league with him.”
“You? She is mad, then. But what is to be done with her? I do not know what the widow Hunt
would say to the idea of her sister being locked away in a madhouse.”
“I would not like to see that myself. Have you visited a madhouse?”
“No.”
“I have.” The expression on Spencer’s face was eloquent.
 “I will ask my brother his opinion,” said Knightley. “I seem to recall him telling me of a case
which involved insanity of some sort, and there was a book—lately written, I think, about the
problem of madness and treatment for those afflicted with it.”
“Good. Perhaps someone will establish an institution not far from here that will be devoted to the
humane treatment of those with a mental affliction. And if my foolish hopes with regard to Mrs.
Catherwood get the better of me, I may be applying for admission as well.”
“You will be in good company then—I will probably become an inmate there myself.”
Spencer looked at him soberly. “Is it that bad, sir?”
“Yes,” said Knightley. “I dare not think about it much.”
The sympathy in Spencer’s eyes was too much; Knightley bid him good day and went out.

“It’s a pity Mrs. Weston is not here, Knightley. You’ve not been here at Randalls for a fortnight, I
think. Mrs. Weston will be sorry to have missed you. She’s visiting old John Abdy—she tells me he
cannot leave his bed anymore, poor man.”
“That is a great pity—he always seemed such a kind man. It must be a comfort for him to have
visitors.”
“Oh, yes, and he has plenty. Miss Bates goes to see him regularly, of course—you know he was
clerk to her father for many years—and so does Mrs. Perry, and any number of others. By the bye,
Knightley, you’ve been invited to this Box Hill expedition, have you not?”
“I have heard of two different expeditions—one that Emma was planning, and one of Mrs.
Elton’s contriving. Which one did you mean?”
“Oh, you have not heard, then? There is but one exploring party now; the two groups have
combined into one. It was my idea—seemed silly for there to be two separate parties, and these
things are always more enjoyable when there are more people along. I proposed to Mrs. Elton that we
ought all to go together, and she thought it was a good idea, too. You’ll come, I hope?”
“I would be delighted to be of the party. Have you fixed a day?”
“No, not absolutely. Soon, however. Within the next week or two, at any rate. I’ll send you
word.”
“Is it a large party?”
“No, not at all. Only the Eltons and the Bates’—Miss Bates and her niece, I mean—and Emma
and Miss Smith. And you and I, of course. Mrs. Weston will stay with Mr. Woodhouse.”
“And Emma had no objection?”
“No, no, nothing of the sort. Why should she object? I explained my reasons and she said
nothing to contradict me. Everyone knows the advantage of a larger party.”
Poor Emma, thought Knightley, with feelings divided between compassion that she would have
to bear the company of Mrs. Elton—he was sure that she would not view Weston’s interference with
equanimity—and pride over her graceful acquiescence to a scheme which she could not but deplore.
 15 June
Wellyn House

Dear George,

Your letter arrived this morning. Sorry to hear of Mrs. Hunt’s troubles with her sister—she does
indeed sound mad. The book I had told you of is Tuke’s Description of the Retreat. The “Retreat” it
describes is up in York, which is, I take it, too far and too expensive for someone of Mrs. Hunt’s
means. I agree that Miss Castleman ought to be committed to some institution, although there is no
county asylum in Surrey. You will probably need to look out a private madhouse, but they vary
extremely from one to another. I suppose we have been fortunate in Donwell not to have had to deal
with insanity much before this. There was old Barnhill, of course, but he was harmless, and his
family watched over him carefully. I will ask a few people here who might know of an acceptable
situation—preferably one that follows Tuke’s model.
I trust this information will have no nearer application than Miss Castleman; I have heard that
those who live alone in large houses are far more prone to madness than other people.
I long for news of Mrs. Elton (you may tell her so, if it will raise me in her esteem). Do the
Sucklings come soon? I want to hear their verdict of the Abbey.

In the firm conviction of a sound mind,

John

17 June
Donwell Abbey

Dear John,

Thank you for the information regarding Miss Castleman’s situation. I will present it all to Dr.
Hughes. Do let me know what you discover about private asylums &c. I am in no danger of requiring
the same care unless I am driven to distraction by interfering and wearisome relations who live in
London.
The Sucklings have deferred their visit until the autumn. It will be amusing, when they do finally
deign to come, to discover what they think of all of us, having known us only by report through Mrs.
Elton’s letters. I do not think Emma’s character fares very well in those letters, but mine does—or it
will this week, at least. I have no doubt that Mrs. Elton is writing to her sister even now that
“Knightley”, that most thorough humorist, has created a plan exactly calculated to please her in the
wake of the misfortune caused by a lame carriage horse. The story is almost good enough for me to
save until I can tell it to you in person, but Emma will probably allude to it in a letter before then, so
I might as well tell you now.
 Mrs. Elton had designed an “exploring party” to Box Hill, to showcase her magnificent talents
for organizing and superintending excursions (she did not say as much, of course, but her motives
were all too apparent). One of the horses needed for this scheme turned up lame the day before
yesterday, and she could not get over it. I called on Elton at his home about some parish business and
found Mrs. Elton there instead. She complained about the postponed gaiety for ten minutes until I
suggested—half in jest, and mostly to stop her moans—that they had better explore to Donwell and
eat my strawberries, which Rooker had told me were nearly ripe. I rather expected her to laugh at
the notion, but she was delighted by the idea, and promised me—many times over, in fact—to come.
Within five minutes she had reshaped the outing according to her own notions. If she had her way
(and she was no doubt surprised that I would have any idea besides hers), it would be a romantic
gypsyish party, complete with donkeys, large hats (for the ladies), be-ribboned baskets, and some sort
of “simple table” spread in the shade to accompany the eating of strawberries. She also styled
herself “lady patroness” of the party, and wanted to invite all the guests herself, telling me that she
might be safely authorised to do so, since she was a married woman.
I took more pleasure than I ought in telling her that there was only one married woman I could
ever allow to invite what guests she pleased to Donwell. She thought at first that I meant Mrs.
Weston, but when I told her that I was referring to the future Mrs. Knightley, she was all smiles
again. (I forbid you to assume anything based on that statement of mine or to mention it to any living
soul, including myself.) So long as no one yet existing got the preference to herself, she was able to
smile and let me issue the invitations to my own party—although she was quite willing to lend her
housekeeper to Donwell for the occasion, and to advise Mrs. Hodges in the event of any difficulty
that might arise.
I have determined to make the best of it, however. I hope to induce Mr. Woodhouse to come, as
well as Emma and Harriet. He would enjoy the outing, I believe, and it would do him good on such a
warm summer’s day. He could stay indoors all the time, except for a short walk in the garden, and I
could set out all the displays of the various collections which our father laboured to complete. The
Westons and Miss Bates and her niece will complete the party, if all agree to come.
In spite of the presence of the Eltons, I am in more anticipation of the event than I would have
imagined. I suppose the thought of giving pleasure to good friends is responsible for that. I will send
you a report of this event when it is all over, but now I must consult with Mrs. Hodges about a menu.

Your somewhat beleaguered but equally sane brother,

George

Each visit to Hartfield now seemed a thing to be cherished; he felt as if he were living in a golden
age which could not last, but which would always be treasured in memory. When he was an old man,
he thought, he would reminisce fondly over this very scene. Mr. Woodhouse was sitting by the small
fire, glad to see him; Emma and Harriet were sitting together with embroidery in their hands; there
were the usual solicitudes about his health and the weather, and the standard inquiries about there
being any news from Brunswick-square; everything was commonplace and ordinary—a disinterested
observer might even label it all very dull—and yet he rejoiced in it just the way it was.
 When the preliminaries were past, Knightley turned to Mr. Woodhouse and said, “I wonder if you
would, perhaps, do me the honour of visiting me at Donwell one of these mornings, with a few other
of our friends.”
“Oh! In the morning, then?”
“Yes. My strawberries are getting very ripe, and I thought it a good excuse to invite a small party
of friends to help pick them, and enjoy the gardens and eat a cold luncheon in the house when they
are hungry.”
“Oh, Papa, that would be the very thing, would it not?” said Emma. The quick interest in her
eyes pleased Knightley immensely.
“The Eltons and Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax are coming,” he added, “and I believe the Westons
will be there as well.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Woodhouse meditatively. “Dear me, I do not suppose I have been at Donwell for
two years. Some very fine morning, Emma and Harriet and I could go very well; and I could sit still
with Mrs. Weston, while the dear girls walk about the gardens. I do not suppose they could be damp
now, in the middle of the day.”
“It sounds very delightful!” said Emma.
“I was hoping you would come on Thursday next—Midsummer Day, you know. If any day
would be warm and dry, it would be that one.” He glanced at Mr. Woodhouse, and Emma smiled her
understanding back at him. It was the best inducement he could think of, and Emma knew it.
“I think it is a lovely scheme, do not you, Harriet?”
“Oh! Yes, Miss Woodhouse. And Midsummer Day is my birthday, as well.”
“All the better!” said Emma. “Nothing could be more appropriate for a birthday than an al fresco
party with one’s friends!”
“I should like to see the old house again exceedingly,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “and I should be
very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Elton, and any other of my neighbours. I can see no objection to the
plan, Mr. Knightley. Emma and Harriet and I can go some very fine morning, as you have said. It is
well done of you to invite us—very kind and sensible. Much cleverer than dining out. I am not fond
of dining out.”
Mr. Weston, an hour later, was even more enthusiastic.
“An outing to Donwell, eh? Capital idea! What do you say, Anne, my dear? We hoped to taste
those strawberries!”
“It sounds delightful! And you say Mr. Woodhouse has agreed to come?”
“Yes, and I rather think it was his idea that you would sit with him, Mrs. Weston, while the
others were out of doors.”
“I would be pleased to do so. I confess I would rather not join those gathering strawberries; if I
sat down on the ground I do not think I could get up again.”
“I would carry you, if it came to that,” said Weston with a teasing look very like Frank’s—and
for a moment, Knightley could have believed it was Churchill teasing Emma. Mrs. Weston blushed—
evidently it was some private joke between them—and pang pierced his heart.
“Frank!” said Mr. Weston, as if he had read Knightley’s thoughts. “I will get Frank to join us. It
would be just the sort of thing he would enjoy.”
It was only with the greatest effort that Knightley managed to tell him that he would be very glad
to see Churchill. Even so, if Weston had not taken it for granted that everyone wanted to see his son,
he must have found his friend’s looks completely at odds with his statement.
 “I will write to him this very day,” said Weston. “I am certain I can persuade him to join us.”
“I am sure you will,” said Knightley, and wondered if a private asylum could possibly be built in
time to receive him before he lost his last shreds of sanity.

A note from Randalls was awaiting him when he returned from a visit to Kingston the following
Tuesday, telling him that the lame carriage horse had recovered, and the excursion to Box Hill would
take place on Friday, the day after the strawberry-picking party at Donwell. Further, Weston had
heard from Frank—he would be pleased to join them all at Donwell for strawberry-picking. Weston
was sure he could persuade Frank to stay overnight at Randalls and join the Box Hill expedition, as
well. He would, in fact, mention the matter to Frank as soon as he saw him, so Knightley need not
worry about Frank being left out.
“You know,” remarked Knightley to Madam Duval as he crumpled the note, “The bloodshed in
the parish may not involve Miss Castleman after all.”
 11

It was not, perhaps, surprising that Knightley should wander through the Abbey the evening before
the strawberry-picking, wondering how it would look to Emma’s eyes and what she might say about
it. It had been more than two years since she was there. Her last visit had been in company with the
John Knightleys, and her attention then had been primarily engaged by her sister and the children.
This time she would be more free to look and examine and enjoy.
He could imagine her walking the length of the corridor, standing in the middle of the drawing
room, passing through the breakfast room, walking out to the terrace… Would she survey it with a
scornful eye, thinking it all hopelessly ancient and unfashionable? No, he knew her well enough to
feel certain she would not. She would tell him how much she approved of the Abbey, and he would
have those words to remember always. In the dark, lonely days ahead, he would take them out, like
old gemstones, and polish them. No, no, he was getting maudlin. And Churchill might make a fatal
mistake that revealed his true character during this Highbury visit, which would prevent Emma’s ever
marrying him. He must not give up all hope quite yet.
Emma’s judgement of the Abbey was not the first to fall on his ear the next day. The other guests
were eager to tell him their own opinions, and he listened to them patiently while he waited to hear
the only one that mattered to him.
“My dear sir,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “you are very good. Yes, I am most comfortable—a small
fire, just the thing on a day such as this. It was warm in the carriage; Emma put one of the carriage
windows down as we came, else it had been a little too warm. I think everybody ought to sit down
here, out of the hot sun. There is no danger of damp in this room. A very admirable place, and just as
it should be. Mrs. Weston, you ought to sit here in this chair; you are very tired, I am sure. You ought
not to have walked all the way from Randalls.”
Mrs. Weston’s praise was warm without being fulsome: “I always think, Mr. Knightley, that
Donwell Abbey is the finest example of an old country house…solid and comfortable and a model of
good taste.”
Miss Bates, of course, was not lacking words: “Oh! Mr. Knightley—so kind of you to send the
carriage! In very good time—delightful weather—just what one would expect—Midsummer day—
Jane, is it not perfection itself? So pleased to be at the Abbey again. Such roses! The colours—the
monks who lived here in ancient days would hardly have imagined such splendour! Never come to
the Abbey but I think—seat of a gentleman—such a delightful day!”
Mrs. Elton hardly paused as she walked through the house in her eagerness to get to the kitchen
gardens and the strawberries. She was dressed as she had promised, with a large bonnet on her head
and a basket on her arm. “Such a delightful aspect—I perceive that this part of the house was the
cloister of the old monastery. Oh, the refectory, was it? Well, it is nearly the same thing. The gardens
perfectly complement the house! Those hydrangeas, just there, rather remind me of Maple Grove. I
must say, Mr. E., Serena had better not be brought to the Abbey before she sees the vicarage—she
would see at once the difference in taste—the vicarage is so obviously decorated in an inferior style,
and by an inexpert hand.”
Mr. Weston gallantly made the appropriate contradiction: “My dear Mrs. Elton, the vicarage is a
perfect jewel of its type—I don’t believe I know another one furnished with such taste. Ah, here is
Miss Smith coming out—Miss Smith, have you seen Miss Woodhouse? Or is she lost in the depths of
this great mansion? I’ll wager you’ve never seen so large a house as this one, hey?”
“Oh, no, sir. It is very large indeed—very large and grand. I do not know where Miss Woodhouse
is, but Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax are just coming now.”
“I’ll see where she is,” said Knightley. “It seems we are all assembled here but for her.”
“And Frank,” added Weston.
The Abbey was cool and dark in comparison with the bright heat outside. Knightley could hear
the murmured voices of Mr. Woodhouse and Mrs. Weston as they looked together at one of the trays
displaying a collection of shells. He did not want to call out Emma’s name; the Abbey seemed almost
a hallowed place now that she was in it. He walked quietly from one room to another, searching, but
each was empty. At last he came to the library and stopped in the doorway. There was Emma, just by
the window where she had been in his dream when he had been about to declare his love. She was
even more beautiful now, her hair illuminated by the sun coming in the window and the side of her
face visible to him showing that she was amused by something outside.
He stepped back into the corridor, into the shadows. He had never imagined her coming into the
library. More than any other room in the house, that place was his. To have Emma in it was somehow
to expose himself to her; it almost seemed as if she would know the secrets of his heart if she
lingered there. She was walking slowly around the room now, looking at everything, and the
expression on her face was neither awestruck or scornful. It was admiring, but there was more
contentment there than wonder. She looked… satisfied. He could not have wished for a better
commendation of the house from her; he found he no longer needed to hear the words. He remained
where he was, watching her move from the bookshelves to his desk. She brushed her fingers over the
filigree box she had given him so long ago, a brief smile lighting her face. She moved toward his
favourite chair, and bent to stroke a sleeping Madam Duval.
Emma belonged at Donwell. Anyone who saw her just now would say as much. If he only had
the power to stop time, now, while she belonged to the Abbey—belonged to him. Knightley felt the
moment slipping away from him like sand in an hourglass. The scene was engraved on his mind, his
heart. Whatever happened in the future, this moment would be another little jewel to take out and
polish now and then.
Baxter's footsteps at the end of the corridor signalled that the hourglass had dropped its last grain
of sand. He stepped into the room, clearing his throat.
“Oh!” said Emma. “Am I wanted?”
“Very much,” said Knightley, before he could stop himself.
“Mrs. Elton is eager to begin, is she?”
“Yes—yes,” stammered Knightley, thankful that his words could be taken with the meaning she
gave them. He offered his arm and she took it, and they went out to the gardens together.
 “Ah, here is Miss Woodhouse,” said Mrs. Elton. “And now we lack only Mr. Frank Churchill’s
company.”
“I expect him at any moment,” said Weston.
“I do not think that such a chivalrous young man would wish us to stand about in the heat
waiting for him,” said Mrs. Elton. “Why should we delay? Let us commence with the work!”
The company obliged, kneeling by the strawberry beds and beginning to pluck the ripe fruit from
the neat rows of plants. After only fifteen minutes, Knightley reflected that he much preferred
labourers who worked silently. If there had been conversation between the workers, it might have
been tolerable, but instead they had an interminable monologue from Mrs. Elton about strawberries,
interrupted only once by Mrs. Weston coming out to see if Churchill had arrived and to express
concern about his horse. Knightley was a little afraid of Churchill becoming the new topic of the
discourse, which was not any more to his liking than the lecture on agriculture. He need not have
worried: Mrs. Elton did not want to shift the topic of conversation to Frank Churchill, and she
resumed just where she had left off, with a comparison of the most notable strawberry varieties.
At last Mrs. Elton declared herself too hot and tired to pick any more, and expressed a desire to
sit in the cooling shade of some tree. There was no withstanding her determination, and the rest of the
party obediently gathered up their baskets and followed her to the edge of the gardens proper. The
Abbey had no completely shaded arbour for the amateur gardeners to rest in, but there were benches
under the young beech trees, which permitted only dappled sunlight to fall on the group. They
sampled the strawberries as they sat there, and all agreed that they were worth the effort of picking.
Knightley’s eye was caught by Rooker standing at the edge of the kitchen garden; he gestured to
Knightley, who left his guests to see what the gardener wanted.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Knightley, but there’s a lot of strawberries left to be picked. Shall I
have Stevens get to work on the rest, or will the ladies and gentlemen wish to gather more later on?”
“You’d better wait a little while, Rooker. I don’t think Mrs.—that is, the guests—will wish to
harvest any more themselves, but there is no telling. We ought to wait until they leave, I think. And it
will be cooler later in the afternoon, too.”
“Very good, Mr. Knightley.”
Knightley took the opportunity to look in on Mr. Woodhouse and Mrs. Weston, and then wished
he had not; Mrs. Weston was disappointed that he was not coming in to announce the arrival of
Churchill, and Mr. Woodhouse urged him to stay with them and rest himself. It was with some
difficulty that he extricated himself and left them to the tray of medals they had been examining
before he came in.
He arrived back to the beech trees as Jane was saying, “But as I have said, Mrs. Elton, I do not
wish to engage myself for any position at the present time. The Campbells will return, and I wish to
consult them—”
“Now, Jane! This is a golden opportunity—too good to miss. You must allow me to write and
accept this offer on your behalf by tomorrow’s post.”
“I beg you, Mrs. Elton,” said Jane, and there was an edge in her voice, “Please do nothing of the
sort.”
“Ah, but I will!” If there was anything more remarkable than Mrs. Elton’s obstinacy, it was her
gleeful manner in displaying it. “You are too young to make decisions of this kind.”
“I do not wish you to interfere,” said Jane, more vexed than Knightley had ever seen her. He
glanced at Emma—her face was all compassion for Jane Fairfax. He knew she would pity her
situation.
 “Oh, as to interfering,” said Mrs. Elton archly, “Married women are always authorized to
interfere when they deem it necessary for the good of their protégés.”
“Should we not walk? Mr. Knightley, would you show us the gardens—all the gardens? I wish to
see the whole extent.”
“By all means,” said Knightley. “Will you come this way, Miss Fairfax? You may like to see the
oldest tree on the estate—we call it ‘the fairy oak’ and there is an old stone bench beneath it.”
He offered Jane his arm to prevent Mrs. Elton taking charge of her again, and they moved away
toward the shrubbery, letting the others follow or not, just as they pleased. Miss Bates and Harriet
were soon close behind them, as the good-natured chatter of the elder lady made apparent. Her voice,
and the occasional comments of Miss Smith, were the only sounds as they strolled across the garden;
he and Miss Fairfax were silent. Miss Fairfax seemed out of spirits, which could not be wondered at,
and Knightley was glad that it was in his power to halt Mrs. Elton’s persecution, at least for a little
while. He was gladder still that although he did not know where Emma was—walking in another part
of the gardens, presumably—she was not walking with her hand on Churchill’s arm.
He was content for the moment. After all, he had hoped to give a day of enjoyment to his friends,
and it seemed to be a success, at least where Miss Bates and Harriet were concerned. Of course, they
admired without any real knowledge or discrimination, but it was refreshing to hear their honest
appreciation, unclouded by any ulterior motives.
“My dear Jane!” said Miss Bates, “Do look at the lavender here—so fragrant!” She paused and
stooped down to touch the blooms and breathe in the scent. “We had lavender in our garden when
you were very young, Jane—do you remember? You picked great handfuls for me to dry—such a
little thing you were.”
“I love a garden,” said Harriet. “I used to—that is, I once stayed at a place where I could go out
in the morning and look at the flowers in the garden and pick those I liked best to put in my
bedroom.”
A small sigh accompanied this statement, and started Knightley wondering. Was the sigh for the
flowers or for Abbey Mill Farm? Surely that was the place she was speaking of. If it was the farm she
missed, there might be some hope for Martin. If he could convince Martin to ask again, might he not
receive a favourable reply? Obviously, it would all be for naught if Harriet’s heart was engaged to
another man—and if it was, that was no doubt the fruit of Emma’s labours. It could be that Harriet
only missed having free reign in a garden, and would not welcome another chance to become Mrs.
Martin. But this would only be, he thought, if she was in love with someone else. She was not the girl
to resist entreaty from an honest heart if her own were free. There must be some way to discover if
this was the case. Harriet was open and guileless, and would not play flirtatious games. Of course, a
blunt question would be inappropriate—even from himself, a man more than twice her age—but a
more carefully worded query might give him enough information to make a reasonable deduction.
They had reached the end of the gardens by this time, and the ladies sat on the stone bench
beneath the fairy oak while Knightley told them the legend associated with it—a fair maiden, having
fallen asleep on the bench, woke to find a lock of hair missing, stolen by fairies who took it for some
purpose of their own. As payment for the pilfered curl, they left the periwinkles that grew around the
base of the tree.
Ten minutes of rest there were enough, and they moved on across the other side of the garden
toward the lime walk. Miss Fairfax remained silent, leaving Knightley free to plan his questioning.
He had a sudden fear that he might be liable to accusations of meddling; he had once rebuked Emma
for doing so. But no, he would not persuade anyone to anything—he would not be Cesario to
Martin’s Orsino, pleading the cause of a friend to a lady. Shakespeare had shown what might happen
with that—the lady falling in love with the messenger! Quite impossible in this case, of course, but it
was just as well he would not be attempting anything of the sort. He would only determine, as far as
he could, if Harriet was attached to anyone else, and encourage Martin, if the opportunity arose, to
ask again.
“Look at the beautiful china asters!” said Harriet. “They are Mrs. Goddard’s favourite, but her
blooms were very poor this year. She was quite disappointed.”
Miss Fairfax stopped to look at them. “They are my favourite, as well,” she said. “These are
lovely.” She stooped to touch her fingertips over the tops of the flowers.
“Oh!” said Miss Bates. “Jane, we ought to ask Mr. Knightley—we had a question—remember
Mrs. Dixon’s letter? Something about Mr. Dixon growing clover in a field instead of it lying fallow
—on the home farm, I mean—and the land steward had persuaded Mr. Dixon to it, saying ‘a change
is as good as a rest’—remember, Jane? We did not know just what she meant, and you said, ‘Perhaps
we should ask Mr. Knightley when we go to Donwell.’ And here we are and I declare I have not
thought if it once until now. Do you know what he meant, Mr. Knightley?”
“I believe I do,” said Knightley, and embarked on an explanation of the depletion of the soil’s
richness, and the new discovery that a rotation of crops worked just as well to replenish soil as letting
it lie fallow for a year did.
“And I suppose it brings more profit to the farmer, as well,” said Harriet unexpectedly.
“Indeed,” said Knightley. “It is one of the best ways for a farmer to increase his profits, along
with the draining of fields, and alternating which fields are used for grazing cattle and sheep and
which for growing corn.”
They walked slowly, and it was ten more minutes before they reached the cooling shade of lime
walk. They were about to enter the avenue when Miss Bates looked back.
“Oh, look!” she said. “Here come Mr. and Mrs. Elton! Jane, I wonder what they have been
seeing in the garden? Mrs. Elton, Mr. Elton—I hope you have been enjoying yourselves—such a
delightful place! Very warm—flowers always show to best advantage in sunshine—No, not tired at
all! Mrs. Elton, have you seen the shrubbery? Very fine!”
“I have indeed, Miss Bates,” said Mrs. Elton. “It reminds me very much of Maple Grove, only
the one at Maple Grove is a little larger, I think. But it is the same distance from the house…”
“Miss Smith,” said Knightley quietly, “I have been telling you about the management of fields—
come and let me show you where there are drainage works going on even now on the estate.”
They separated from the others, who were still listening to Mrs. Elton hold forth on the subject of
Maple Grove’s gardens, and started down the lime walk together. Now, how to begin the subject of
the state of Harriet’s affections? An uncontrived conversation would be best, he thought. He would
encourage her to talk about herself, and perhaps there would be a natural opening to ask the question.
He was glad to notice that the others, although they followed them down the walk, did not join them,
and they had as much privacy as they were likely to ever have.
He asked Harriet which were the favourite flowers of Miss Nash, Miss Prince, and Miss
Richardson, the three teachers at Mrs. Goddard’s school, and when that topic was exhausted, he
enquired which of the three had been her favourite teacher. Although she answered at length (she
could not decide which teacher had been her favourite, as they all had their merits), no opportunity to
bring up the subject of tender feelings arose from her reflections on these subjects.
They reached the low wall at the end of the avenue, and Knightley pointed off to the left. “If you
look over in this direction, Miss Smith, you may see the Fisher farm—the land around it has lately
been drained to create another smallholding.”
“Oh! Yes, I see!” said Harriet.
“It will not be a very large place,” Knightley went on. “Not nearly as big as Abbey Mill Farm.”
He paused for a moment and then said, “I suppose you enjoyed your stay in the country last
summer?”
 “Oh! Yes, indeed.”
“And have missed it, sometimes, perhaps?”
“Yes, indeed. That is—not so very often. Miss Woodhouse has been so kind. When I am at
Hartfield, I never think of my time in the country. I’m sure I never wish to be anywhere else.”
“Do you not hope someday to have a dearer tie?” said Knightley. “Is there no place that lies
nearer your heart than Hartfield?”
She blushed slightly, but before she could speak, a movement nearby caught his eye and he
looked up—Emma was walking toward them. It was perhaps the only time he was not altogether glad
to see her. Another minute of conversation would have told him what he wanted to know, but it was
impossible while Emma was near.
“The reclaimed land for the new smallholding will probably be used first for wheat or oats,” he
said, raising his voice a little, “and then for grazing sheep. What was once wasted land will be
useful.”
He smiled at Emma as she approached, telling her with his eyes that he had not so much as
mentioned Robert Martin to Harriet—she would be suspecting him of it, he thought, with them
standing in full view of Abbey Mill Farm.
“Hello, Emma,” he said to her. “Had you a pleasant walk?”
“Yes,” said she as they started back up the lime walk. “Mr. Weston and I traversed the whole
length of the gardens. I had not remembered just how fine they are. It is not merely that they are well-
tended, but the plants are so perfectly suited to their situations, and the colours blend delightfully.”
He was pleased—more than pleased. Emma would not flatter, and to hear such honest admiration
from her lips was enchanting.
“And the house, too,” she went on. “I had forgotten half the wonders which I saw again today—
the way the light comes into the breakfast room, and the prospect from the windows of the drawing
room—there are so many charming spots.”
Would she say something about the library? He waited, hoping to hear a commendation of his
favourite place.
“You are very silent, Mr. Knightley,” said Emma.
“Must I speak? I would rather listen to you go on talking if you will keep saying such delightful
things.”
She raised her left eyebrow and said, “And who would not? Ah, the joys of hearing Emma
Woodhouse express her opinions! I cannot blame you.”
He laughed at her.
“It seems everyone has found their way to the lime walk,” said Harriet.
“And a good thing, too,” said Knightley. “It is nearly three o’clock, and Baxter will be looking
for us to go in and eat.”
They had time for three more turns in the lime walk before Baxter appeared, and then they all
went in gratefully to the cool and comfortable dining room.
The cold meat and salad were on the table, and the servants were little in evidence. Knightley had
instructed Baxter to keep the footman Harry in the background, and he could see him hovering
uncertainly near the door. In spite of this, the meal went off well. Knightley would have enjoyed it
more if the predominant topic of conversation had not been Churchill—Mrs. Weston’s fears about his
non-appearance, Mr. Weston’s relative unconcern, Mr. Elton’s opinion (seconded and elaborated on
by his wife) that Mrs. Churchill must have had another sudden attack, and Emma’s adding that this
seemed the most likely explanation.
 “What else shall we see?” said Mrs. Elton when they had finished eating. “Mr. Knightley, is
there something else to see?”
“I would like to see those fish ponds,” said Weston. “You would like to see them too, would you
not, my dear?”
“I would,” said Mrs. Weston, “If Mr. Woodhouse will not miss me.”
“I will be staying with him,” said Emma. “I would like to see the collections and books that he
has seen this morning, and he will be pleased to show them to me. Will you not, Papa?”
“Indeed, my dear. You will be very interested in everything.”
It was just what ought to be done, of course: Mrs. Weston needed some exercise and a little
reprieve from her attentions to Mr. Woodhouse, and Emma would not neglect her father. All the
same, he was disappointed. His faint hope of walking with Emma alone in his own gardens
disappeared altogether.
“You may like to see the clover field as well, ma’am,” said Knightley to Mrs. Elton. “It has not
yet been cut, though I think it will be tomorrow.”
There was a general pushing back of chairs and collecting of belongings then, and while Mr.
Woodhouse and Emma retreated into the drawing room, the rest of the party drifted out of doors
again. Knightley and Miss Bates were the last into the garden; they were delayed by Miss Bates’
stopping to rhapsodise over a very fine landscape painting in the passageway, and by their slow
progress past the roses. They came upon the Eltons sitting under the beech trees.
“Ah, Knightley, Miss Bates,” said Mrs. Elton. “Is Jane not with you? I told her she would come
with us to the fish ponds, but I do not see her now.”
“Dear me, Mrs. Elton, I do not know! Perhaps she has gone with the Westons somewhere—shall
I try to find her? They could not be far.”
“I think not, Miss Bates,” Knightley said, hoping he was promoting Jane’s real wishes by
obstructing Mrs. Elton’s plan. “If you go to find her, then we may very likely lose you, and that
would not do. I will show you the way to the fish-ponds now, and when we see Miss Fairfax again,
you may escort her there yourself if she would like to see them.”
“Oh! That is a very good plan, Mr. Knightley—indeed it is,” said Miss Bates. Mrs. Elton did not
look so satisfied, but as Knightley began to walk immediately, she could not do anything but follow
along, and a judicious question by Knightley about Maple Grove quite restored her spirits.
There was no possibility of silence on a walk with Miss Bates and Mrs. Elton; Knightley had
almost no occasion to talk, which suited him perfectly. Elton did not talk, either, but Knightley
fancied he was content to have his wife converse with Miss Bates. Converse, perhaps, was not quite
what the women did—Mrs. Elton made pronouncements, Miss Bates agreed with them and then
added her own ramblings, which Mrs. Elton waited through until she could interrupt and make
another pronouncement.
Knightley did not bother to follow what was being said; his mind was on his earlier conversation
with Miss Smith. She had said that when she was at Hartfield, she did not want to be anywhere else.
That seemed perfectly in accord with what he knew of her character: she was the sort to be content
with her present circumstances, whatever they were. Her affections would likely be attached to
anyone who showed kindness to her—Mrs. Goddard, Miss Woodhouse, or Mr. Martin—and he could
not imagine her resisting the sincere devotion of an honest heart. Of course, when he had asked about
any dearer ties, she had blushed. What did that mean? There was no way of knowing, of course, but
he thought it was likely that she was only surprised at such a topic being addressed by him. All in all,
it seemed doubtful that she was very attached to anyone at present, and that Martin had a chance, if
the occasion arose for him to renew his addresses. Things in that regard could be considered quite
satisfactory.
 After the fish ponds were looked at, explained, and approved, Mrs. Elton wanted to see the
orchard, and it was an hour before they got back to the house. The Westons were just entering the
house as their little group reached the terrace, and they found, as they joined the others in the drawing
room, that Churchill had arrived after all. The pleased satisfaction Knightley had been feeling
evaporated. How long had that fellow been sitting with Emma?
“But where is Jane?” said Miss Bates, who had been peering into the corners of the room. “Is
Jane not yet returned?”
“She asked me to tell you that she must go home,” said Emma. “She has been gone for an hour
or more—she thought her grandmother would be worried, and did not wish to disturb anyone’s
pleasure by informing them of her departure. I offered her the carriage,” she said, looking at
Knightley, “but she preferred to walk.”
“Well! She must have been—it is very right that—it really is time to be going,” said Miss Bates.
“I wonder I did not think of it.”
“That is too bad,” said Weston. “I wish she had taken the carriage—it was very warm to be
walking, poor girl.”
“Yes,” said his wife. “I do wish we had known.”
“Ah, you see what happens when young ladies are without their mentors,” said Mrs. Elton. “I
would have advised her what to do. Well, Miss Bates, you may travel home in our carriage, and we
will scold her properly together.”
“And what about tomorrow?” said Weston. “How shall we arrange travel for our Box Hill
excursion?”
Knightley was thankful to see Weston take charge of the travel to Box Hill. Mrs. Elton’s idea was
that the Elton carriage should stop at the home of each participant and add new people as they went
along, until it was a sort of parade. Weston, however, said that they could not put the Eltons to so
much trouble; therefore Knightley, Weston and Churchill would go to Hartfield and accompany
Emma and Harriet’s carriage to the Eltons’; they would be ready with Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax.
Mrs. Elton had to be content with this, and as the expedition was to be launched from the vicarage,
her self-importance was satisfied enough that she made no protest.
“And have I persuaded you to join the expedition tomorrow?” asked Emma, turning to Churchill.
Churchill smiled. “Well, if you wish me to stay and join the party, I will.”
The smile Emma gave him in reply was a knife-thrust to Knightley’s heart. He had a sudden
conviction that they had been talking very cosily while the others had been in the gardens; there was
no diminishing of friendliness between them—rather an increase, if such a thing were possible. They
were more sure of each other’s regard than they had been before. He had been a fool to entertain any
hope.
“All arranged, then,” said Weston. “Unless there is a positive summons from Richmond, we shall
all meet together tomorrow morning.”
 “I fear that every last hope is gone,” said Knightley in the library that evening. “Utterly and
completely gone.” The cat sat gazing at him, as if waiting to hear more. “I was thinking, Madam—I
wonder if the Abbey would make a good asylum for gently-born people of diminished mental
capacity? I would be the first inmate, of course. You could stay on as well, to give the residents
someone to talk to.”
The cat broke her stare and began to lick her paw.
“No? Well, perhaps I should follow Spencer’s example and leave the country—‘make an
honourable retreat’. Only, would it be honourable? Or would it be self-serving? I could not possibly
do her any good at a distance. And there is still the chance to do some good, I think. There might be
some difficulty—some dilemma—something for which she might need advice. I cannot bear the
thought of being far away if there is the slightest chance that she might need me. And after all, being
away did not help Spencer.” He got up to poke the fire, and then paced over to the window and
looked toward Hartfield.
“I do not know what to do, Emma. You have the distinction of making me more perplexed and
undecided than I have been in a score of years. To stay here is… difficult. To leave would be harder
still. Was ever any man so conflicted?”
The sun had not yet set; he could still see every tree and shrub and flower clearly, as clearly as
Emma must have seen them as she looked out this very window. “I hope you had a pleasant day,
Emma. You never looked more beautiful than you did when I saw you in this room. I fear the image
will never completely leave my mind. It seems that—” he checked himself. “I forgot—I am not to
make any speeches to you. I beg your pardon, Emma. My feelings seem to assert themselves before
my mind remembers its duty. Goodnight, Emma.”
 12

Knightley had never set out on a party of pleasure with more reluctance. He could foresee no real
enjoyment, and there was a strong possibility of pain. He would, in fact, have given a great deal to
stay home. Still, he had given his word, and could not doubt that his presence would be a help to the
party in some way—he might help to ward off the importunate solicitude of Mrs. Elton toward Jane
Fairfax, or assist Miss Bates in walking over the hill. He had a fleeting wish that he could rescue
Emma from some terrible danger, but there was not likely to be any opportunity for that.
The Randalls contingent was already at Hartfield when Knightley arrived, Mrs. Weston sitting
with Mr. Woodhouse, and Weston and his son full of cheerful anticipation. Weston was in one of his
hearty moods, and Churchill met Emma and Harriet with lively banter as they appeared in the
drawing room together. Emma acknowledged Knightley briefly but sincerely, but it was Churchill
who escorted the ladies outside, helped them into the carriage, and shut the door.
They stopped at the vicarage to allow the Eltons’ carriage to join the procession; Miss Bates and
Miss Fairfax were already at the vicarage, and it was only a few minutes before the Eltons’ carriage
was leading the way on the seven mile trip to Box Hill. Rather than contemplate what the day might
hold, Knightley let his mind drift to the problem of Miss Castleman. Should he seek to establish an
asylum in Surrey? Involvement with such an institution would take up a good deal of time—he
would have all the headaches of trustees, reports, funding, overseers, inspections, and personal visits.
On the other hand, a county asylum was no doubt needed, and it was his duty to do what he could.
Long before he had come to any sort of decision, the road began to rise abruptly, signalling that
their destination was at hand. The carriage horses strained to pull their loads up the hill, and were
brought to a halt, panting, at the summit.
The carriages were emptied of ladies, servants, and food; Weston arranged with the coachmen to
take the horses to the public house at Mickleham at the base of the hill, water them, and rest them for
the two hours the party would be on the hill. Just as they were pulling away, another carriage arrived
at the summit. It was an Irish car with four ladies perched on its seats. Mrs. Elton immediately began
to direct the servants about where to put the food and how to arrange it all; Knightley suspected that
she wanted this unknown company to realize that she was the one in charge of this very large party.
The Irish car ladies, however, seemed very little in awe.
“Now then, Frank,” said Weston, “Look at that vista, and tell me whether you have seen anything
like it in Yorkshire!”
Frank went over and joined his father. “Nothing like this, sir,” he said. “There are, of course,
taller peaks than this one, but none of them affords a view like this.”
For once, Knightley thought, Frank might be telling the truth. There could be few sights in
England to rival this one. Perhaps it was only the contrast between their ordinary scenes and the
grandeur of this one, but the spirits of everyone in the group seem lifted by the natural beauty before
them. He was pleased to see the delight on Emma’s face, and glad that she should be given this
pleasure at whatever cost of comfort to himself.
“Oh, Miss Woodhouse!” said Harriet. “Highbury looks so near from this height!”
“I believe the town you see there is Dorking,” said Emma. “Highbury is further off—we might
be able to see it, if that cluster of trees were not blocking our view.”
“I do not think this is the absolute peak of the hill,” said Weston. “There is another, slightly
higher point—you see how the ground slopes upward a little here. You might see Highbury from over
there.”
“Well, Miss Woodhouse,” said Churchill, “what do you say to us looking at the view from that
point? Miss Smith?”
The ladies were agreeable and the little group moved away. Mr. Weston might possibly have
joined them if Mrs. Elton had not called to him just then to calculate the distance between Mickleham
and Dorking for her. As it was, Churchill, Emma, and Harriet went as a trio, for Knightley could not
force himself to make a fourth to that party.
“It is breathtaking, is it not, Mr. Knightley?” said Miss Bates at his side. “I was here many years
ago—dear me, it must be twenty years ago now—when I was rather a young lady. A small party of
friends—Captain Fairfax and my sister, Mr. Prescott and his sister—my father’s curate, you know.”
Mr. Prescott... Good heavens, I had forgotten all about him, thought Knightley. Mr. Prescott had
been the last curate in the parish of Highbury, before the town’s population had diminished to the
point where a curate was not needed. Knightley’s memories of the man were very dim, but he seemed
to recall that he had been a tall man who had married a woman from Langham and soon afterwards
been given a parish somewhere in Hampshire.
“My dear Jane,” said Mrs. Elton, “Come and look at this! I believe you can see that church from
here—remember the church with the odd tower we saw on the way here? Come and see if it is the
same one.”
Miss Fairfax came dutifully to Mrs. Elton’s side and looked out into the distance in the direction
Mrs. Elton was pointing out.
“You may be right, Mrs. Elton,” said Jane in so listless a tone that Knightley looked at her
thoughtfully. Miss Fairfax had escaped Mrs. Elton’s company yesterday by walking home, but she
could hardly do the same today.
“My dear Augusta,” said Elton, “ought the food baskets to be sitting in the sun there? I would
have thought that the shade of a tree might be a better place.”
“I told the servants to move the baskets—that shiftless Betty does not hear one word out of three
that I say. I will go and see to it that things are done properly—servants can never be expected to
think of these things.”
She started off, with Elton at her heels, and Knightley saw his chance.
“Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax—will you join me in exploring this hill?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Knightley,” said Jane, with the first smile he had seen from her all day.
“Have you heard anything of Mr. Prescott lately?” asked Knightley. “I have not thought of him
these ten years or more. I believe he was living in Hampshire.”
“Oh, yes—he has a parish near Petersfield. Sophia—his sister—writes to me. We used to go on
drives quite often—we had the carriage then, and dear Papa would let us drive with—I think he
rather hoped—ah, well. How long ago that was, to be sure!” There was a wistful note in her voice as
she said the last.
Long ago, indeed. The Bates’ had not had a carriage for the last decade, at least. Miss Bates had
been a young lady then—he could not picture her as demure, for she would always have been
talkative—but in her youth her leading characteristic must have been her enthusiasm. He had a vision
of her as a young lady with a party of friends—bubbling over with good cheer, enthusiastic for every
scheme proposed—perhaps being escorted by Mr. Prescott—who Mr. Bates evidently had hoped
would marry his daughter. Knightley glanced at Miss Fairfax to see what she thought and was struck
by her inattention. She walked languidly and seemed to be indifferent to her surroundings. It might
be that she was weary—the heat was oppressive and any exercise in it was liable to produce
exhaustion in one who had been lately ill.
“Here is some shade,” said Knightley, as they passed close to a large tree. “Perhaps we might
stop here for a few moments.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Knightley, what a good idea,” said Miss Bates. “Always good to rest—sun so
warm—slight cooling breeze beneath a tree. Ah, and here come good Mr. Weston and the Eltons!
How do you do? How do you like the view?”
“Capital!” said Weston as the two groups converged under the tree. “Can’t think why everyone
has scattered in this way—only way to see the place properly is in a group—otherwise there is little
point in coming together, what? Ah, there is Frank, walking with Miss Smith and Miss Woodhouse—
I will get them to join us, and we will all explore together.” He hurried off in their direction, but was
not immediately successful in his object—instead of coming with him, they seemed to keep him with
them, and they stood there in the distance, talking.
The group beneath the tree watched as a rather battered old buggy pulled up the hill. Knightley
judged the family in it to be something in the merchant line, taking a day to see the beauty of the
views. There was no luggage; evidently they were from some local place. The children were young
and climbed down from the buggy as soon as it had stopped. One of them, small enough to be
wearing a dress regardless of sex, came racing across the grass in their direction, happy to be able to
run freely after a confining journey. He was drawing close to the tree when he stumbled over some
hidden obstruction and lay sprawled on the grass. Wails filled the air as he sat up, clutching his hand.
“Oh!” cried Miss Bates as she hurried to the child's side. The Highbury group watched as she
picked him up, soothing him and drying his tears with her handkerchief.
“A family excursion,” Knightley remarked to no one in particular. In the distance, he could see
the mother looking about her for the missing child. “Perhaps they need help.”
 “A tradesman’s family,” sniffed Mrs. Elton.
Jane moved to help her aunt with the child, and Knightley took the opportunity to remove
himself from the Eltons’ company by facilitating the reunion between parents and child, and assisting
the man to unload a hamper of food from his buggy. They had only just finished when Weston found
them and told them it was time to eat.
For a little while it was pleasant enough. Mrs. Elton’s cold collation of ham, meat pies, cheese,
bread and fruit was ample, and worthy of the magnificent setting in which they ate. There was no
general topic of conversation; those with something to say said it to their near neighbours. If Emma
and Churchill had not been seated together, he might even have enjoyed his meal. However, their
occasional comments to each other progressed, as the meal did, into chatter and giggles and teasing
in an unrestrained way. Churchill grew noisier in his nonsense until Emma even gave him a quiet
hint, and then he, after a whispered comment, came out with, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered
by Miss Woodhouse—who, wherever she is, presides—to say that she desires to know what you are
all thinking of.”
Mr. Weston laughed. “What, Emma? I had thought you had penetration enough to guess what is
in our minds!”
“Oh, for my part,” said Miss Bates, always ready to enter into the plans of another, “I was only
thinking of how the trees down along that ridge are so much grown since I was here last. To be sure
there is nothing surprising in that—trees always do grow unless someone fells them—and I do not
know who would fell them on Box Hill, it being the property of—”
“I am thinking of how hot it is,” said Elton.
Knightley looked at the affronted expression on Mrs. Elton’s face and the unhappy one on Miss
Fairfax’s, and could not think it likely they would have anything pleasant to say any more than
himself. He looked directly at Emma. “Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we
are all thinking of?”
Emma laughed—to his ears, a forced laugh. “Oh! No, no—upon no account in the world. It is the
very last thing I would stand the brunt of just now. Let me hear anything rather than what you are all
thinking of.” She paused and added, “I will not say quite all. There are one or two, perhaps, whose
thoughts I might not be afraid of knowing.” She glanced at Harriet and Mr. Weston.
Mrs. Elton muttered to her husband about the impropriety of the question in a voice loud enough
to reveal her displeasure to the entire group.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Churchill began again after a few more murmurs around the circle, “I
am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all
be thinking of and only requires something very entertaining from each of you in a general way. Here
are seven of you, besides myself—who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining already—and she
only demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated
—or two things moderately clever—or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh
heartily at them all.”
“Oh!” said the helpful Miss Bates, “Very well. Then I need not be uneasy. ‘Three things very
dull indeed.’ That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as
ever I open my mouth, shan’t I? Do you not all think I shall?” She smiled brightly at her friends.
Knightley cleared his throat to say that cheerful words were always more useful than mere wit,
but Emma spoke first.
“Ah, ma’am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me, but you will be limited as to number—
only three at once.”
It took Knightley a moment to catch her meaning, in part because he could hardly believe Emma
would say such a thing. It took Miss Bates a moment longer to apprehend it—and then the smile
slipped. Her eyes dropped, and her face coloured.
 “Ah! Well—to be sure.” She turned to Knightley, who fought to keep his rage and disgust off his
countenance. “Yes, I see what she means, and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very
disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend.”
She spoke without resentment, but she was wounded—how could she be otherwise? And at
Emma’s hand…Emma’s! She who had always been polite, at least! To stoop to such cruelty—leading
the way for others to mock. Churchill, of course, would find it all terribly amusing, and would not
scruple to carry the joke further. Knightley’s feelings were almost of horror to think that his Emma
should have come to this. He could not have made a sensible comment if he had tried. Dimly he
heard that Weston was attempting to join in the game with some clever thing, and there was banter
between Churchill and Emma, but his attention was not caught until Weston brought out his
conundrum: “What two letters of the alphabet express perfection?”
No one knew, and Weston supplied the answer: M and A, Em-ma. It was hardly a bon-mot worth
repeating, and the only people who found it amusing were the little coterie around Emma. He was
past caring about politeness, and only wanted to put an end to it.
“This explains the sort of clever thing that is wanted, and Mr. Weston has done very well for
himself. But he must have knocked up everybody else. Perfection should not have come quite so
soon.”
“Oh! For myself, I protest I must be excused,” said Mrs. Elton. “I really cannot attempt—I am
not at all fond of the sort of thing. I had an acrostic once sent to me upon my own name, which I was
not at all pleased with. I knew who it came from. An abominable puppy!” She nodded toward her
husband. “You know who I mean. These kind of things are very well at Christmas, when one is
sitting round the fire; but quite out of place, in my opinion, when one is exploring about the country
in summer. Miss Woodhouse must excuse me. I am not one of those who have witty things at
everybody's service. I do not pretend to be a wit. I have a great deal of vivacity in my own way, but I
really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue. Pass us, if you please,
Mr. Churchill. Pass Mr. E., Knightley, Jane and myself. We have nothing clever to say—not one of
us.”
“Yes, yes, pray pass me,” said Elton. “I have nothing to say that can entertain Miss Woodhouse
or any other young lady. An old married man—quite good for nothing.” Anyone observing him with
any amount of attention would see from his manner that he was alluding to something in particular.
“Shall we walk, Augusta?”
“With all my heart. I am really tired of exploring so long on one spot. Come, Jane, take my other
arm.”
“No, I thank you, not now,” said Jane, and Mrs. Elton did not insist.
Churchill watched them go off, and when they were out of hearing commented “Happy couple!
How well they suit one another! Very lucky—marrying as they did, upon an acquaintance formed
only in a public place! They only knew each other, I think, a few weeks in Bath! Peculiarly lucky!
For as to any real knowledge of a person's disposition that Bath, or any public place, can give—it is
all nothing; there can be no knowledge. It is only by seeing women in their own homes, among their
own set, just as they always are, that you can form any just judgment. Short of that, it is all guess and
luck—and will generally be ill-luck. How many a man has committed himself on a short
acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!”
It was an odd speech to make at such a time, and seemed to be given with particular meaning.
Knightley almost fancied there was a touch of bitterness in it, quite in contrast with Churchill’s
earlier light manner.
“Such things do occur, undoubtedly,” said Miss Fairfax, unexpectedly. Her voice seemed ragged,
and she ended her sentence with a cough.
Churchill turned to her with studied civility. “You were speaking,” he said.
 “I was only going to observe that though such unfortunate circumstances do sometimes occur
both to men and women, I cannot imagine them to be very frequent. A hasty and imprudent
attachment may arise—but there is generally time to recover from it afterwards. I would be
understood to mean that it can be only weak, irresolute characters—whose happiness must be always
at the mercy of chance—who will suffer an unfortunate acquaintance to be an inconvenience, an
oppression forever.”
She spoke without undue emotion, but Knightley thought there was an undercurrent of something
deep—there was a defiance in the set of her shoulders that seemed at odds with her words.
Churchill bowed briefly in acknowledgement and seemed to dismiss the matter from his mind.
“Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgement that whenever I marry, I hope somebody will
choose my wife for me.” He had resumed his former matter and turned to Emma with a smile that
Knightley could only have described as flirtatious. “Will you? Will you choose a wife for me? I am
sure I should like anybody fixed on by you. You provide for the family, you know”—he gave a
smiling glance toward his father here. “Find somebody for me. I am in no hurry. Adopt her, educate
her.”
The flirtatious manner in which he said it was galling, and what was worse—Emma did not quell
him, but rather raised her left eyebrow as she said “And make her like myself.”
“By all means, if you can.”
“Very well. I undertake the commission. You shall have a charming wife.”
“She must be very lively and have hazel eyes. I care for nothing else. I shall go abroad for a
couple of years—and when I return, I shall come to you for my wife. Remember.” More games on
Churchill’s part.
“Now, ma’am,” came Jane Fairfax’s voice, “shall we join Mrs. Elton?”
“If you please, my dear. With all my heart. I am quite ready. I was ready to have gone with her,
but this will do just as well. We shall soon overtake her. There she is—no, that's somebody else.
That's one of the ladies in the Irish car party, not at all like her. Well, I declare—”
They walked off. Knightley was left with Weston, Harriet, Emma, and Churchill. For one
sickening minute he felt as if they were enemies—Churchill, playing his games and turning Emma
into someone like himself—someone who could insult Miss Bates and never turn a hair. Weston and
Harriet, though free of malice, were willing enough to go along, and he felt as if there were a huge
chasm between that party and himself. And what would Churchill say to Emma now that the party
was reduced to their own particular friends? He would not watch when there was some way of
escape. He got up and followed the ladies.
They were walking slowly, and he caught up with them almost immediately.
“Will you take my arm, Miss Bates?” said Knightley. “The path becomes a little steeper here.”
“Oh! Thank you, Mr. Knightley. I own I am a little tired—the heat, perhaps, makes walking more
fatiguing—in general I do not mind walking—enjoy very good health. Well! This is a view worth
admiring! So kind of our friends to include us in the outing! But then Miss Woodhouse always—that
is to say, we always receive such kindness from Hartfield—the gifts of food and the invitations and
the other little attentions—so much benevolence! And lavished on such an object—I did not know
—”
Miss Bates paused in both her walk and her speech. They had come to a little promontory that
jutted out from the hillside and gazed at the scene spread out beneath them. Jane was walking a little
apart from them—more from a desire to be alone herself, Knightley thought, than from wanting to
give her aunt privacy.
“I did not know,” Miss Bates said again, “That my society was so irksome. I do talk—I know
that I do talk—my dear father used to tell me so again and again. But that I am dull—to be sure, it
must be very hard to listen to me prattle away, and yet Miss Woodhouse has been so forbearing—I
will try, as I said, to hold my tongue a little. My father used to give me a signal—he held up his hand,
I remember—when I ought to be quiet. Perhaps I should ask dear Jane to do the same when I am
beginning to annoy others—”
“My dear Miss Bates,” said Knightley as gently as he could, “do not distress yourself over a
chance remark. You do not say foolish or cruel things, which is more than can be said for any of
those witty people who are forever entertaining their associates with their free speech. At the last
judgement, when all will give an account for their careless words, you will have less to answer for
than anyone in Highbury, I think.”
Miss Bates smiled a little mistily at him. “Thank you, Mr. Knightley,” she said, and would have
said more if she had not been interrupted.
“Ah, there you are!” said Mrs. Elton, bearing down on them. “And Knightley, too! All the people
I most wanted to see. Now, you must all spend your evening with us. I positively must have you all
come. Just this little company—no one else, of course—we need not add those who have other
resources—and you can be sure that I will not introduce guessing games and charades and things of
that sort. We will play cards and take some light refreshment.”
The thought of spending his evening with Mrs. Elton’s “little company” at the vicarage at a
gathering evidently planned in order to slight Emma and Harriet held no appeal.
“I pray you will excuse me,” said Knightley.
“Oh, you must come,” said Mrs. Elton. “I will not let you off. We should be a sad little party
without your company.”
“You are so good,” said Miss Bates, “So very kind! Everyone is so forbearing,” she added,
looking at Knightley. Knightley wished he could tell her that as far as society being irksome, he
would far rather spend an evening with Miss Bates than with Mrs. Elton.
The five of them walked about for a little longer—Miss Bates slightly subdued, but not much,
Miss Fairfax as quiet as he had ever seen her, and Mrs. Elton determined to be as volubly cheerful as
possible, so that if any of the other party happened to see them, they would regret being left out.
Knightley used the time to ponder the events of the afternoon. He had a growing conviction that he
ought to say something to Emma. He could not see Emma going so far wrong without warning her,
admonishing her. He was the only one who would say something, he was sure, and the only one she
might listen to.
He felt a little sick at the thought; what he wanted to do was to get away—go far away and leave
the entire mess behind—forget Emma, Churchill, Mrs. Elton and all his responsibilities in the bargain
—ride away and be selfish. And yet—he could not leave it. He must say something. It might do no
good—it might even make Emma defensive and more wilful—it might have the effect of pushing her
even more rapidly toward Churchill. But if he loved her, he must do all he could to put her right. She
might thank him someday—it was hardly to be supposed she would be grateful now—but even if she
did not, his conscience would not permit him to let it go.
He had only just determined that he must speak to Emma when the sight of the coachman
looking for them signalled that the pleasures of an outing on Box Hill were at an end.
“Ah, the carriages have returned for us!” said Mrs. Elton. “I suppose the servants have forgotten
that ours is to be the lead carriage—we must have our little parade again, you know, on the way
home.” She hurried off, with Elton not far behind her, to look after her own consequence. The others
followed them, and soon Knightley could see Emma standing near where they had eaten, apparently
looking for the last time at the changeless views. He would not have a better opportunity. Resolutely
he approached her, and after glancing quickly around to be sure they were alone, and taking a deep
breath, he began.
 “Emma, I must once more speak to you as I have been used to do: a privilege rather endured than
allowed, perhaps, but I must still use it. I cannot see you acting wrong, without a remonstrance. How
could you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates? How could you be so insolent in your wit to a woman of
her character, age, and situation? Emma, I had not thought it possible.”
This prompted some emotion in her, for she blushed. This was followed by an unsteady laugh
and the rejoinder “Nay, how could I help saying what I did? Nobody could have helped it. It was not
so very bad. I daresay she did not understand me.”
“I assure you she did,” he said with conviction. “She felt your full meaning. She has talked of it
since. I wish you could have heard how she talked of it—with what candour and generosity. I wish
you could have heard her honouring your forbearance, in being able to pay her such attentions as she
was forever receiving from yourself and your father, when her society must be so irksome.”
“Oh! I know there is not a better creature in the world: but you must allow that what is good and
what is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her.”
“They are blended, I acknowledge; and, were she prosperous, I could allow much for the
occasional prevalence of the ridiculous over the good.” The carriages were ready now for their
occupants, and Emma slowly moved toward them. He stayed by her side, not allowing her to escape
his rebuke until he had finished. “Were she a woman of fortune, I would leave every harmless
absurdity to take its chance; I would not quarrel with you for any liberties of manner. Were she your
equal in situation—but, Emma, consider how far this is from being the case. She is poor; she has
sunk from the comforts she was born to; and if she live to old age, must probably sink more. Her
situation should secure your compassion. It was badly done, indeed!”
His voice trembled when he said it, and he paused for a moment to get hold of himself. “You,” he
resumed, “whom she had known from an infant, whom she had seen grow up from a period when her
notice was an honour, to have you now, in thoughtless spirits, and the pride of the moment, laugh at
her, humble her—and before her niece, too—and before others, many of whom—certainly some—
would be entirely guided by your treatment of her.”
He thought she would speak then; her conscience had always been tender toward the less
fortunate, and his reminder of what was right ought to have brought about some effect. But she did
not speak—did not even look at him. She must be angry, perhaps thinking him condescending and
harsh. If it were the old days, he could have touched her heart. He could still, if she would only let
him. “This is not pleasant to you, Emma—and it is very far from pleasant to me; but I must, I will—I
will tell you truths while I can, satisfied with proving myself your friend by very faithful counsel, and
trusting that you will some time or other do me greater justice than you can do now.”
They had reached the carriage now, and as she was still silent, still looking away, he handed her
in. She seemed determined not to look at him, for she immediately sank back into the carriage. There
was nothing more he could say. He turned and walked away, wishing to hear her voice calling his
name after him. In the past, he knew, she would have called; but she had changed. There was only the
sound of the coachman’s voice, the slap of the harness, and the creaking of the carriage as it began to
move off down the hill.
The ride back to Donwell was an exercise in wretchedness. The heat was still formidable, and the
ache in his heart inconsolable. Emma was lost. She had got to the point where she would permit
Churchill’s inappropriate attentions and even encourage them. And he had no doubt that it was due to
Churchill’s lax morals that Emma had sunk to insulting Miss Bates and thinking it no crime. A bleak
prospect was before him if he stayed at Donwell: he would have to sit by helplessly and watch the
further disintegration of her character as well as her marriage to another. He might be a coward, but
he did not have the strength to endure it. He would quit the field. It was not yet time for the quarter
sessions, but he could go to London. He would find some pretext for doing so—some sort of business
he could be busy about. And while he was there, he would learn to forget.
 What nonsense he had been thinking about holding on to her words, taking them out and
treasuring them in the dark days to come! He had pictured the scene being a beautiful, melancholy,
sentimental thing—comprising a gentle sorrow, with conventional regrets. Rubbish! His heart had
been torn out, and there would be no balm for such a gaping wound in rehearsing the things she had
once said or the smiles she had given him.
As he passed Spencer’s cottage, he suddenly stopped. No one could truly share this sorrow, but
just at this moment he wanted a sympathetic friend, and Spencer was the one man who would
understand his agony. He was denied this comfort, however; Spencer had gone out, and Old Maggie
could not tell when he would return. Knightley wearily mounted his horse again and went on to the
Abbey.

Spencer—

Old Maggie will have told you that I called this afternoon while you were out. The time has
come, I think, for me to flee. I would go abroad, but as London is more convenient and will serve the
same purpose, I am going to my brother’s house. I do not know when I will return, but will redeem
the time there by making enquiries about a private asylum for Miss Castleman. The matter is delicate
enough that Mrs. Hunt would not want it to be general knowledge, but you may tell her, if you think it
will relieve her mind. If you have need of my help or opinions, you have only to write to me at my
brother’s address in Brunswick-square.
I will not object to your mentioning me in your prayers.

Knightley

“I have laid my plans,” he told Madam Duval as he folded and sealed the completed letter late
that night. “I go to London tomorrow, to John’s house. I have a stated object—to do something for
Miss Castleman—and an unacknowledged one—to forget about Emma. I can hardly imagine such a
thing possible at this moment, but surely with determination enough…”
The cat looked up at him from her position on a nearby chair.
“I will give your greetings to Bella, of course,” he told her. She seemed to have been curious
only on that point, for she put her head down on her paws again and closed her eyes. He got up and
went over to the window. The summer sun seemed to be in a state of indecision about whether or not
to set, and its long rays were still casting shadows across the lawn. Once again, he looked toward
Hartfield.
“I do not know which is the most painful part, Emma—there are so many things in this dreadful
state of affairs. Losing you is…” his voice caught, and he silently twisted the latch on the window
until the emotion had passed. “But beyond that, seeing you lapse into behaviour that is unworthy of
you—knowing that you have started down a path of misery with Churchill...there are no words. If
you loved an honourable man, Emma, I would be…no, I would still be devastated. Yet I would retain
my sanity and only regret that I had not spoken sooner. But this, Emma—this is enough to kill me.”
He heard his own depressed tone, and thought that at any other time he would be able to smile at the
words, so exaggerated as they seemed. But he could not. It seemed to him to be the literal truth. He
stood there for a moment longer before adding, “I suppose there is nothing more to be said, Emma. I
will bid you goodnight. That is, goodbye.”
 13

He could not go without calling at Hartfield, of course. He would do all that was proper; no one
should see any change of manner or habit. And after all, if he would train himself to be indifferent, he
must begin by hardening himself to such everyday contact. He would go to Hartfield, he would take
leave of father and daughter, and then he would go to London; that was all there was to it. His heart
whispered that he also wanted one last glimpse of Emma, but he disregarded that. A short, formal
leave-taking was all that was required—therefore, he would restrict himself to that. There would be
no lingering glances or drawn-out farewells. He might be in and out in five minutes, and then he
would begin the task of dis-entangling his heart from Hartfield.
The parting was not so quick as he had hoped: Emma was not at home when he came. And
although neither Mr. Woodhouse nor Harriet, who had arrived only a few moments before, thought
she would be away long—she had only gone into Highbury—they did not know when she would
return.
“I wished to say goodbye, sir,” said Knightley, coming to the point at once. “I am going to
London and thought you might like to send your greetings to John and Isabella.”
“To London!” repeated Mr. Woodhouse. “My dear sir, you did not mean to go now, else you had
told me of it before this. You ought to go next week, after you have had time to think of it. You will
be distressed if you go today—so suddenly. Pray be seated, Mr. Knightley, and consider what you
do.”
Knightley sat down obediently in the chair next to Harriet’s. “I fear I must travel today, sir. I
cannot stay even five minutes here. But there is no need for concern: it is not a long journey, and the
weather is very fine.”
“You will at least take your carriage, I hope.”
“No, I believe I will ride—the fresh air will do me good.”
 Poor Mr. Woodhouse was so dismayed at this that he hardly knew what reply to make, but
Harriet stepped in with, “I do hope you will give my greetings to Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley and
the little boys.”
“I shall indeed.”
“London is such an interesting place,” said Harriet. “You must always be eager to journey there.”
“No,” he said candidly, “not always. Many times—particularly now—I would be inclined to stay
here, if it were in my power.”
“Oh!” said Harriet.
He had said too much—he knew he had. In half a moment she would ask him why he particularly
wanted to stay.
“Did Mrs. Goddard receive the china asters from Donwell?” he said hurriedly. It was a silly thing
to say—he knew she had, but it was all he could think of.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Knightley. Mrs. Goddard was delighted with them! She put them in a great bowl
on her sitting-room table. She said it made her happy just to look at them.”
“Perhaps we ought to send her some to be planted in the school garden.”
“That is very kind, Mr. Knightley. She would be so pleased!”
“Tell me, what other flowers is she partial to?”
This was a brilliant move on his part, he thought. Harriet’s mind was gainfully employed with
flowers—which ones the school garden already possessed and which ones she thought Mrs. Goddard
would like to have, and she had no leisure for contemplating his own possible wishes. He listened to
her with half his attention; the other half was acutely aware that any moment now, Emma would
appear. He must be formal and indifferent. There must be no hint of regard in this last meeting, even
if she thought him cold—better coldness than an open display of his feelings.
There was a sound at the door then, and Emma came in, bringing with her all the freshness of the
morning and possessing, it seemed to him, all the beauty of the flowers they had just been discussing.
What was he doing, abandoning her like this to such a fellow as Frank Churchill? It was a fleeting
thought, and he refused to entertain it. He would carry on with his plan if it killed him. He got to his
feet and gave her the briefest of bows.
“I would not go away without seeing you, but I have no time to spare, and therefore must now be
gone directly. I am going to London to spend a few days with John and Isabella. Have you any thing
to send or say, besides the ‘love’ which nobody carries?”
“Nothing at all. But is not this a sudden scheme?”
“Yes—rather—I have been thinking of it some little time.” It was as close to the truth as he could
get. And now he ought to say farewell and go, but somehow he could not force the words out. He
stood there, unwilling to make the final break.
“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “and did you get there safely? And how did you find my
worthy old friend and her daughter? I daresay they must have been very much obliged to you for
coming. Dear Emma has been to call on Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Knightley, as I told you before.”
Did you? thought Knightley. He remembered only Mr. Woodhouse saying she had gone to
Highbury.
“She is always so attentive to them!” Mr. Woodhouse added.
Knightley looked at Emma—she was blushing and smiling as she shook her head at her father.
Then she turned toward Knightley and their eyes met. Without a word from her, he understood it all.
She had listened to him when he reproved her, and she had gone to the Bates’ this morning to make
amends for her rudeness yesterday. It would not have been easy for her, but she had done it because it
was right. He forgot to repress his feelings or hide his affection—he only wanted to honour her
sentiments and her actions, and it was the most natural thing in the world to move nearer and take her
hand and press it and—No!
He let go of her hand before he actually kissed it, but Emma must have known what he had
intended. How could he have been so lost to discretion as to try to kiss her hand—that sign of
affection reserved almost entirely for close family and betrothed lovers! Anything he could say to
explain would only make it worse—the best thing to do was to go. He bowed quickly and
immediately left the room.
Perhaps he would have done better to have followed through on kissing her hand, he thought as
he mounted his horse outside. She must question why he had stopped himself, and that might have
told her more than actually kissing her hand would have done. With a sigh he spurred the horse
toward London. Ah well, at least they had parted friends. If he must divide himself from Emma, he
was glad for this sort of parting, rather than his last interview with her being the one on Box Hill.
And now, he had done. He would teach his heart to be indifferent—to think of her no more than he
did of Miss Fairfax or Miss Smith. He would learn to care about her for Isabella and John’s sake, and
not for his own. And the first step would be to think no more of Hartfield or its occupants. It would
be a blessing to be surrounded by the large and cheerful family of his brother. Too much solitude
would be fatal. Plenty of distraction was just what he needed.

Knightley found John in his chambers at Gray’s Inn.

“My dear fellow!” exclaimed John at the sight of him. “What are you doing here? Anything
wrong?”
“No worries, John. I thought to make some enquiries about a place for Miss Castleman—and the
thought of the pleasure of your company made me come before I could write a letter announcing my
intentions.”
John looked at him doubtfully. “The pleasure of my company? You mean, of course, that Mrs.
Elton has become a little too much for you to bear and you have come to hide. I do not blame you, of
course. You may take cover here as long as you like. Have you seen Isabella yet?”
“No, I came directly here.”
“Well then, we shall go home now. Bernard may carry on here—put those papers in order,
Bernard, and let Hilsman know about that witness turning up, if you would.”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley,” answered the dutiful clerk.
“Now then,” said John as they left the building. “Have you brought treats for the children like a
good uncle?”
“I confess I have not.”
“Humph. Forgetting your duties already. Well, shall we stop by the confectioner’s so that you
may rectify this omission of yours? Macaroons will, I think, fit the bill.”
“By all means.”
John looked at him. “Not unwell, are you?”
“No, I am very well.”
 “You seem unlike yourself.”
Bother. He ought to have made more effort to appear natural.
“Hungry and tired, dear brother,” said Knightley. You must feed me before I faint.”
“I will, I will. Here—there is a tea room next to the confectioner’s—you will eat something
there.”

They had not been in the tea room more than ten minutes before Knightley was eager to leave
again. Instead of regaling him with stories about his latest cases, John was full of questions about
Hartfield, about Emma, about the Westons and Churchill, about Miss Bates and Jane Fairfax—
Knightley could almost believe he was talking to Mr. Woodhouse instead of his brother.
“I suppose the Eltons still take charge of Miss Fairfax,” said John. “I hope her spirits have
improved since my conversation with her at the dinner at Hartfield.”
Knightley thought of Jane’s face at Box Hill, and remembered Mrs. Elton’s proposed gathering
when they returned to the vicarage. Had they all gone there at the end of the day?
“She seemed still oppressed when I left,” said Knightley.
“And how does Churchill do? Is he still the light and life of all gatherings in Highbury?”
“I don’t know,” said Knightley. “He was certainly in high spirits the day we travelled to Box
Hill. Have you almost finished there? I am rather weary.”
“Never known you to be wearied by that journey before! Sure you’re not ill?”
“Of course not. No doubt it is my advancing years that make the difference.”
“That must be it. Come, we have a very nice chair at home for you to rest in, and a cushion for
your back. We may even be able to find a blanket to put over your knees.”
“Thank you. My declining years will be all the more comfortable for your thoughtful attentions.
You are finished with that sandwich, aren’t you?”
“For an old man, you certainly are demanding. I had hoped you would be like Mr. Woodhouse in
your old age—patient, content, thinking well of everyone…”
“Will you pay the bill, or shall I?”
They took a cab to Brunswick-square, in deference to Knightley’s age and infirmity, John said.
Isabella was in the drawing room when they came in.
“See who I brought home with me?” said John.
“George! How delightful! But you gave us no notice—did you?”
“No, Isabella, I came on a whim and trusted to your politeness not to reproach me with my
thoughtlessness.”
Isabella smiled—that smile that was so startlingly like Emma’s.
“Of course not. We are only too delighted to see you. I believe the children have returned from
their airing with Sarah—I will fetch them. They will be overjoyed at your coming!”
She smiled again at the bag of sweets he was clutching in his hand, and left to inform the children
that a surprise awaited them downstairs.
 “And how long will you be staying?” asked John.
Until I no longer care about Emma… until Emma and Churchill are engaged… until…
“I don’t know,” said Knightley.
“Oh? Well, stay as long as you like, of course.”
“I will.”
“Yes, you always do just as you like, don’t you?”
“Not always,” muttered Knightley.

He was not as comfortable at Wellyn House as he would have been at the Abbey. He missed the
solitude, however harmful it would have been for him to have it. The children seemed to have grown
noisier since his last visit, and far more inquisitive. And Isabella, with the kindest heart imaginable,
was so solicitous as to his health, comfort, and well being as to require as much patience as he
usually needed in dealing with her father.
The fourth morning after his arrival saw him closeted in the library with A Description of the
Retreat on his lap. He had spent enough time in the past few days with the book in his hand to have
read the whole thing twice, but he was having trouble keeping his thoughts on the topic. Isabella had
received a letter from Emma that morning, but had not opened it during breakfast. Had she said
anything about his departure? Did she miss him at all, or was Churchill all she could think of? Had
Churchill made his intentions clear? Was he still trifling with Jane Fairfax? And would Churchill
carry Emma off to Yorkshire, or would they settle in London? Poor Mr. Woodhouse, to be deprived
of Emma’s company! No doubt Churchill, having gained his object when he married Emma, would
not allow her to travel back to Hartfield more than once or twice a year. Emma would be unhappy, of
course…
With a sigh he marshalled his errant thoughts away from the forbidden subject and returned to his
book, which he had unconsciously closed while his mind wandered. He found his place again and
applied himself to reading once again. “Several instances have occurred in which melancholy
patients have been much improved by their journey to the Retreat.”
A journey to a retreat… how aptly that described his own flight to London! Flight, perhaps, was
not the correct term. He had merely removed himself from a situation that was causing acute mental
distress. Or was it so simple? Had he done right to come away? Was it cowardice or prudence that
had prompted him to come to his brother’s house? He had done well, he thought, to go to Box Hill
that day—he had been able to help Emma one last time. True, it was a rebuke, and not the sort of
parting help he would have desired, but she had heeded it, and he knew her well enough to be sure
that she was thankful, in that case, for his interference. Was it possible that— And then he
remembered that he was not supposed to be thinking of Emma at all. It was no good—he could not
hope to accomplish anything by sitting here battling with his thoughts. He would go out and see Sir
James Clatworthy about the asylum.
 Sir James was the sort of genial, talkative personality that Knightley usually associated with pie
vendors. He was, in fact, a member of the King’s Bench who had become something of a specialist in
the subject of madness. He had once had a client who was judged guilty by reason of insanity, and
had managed his defence so brilliantly that he had been asked to undertake several other like cases.
Moreover, it was rumoured that his own uncle had gone mad—hence his special interest in the topic.
“Yes, Knightley, of course. Your brother told me you might call. Come to ask about private
asylums, if I remember aright. Well now, come and be seated and tell me what is it you’d like to
know.”
Knightley told his tale briefly, and ended with “I was hoping you knew of a place in Surrey that
is conducted along the lines of Tuke’s methods.”
“Much needed,” said Clatworthy, “very much needed. But I regret to say that I know of none
nearer than Northampton, which is much too far. There is a private asylum in Aldershot, but I
couldn’t recommend it. In my opinion, a local gaol would be preferable.”
“And what would be needed to establish a good asylum? I have little desire to be sole patron of
such an institution, but would not object to contributing to the establishment of one. Perhaps not in
Donwell itself…”
“There you hit upon one of the biggest difficulties,” said Clatworthy. “The first ordeal is finding
a neighbourhood which will tolerate the idea of a madhouse in their vicinity—particularly one that
does not chain up the inmates, but leaves them free to, as they think, murder innocents in their beds.”
“Would a small country estate answer?”
“Have you one in mind?”
“No—no—I was merely thinking of an ideal situation.”
“Ah. Well, yes, a place in the country with a little bit of land would be perfect.”
“Yes,” said Knightley. “I remember Tuke mentioning how the exposure to Nature was often a
help to the sufferers.”
“Very true. A place with a little bit of land, and not too close to a large population who will be
frightened by the inmates—poor devils—most of them harmless, and the ones that are frightening are
usually frightened themselves—that is what you need.”
“And how does one undertake to find someone to run the place?”
“I know a man—a bit over-religious for my taste, but a good fellow all the same—who was
thinking of setting up an asylum. I’ll speak to him. He has no money, of course; pious people never
do. But he has energy and zeal, which are nearly as good.”
“Better, sometimes,” said Knightley. “You’ll let me know what he says, will you?”
“To be sure.”
Knightley left Clatworthy’s with a feeling of satisfaction. He felt he had made a start in helping
the Widow Hunt and her sister. It was good to be in London, diverted by the sights and sounds of the
metropolis. He had not thought of Emma once, the whole afternoon—and then he grimaced at the
realization that he was thinking of her now. And there was a whole evening to get through. It might
have been easier, he thought, if Isabella were a difficult woman who made the thought of matrimony
something to be avoided. Unfortunately, his brother’s home life was a desirable haven, designed to
make him regret his loss even more. It was what he and Emma would have had, if they had married,
and they would have done without John’s lapses into ill humour and Isabella’s needless worries.
He passed a bookseller’s and went in to buy something with which to occupy his mind. Not a
novel: novels contained heroines who would inevitably make him think of Emma, whether the
character resembled her or was so conspicuously different as to invite comparisons. The proprietor,
informed that a book to fully engage the mind was required, recommended Elements Of Agricultural
Chemistry In A Course Of Lectures. The purchase was made and Knightley disappeared into the
library with it as soon as he arrived back at Wellyn House.
The book answered the purpose very well in that there was nothing in it to remind him of Emma
—a fact which frequently came to mind as he retrieved his wandering thoughts. By dint of
concentrating very hard he made it through the first two chapters before dinner was announced, and
he was glad enough to lay aside the book and be tortured by the pleasant family atmosphere for a
change.
“You received a letter from Emma this morning, did you not?” said John to Isabella over the
roast beef. “Had she any news?”
“Oh! Indeed, yes. I kept it by to show you when you came home. Here it is.”
John took the letter and perused it silently. Knightley’s impulse was to snatch the letter and read
it; the word news had a very unpleasant connotation to him. His next thought was to ignore it all, but
he could not help watching John’s face as he read. John grinned suddenly.
“What is it?” said Knightley. “What does she say that is so amusing?”
John’s eyes flicked up to his in surprise at the impatient question. “Only a quotation: ‘As Hamlet
says, “Death lays his icy hand on kings”’—that isn’t Hamlet, surely?”
“No—but you are half right: James Shirley.”
“Ha! Surely—Shirley…very good.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Isabella.
“Never mind,” said John, shortly.
“An odd quotation for a letter of Emma’s,” said Knightley.
John turned back to the letter. “Ah, here is why: Mrs Churchill has died.”
“Yes,” said Isabella. “How very unexpected! Poor lady! She has never been a favourite person of
mine—she was a legend for tyranny—but perhaps she was really very ill all the time.”
Churchill’s aunt dead. That was rather unexpected. And what might result from it? Churchill
would have to go away from Highbury now, of course. The funeral and the period of mourning to be
observed would keep him away for a little while. But when that was over, what would happen? It
could be that the last impediment to a union with Emma had been removed. Mrs. Churchill was, after
all, the sort of imperious woman who might demand that her nephew marry a woman of her own
choosing, or not marry at all if she were still alive. She was not likely to enjoy making way for
another woman to be mistress of Enscombe. But would she have insisted on the point to such a
degree that Churchill had been held back by it in his pursuit of Emma?
There was no way to know; only time would tell. He could only wait again—wait to see if this
event precipitated an offer of marriage, wait until her fate was sealed, wait until his hopes, already
condemned, received the final death-stroke. Spencer had been right: waiting for something one is
dreading is the worst of all possible tasks.
The older children joined them, as usual, after dinner, in the small parlour.
“May I sing my song for Uncle Knightley?” asked Bella.
“If Uncle Knightley would like to hear it,” replied her mother.
“Of course,” said Knightley.
Bella stood before him, hands clasped behind her back, and warbled away, tolerably on pitch. He
ought to have known the song would be that singularly unhelpful ballad, “The Lass of Killashee.”

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.

He listened with a smile for Bella’s benefit, and congratulated her on her performance at the end
of it, but he hoped privately never to hear the piece again. The lyrics were obviously the result of a
poet’s flight of fancy and could have no basis in true history. Now, if only the writer had thought to
compose a ditty about someone who had learned to be indifferent—that would be a song he would
like to hear! There must be some song—or poem or novel—that described someone falling out of
love. There might be a secret to learning to be indifferent, and surely one who had found it would
have shared it with the world in the form of literature—didn’t Horace say that the purpose of
literature was to teach and delight? But no examples came to mind. He thought of several poems
where the object of affection was unfaithful or otherwise unworthy, but the end of those stories was
not that the thwarted lover was thankful to have been spared union with the faithless one, or found
happiness in a marriage with someone else. No, they all seemed to end with untimely death or
unending sorrow. And in any case, Emma had not broken any promises, and if her morals had slipped
on Box Hill, it was not enough for him to turn from her. She had tried to make amends with Miss
Bates, after all.
“Uncle Knightley?” Little John stood before him hopefully. “Will you throw me up in the air?”
“Not tonight, I think,” said Knightley. “It is very late, and tossing-the-children-in-the-air is a
very noisy game.”
“Uncle Knightley has had a long day,” said Isabella, giving Knightley one of her Emma-like
smiles. “Perhaps you ought to ask him tomorrow, when he is not so tired.”
“Uncle seems always tired now,” said Henry.
“‘He that is weary, let him sit,’” came from John.
Knightley laughed. “If you will invoke Herbert, you ought to have chosen the more apt quotation,
‘weariness may toss him.’
John snorted and Knightley glanced at Isabella, waiting for the flash of understanding in her
eyes. It did not come however, and Knightley remembered that in spite of her smile, she was not
Emma, and could not often follow the conversation enough to enjoy the quips and jests of the
brothers. Emma would have appreciated that last exchange, even if she might have attributed the
words to Milton.
“Emma is delightful, is she not?” said Isabella.
Knightley started and felt his cheeks colour. It was not unusual for Isabella to praise her sister,
but why had she chosen this moment to say such a thing? He had said nothing to provoke it—had he?
“I was telling John that she has been the easiest baby of them all; I think she may soon be
allowed to come to us with the other children after dinner.”
“Oh! Yes,” said Knightley. “Little Emma. I confess I have thought her well able to extend her
waking hours by enough time to join the family circle after dinner. She said ‘uncle’ to me the other
day, and she must practice, you know, while I am here.”
It was madness to come and stay in this house and think that by doing so he could avoid thinking
about Emma. She was everywhere—in the faces of her sister and nieces and nephews, in the letters
she sent, in her sister’s lack of cleverness—he could not hope to keep her from his mind. Perhaps he
ought to go elsewhere.
The hour was late when he climbed the stairs to his bedroom and shut the door behind him. There
had been no real inducement to stay so long below stairs; John had retired earlier—not long after the
rest of his family, in fact. Knightley had gone back to the library to read more of his book, not
because of any real interest in the topic, but because he dreaded the possibility of lying awake in his
bed for hours. At last he had closed the book and tried to feel that the day had been full and his
efforts worthwhile. He was not successful in this; the day somehow did not seem complete without a
goodnight to Emma, or a summing-up of the day’s events for the benefit of Madam Duval. He had a
fleeting notion of standing at his window and talking to the cat back at Donwell, as he had used to
talk at his window to Emma, but dismissed it. Talking to one’s beloved while she was not there might
be just within the bounds of sane behaviour, but to philosophise aloud to a cat that was sixteen miles
away was surely beyond the pale.

The sun shone in cheerfully on the breakfast table on the tenth morning of his stay. Knightley
rather resented it; he felt that the weather ought to have a little more consideration for his feelings.
Cold and rain seemed more appropriate to his state of mind, and he would have welcomed the
opportunity to hibernate beside a warm fire with that stupor-inducing book on agricultural chemistry.
But for days the weather had been obstinately warm and fine, and he could find very little excuse for
staying indoors when the children begged him to come with them for their daily airing.
“You haven’t forgotten our guests this evening,” said Isabella to John as she poured him a second
cup of tea.
“Guests?” Knightley asked before John could speak.
“Miss Winterbottom and Miss Snellsworth,” said John. “You’re bound to like one of them. Two
spinsters, both of them with some money and not ill-looking. I fear they will fall out with each other
when you choose only one of them, but of course you cannot help that.”
“John, dear,” said his wife, “You ought not to tease your brother. Mr. and Mrs. Naylor are
coming, George. He is the MP for Knightsbridge, you know.”
“As long as it isn’t Mrs. Whitney,” said Knightley. “Or is it Mrs. Thompson by now?”
“No, of course not. I think even she has given up hope in that quarter.”
“The poor woman,” said Isabella.
“Well, my dear, she may come and visit you for consolation after George has gone back to
Donwell. If he ever does…”
It was convenient that Knightley should have his mouth full of bread and butter at that moment,
for he had no answer to that. Surely the wait would be over sometime or other—and then he would
go home. Or abroad.
“How is little Henry this morning?” asked Knightley. “You said he did not look well to you last
evening.”
“I did not quite like his looks when he awoke today,” said Isabella. “I think I will send for Mr.
Wingfield.”
“He had no fever, had he?” said John irritably.
“No, but I thought his cheeks were more pink than they often are.”
“Perhaps you would like to send for Mr. Perry.”
Knightley winced at John’s thinly veiled sarcasm. Isabella, however, responded in all
seriousness.
 “No, I believe Mr. Wingfield’s care will be satisfactory. I will just go up to the nursery now and
see how he is. If you will excuse me,” she added to Knightley, who inclined his head politely.
John gave his brother a sardonic smile when Isabella was gone. “He’s not ill, of course.”
“I daresay you’re right, but you know you ought not to speak so to your wife.”
“Oh, you think not?” John was not in a humour to take advice, and his face assumed that
querulous countenance Knightley had known since childhood. Perhaps he ought to drop the subject
and avoid unpleasantness; but then, no one else would tell John of his faults, and it seemed to be
Knightley’s duty—again—to remonstrate with an erring friend. He would not receive it well now, but
after reflection it might have an effect. Once more into the breach, he thought.
“Isabella bears it very well, but at the very least, you are setting a poor example for your sons.
You know Father would never—”
“You are a fine one to give me advice on marriage. You don’t even have a wife!”
“I know.” He hadn’t meant to say it, but the hit was so direct that the words escaped before he
knew. He sighed and stared at his empty plate, observing the delicate swirls painted around the edges,
twisting and curling in beautiful confusion.
John paused—a lawyer’s pause, Knightley thought, calculated to best serve his eloquence.
“You are—”
Knightley looked up. John’s expression—it looked almost more like astonishment than anger—
evaporated along with his reply and another pause replaced it. John was no longer looking in his
direction at all—he was absorbed in a study of a stain on the tablecloth beside his plate.
“Oh, never mind,” said John, finally. “I will be in better temper this evening.” He quit the room
abruptly, leaving Knightley to ponder his brother’s strange mood and conclude that it was the advent
of the Naylors for dinner that was discomposing him.
 14

For a morning in early July, the sky was remarkably gloomy. Finally, Knightley thought, there was
weather to match his mood. There was a letter beside his plate—a note from Weston, by the look of
it. Somehow he did not have the strength to read such a hearty, cheerful epistle as Weston usually
sent and eat his breakfast too. He would finish eating first. When his plate was empty and he had
taken his last sip of tea, he broke the seal and unfolded the page.

5 July
Randalls

Dear Knightley,

I trust this note finds you in good health. This is only to inform you that the Parish Council has
determined that we must raise the poor rates for Highbury by one shilling per household. We think it
likely that Mrs. Plover and Old John Abdy may soon need parish assistance, and it cannot be done
without more in the coffers.
I have another piece of news, although you must not mention it to anyone as yet—my son Frank
is engaged to Jane Fairfax. We were all surprised—the more so on learning that they have long been
engaged! Evidently they plighted their troth at Weymouth last November, but kept it secret because of
his aunt. Her death has removed the need for strict secrecy, and we were informed yesterday. Perhaps
the whole business has not been conducted exactly as we would have desired, but Jane is a very good
young lady, and we feel certain of their happiness together. As I said, the information is not yet
general knowledge, but I thought you ought to be told, as it is known at Hartfield.

I remain, yours, & etc,

Weston

It took him a moment to grasp it. He read the words again. My son Frank is engaged to Jane
Fairfax…long been engaged…Churchill was not going to marry Emma. She was free. Not bound to
another. He closed his eyes and savoured the sensation of relief. Emma was not lost to him forever.
He opened his eyes read the note again.
It is known at Hartfield…that last line of the letter broke into his happy dream. Emma knew. Her
heart must be broken. She had believed Churchill to be devoted to her, and now she had discovered
his duplicity. A sudden image of her, pale and listless—perhaps even weeping—sitting alone on the
bench in Hartfield’s shrubbery, appeared before his eyes. He longed to be there, to offer some words
of comfort or encouragement. Time would erase the regard she had felt—Churchill’s own
misconduct would assist in that—but the feelings of betrayal, as well as the loss of one thought
beloved, must be crushing.
He could not remain in London at such a time. He might be of service to her—remind her of the
affection of all her friends, and encourage her to exert herself for her father’s sake. Or perhaps—a
small hope asserted itself—she had been but lightly affected. Perhaps Churchill had not, as yet,
completely captured her heart, and she was more perplexed than despairing. She must still feel
herself deceived; and there is nothing like the discovery of being imposed upon to make one feel a
fool. Whatever her state of mind, he must go and discover it for himself, rather than sit in John’s
house and speculate. He would go home today. Now.
“I’m going back to Donwell,” he said to John abruptly.
“And when is this?”
“Immediately. After breakfast.”
“So suddenly?”
“Yes. I have—business to attend to. Something has come up.”
John stared at him. “I don’t think the rain will clear any time soon. You ought to go tomorrow.”
“Rain be— That is, I don’t mind the rain. I must get home.”

.
He rode home through the pouring rain, rejecting the impulse to gallop straight to Hartfield. To
arrive there dripping, without having eaten anything, ostensibly only to tell them that all was well in
Brunswick-square, must be seen as remarkable. The rain cleared while he was eating, and he set out
eagerly for Hartfield.
He noticed nothing as he hurried along, his mind concentrated on Emma. If only he could be sure
that she was there, able to be seen and talked to! If she had sequestered herself away in her bedroom,
for example, what could he possibly—
“Mr. Knightley! You’ve returned!”
It was William Larkins, coming out of the laneway beside Croker’s place. Knightley groaned.
“I didn’t know you were back, sir! I was just going to write you a note, as there is something you
ought to know about—”
“Not now, I beg you,” said Knightley. “Later—come to me later. I cannot stop now!”
He had hardly slowed his pace to speak to his bailiff, and left him standing still with an open
mouth, staring after his master. No matter, thought Knightley, he could explain later. No, come to
think of it, he would not explain such a thing to Larkins. Larkins was not owed any elucidation of his
master’s conduct. It would be good for him to be content with mystery now and then.
 At last Knightley arrived at Hartfield and managed a breathless greeting to the hall porter who
showed him into the dining room. The sight of Mr. Perry conversing quietly with Mr. Woodhouse
sent a chill through him. Had Emma fainted or become overcome with grief upon hearing the news
of Churchill's engagement? If Mr. Perry's visit was due to her low condition...
His fears were allayed, however, by the cheerful greeting he was given by both men, and by Mr.
Woodhouse’s saying, “Dear Emma is taking a turn in the garden, I believe, Mr. Knightley, or she
would join me in expressing our happiness to see you returned from London at last. Will you sit with
us here and take a bowl of gruel? It has been a very damp day.”
“No, I thank you, sir. I prefer being out of doors, I think; perhaps I will go and find Emma, and
pass on her sister’s greetings.”
“By all means, Mr. Knightley. She will be very glad to see you.”
Would she? If she were sitting on a bench, weeping, would she still welcome his arrival? And if
that was indeed her state, ought he to go away quietly or to attempt to comfort her?
He saw her as soon as he went through the garden door; she was walking toward the house,
having just emerged from the shrubbery. With a little sigh of relief, he closed the door behind him
and strode towards her.
Their greetings were subdued and unnaturally hesitant. He thought she looked more anxious than
despondent, which was a little puzzling.
“And how are our relations in London?”
“They are all very well.”
“When did you leave them?”
“Just this morning.”
“This morning! Then you had a wet ride.”
“Yes.” He grimaced at his own short answers. He was not in a humour for idle chatter, and yet to
plunge into the topic of Emma’ feelings would be a breach of delicacy that he was not prepared to
hazard.
“I was taking the air a little,” said Emma, “since Mr. Perry is here to sit with Papa.”
“I hope you will not object to my walking with you,” he said. “I just looked into the dining room,
and finding I was not wanted there, thought I should prefer being out of doors.”
“By all means,” said Emma, and turned back toward the path into the shrubbery. She said
nothing further, and he paced along beside her, wishing she might say something—anything—that
would make clear what she was thinking. She kept her face a little averted from him, and he half
expected to see tears on her cheeks; though she was silent, he felt that she was not calm, and he
determined to remain quiet until she should choose to speak.
At last she turned towards him with a slight smile and spoke. “You have some news to hear, now
you are come back, that will rather surprise you.”
There was something in her tone that spoke of resolve, and something in the smile which told
him it was forced; she was going to broach the subject now, and he could only applaud her courage.
“Have I? Of what nature?”
“Oh! The best nature in the world—a wedding.”
She stopped there, as if waiting for him to enquire who was going to be wed. He ought to save
her the pain of saying the words.
“If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that already.”
“How is it possible?” She spoke with much emotion; she looked at him fully then, and she was
blushing.
 “I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and at the end of them he
gave me a brief account of what had happened.”
“You probably have been less surprised than any of us, for you have had your suspicions. I have
not forgotten that you once tried to give me a caution. I wish I had attended to it, but—” she sighed
and spoke more quietly. “I seem to have been doomed to blindness.”
There it was—her admission that she was sorrowing. He had the opening now to comfort her. He
would have given anything to be able to embrace her and feel her head on his shoulder. He grasped
her hand gently and put her arm through his own. He pressed it close to himself.
“Time, my dearest Emma—time will heal the wound.” He spoke quietly but fervently. “Your
own excellent sense—your exertions for your father's sake—I know you will not allow yourself—”
He must impress upon her how fully he empathised with her, how outraged he was on her behalf.
“The feelings of the warmest friendship—indignation—abominable scoundrel!” He stopped himself
from saying that he would gladly call out the man who had so played with her heart. But it would be
no help to merely rehearse Churchill’s sins. Much better to remind her that she had only a little more
time to endure his presence. “They will soon be gone. They will soon be in Yorkshire. I am sorry for
her. She deserves a better fate.”
He was rewarded with a grateful look from Emma, and with a steadier voice when she spoke.
“You are very kind, but you are mistaken, and I must set you right. I am not in want of that sort of
compassion. My blindness to what was going on led me to act by them in a way that I must always
be ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay me
open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was not in the secret
earlier.”
“Emma! Are you, indeed?” She was unharmed? Oh, no—his wishes were making him
misinterpret. “No, no, I understand you—forgive me—I am pleased that you can say even so much.
He is no object of regret, indeed! And it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the
acknowledgment of more than your reason. Fortunate that your affections were not farther entangled
—I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure myself as to the degree of what you felt—I
could only be certain that there was a preference—and a preference which I never believed him to
deserve. He is a disgrace to the name of man. And is he to be rewarded with that sweet young
woman? Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable creature.”
“Mr. Knightley, I am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your error;
and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I have as much reason to be ashamed
of confessing that I never have been at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be
natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse. But I never have.”
She paused, as if waiting for him to speak. He did not know what to say. Ought he to express his
relief? Applaud her evaluation of her own conduct? Before he could decide, she went on.
“I have very little to say for my own conduct. I was tempted by his attentions, and allowed
myself to appear pleased. An old story, probably—a common case—and no more than has happened
to hundreds of my sex before; and yet it may not be the more excusable in one who sets up as I do for
Understanding. Many circumstances assisted the temptation. He was the son of Mr. Weston—he was
continually here—I always found him very pleasant—and, in short, for” –she let out a sigh here
—“let me swell out the causes ever so ingeniously, they all centre in this at last—my vanity was
flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however—for some time, indeed—I have had no idea
of their meaning any thing. I thought them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my
side. He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been attached to him. And now I
can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He never wished to attach me. It was merely a blind to
conceal his real situation with another. It was his object to blind all about him; and no one, I am sure,
could be more effectually blinded than myself—except that I was not blinded—that it was my good
fortune—that, in short, I was somehow or other safe from him.”
He could not speak for a moment. She was not in love with Churchill. She had never been in love
with him. Only this morning it had seemed there was a locked gate between himself and Emma. Then
had come the letter, and the news that the gate was not locked after all. Now, it seemed, the door was
standing open, and there was nothing to hinder. He could woo her without a known rival. The thought
was felicity.
They reached the end of the path and turned back, giving him a moment to be sure his tone of
voice would not sound too ecstatic before he said, “I have never had a high opinion of Frank
Churchill. I can suppose, however, that I may have underrated him. My acquaintance with him has
been but trifling. And even if I have not underrated him hitherto, he may yet turn out well. With such
a woman he has a chance. I have no motive for wishing him ill” (that was a sentiment he had never
thought to express!) “—and for her sake, whose happiness will be involved in his good character and
conduct, I shall certainly wish him well.”
“I have no doubt of their being happy together,” said Emma. “I believe them to be very mutually
and very sincerely attached.”
The thought of Churchill—Churchill, of all men!—being happy with the woman he loved while
Knightley was still in suspense, was galling. What had Churchill done to deserve this happy
conclusion?
“He is a most fortunate man!” said Knightley. “So early in life—at three and twenty—a period
when, if a man chooses a wife, he generally chooses ill. At three and twenty to have drawn such a
prize! What years of felicity that man, in all human calculation, has before him! Assured of the love
of such a woman—the disinterested love, for Jane Fairfax's character vouches for her
disinterestedness; every thing in his favour—equality of situation—I mean, as far as regards society,
and all the habits and manners that are important; equality in every point but one—and that one, since
the purity of her heart is not to be doubted, such as must increase his felicity, for it will be his to
bestow the only advantages she wants. A man would always wish to give a woman a better home
than the one he takes her from; and he who can do it, where there is no doubt of her regard, must, I
think, be the happiest of mortals. Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of fortune. Every thing
turns out for his good. He meets with a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot
even weary her by negligent treatment—and had he and all his family sought round the world for a
perfect wife for him, they could not have found her superior. His aunt is in the way. His aunt dies. He
has only to speak. His friends are eager to promote his happiness. He has used every body ill—and
they are all delighted to forgive him. He is a fortunate man indeed!”
“You speak as if you envied him.”
His heart stopped. He had said too much—his bitter tone must have given it away. She had seen a
little way into his heart. Well, there was nothing to be gained by denying it. He would put an end to
the repression and covering up of his deepest feelings. He would not ask her to marry him—not now.
But he might gain permission to try to attach her. He boldly pushed the conversation forward.
“And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy.”
He waited for her to ask the obvious question. She did not. She must sense his reckless mood—
guess what he was going to say—and think it better to keep the discussion until another day . But he
would not. Having got so far, he was not in humour to let it die.
“You will not ask me what is the point of envy. You are determined, I see, to have no curiosity.
You are wise—but I cannot be wise. Emma, I must tell what you will not ask, though I may wish it
unsaid the next moment.”
“Oh!” she said quickly. “Then don't speak it, don't speak it. Take a little time, consider, do not
commit yourself.”
 He was crushed. She knew what he felt, what he was going to ask—and was rejecting him. She
only wanted to spare him from speaking out to his greater mortification and her discomfort.
“Thank you,” he managed.
Well, it was better to know. He had entertained such hope for a moment! Its shattering was all the
worse for its having been suddenly elevated before it fell.
They had reached the house by this time, and he made himself say, “You are going in, I suppose.”
“No, I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not gone.” They could see the gentleman
through the window, still smiling amiably at Mr. Woodhouse.
Knightley would far rather have been finished with their walk. What could they say to each other
now? How could he converse on general topics with her after what had passed? Nevertheless, they
turned around and started down the path again. Hardly had they begun, when Emma spoke.
“I stopped you ungraciously just now, Mr. Knightley, and I am afraid gave you pain. But if you
have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of anything that you may have
in contemplation—as a friend, indeed, you may command me. I will hear whatever you like. I will
tell you exactly what I think.”
“As a friend!” Did she not understand? Was she under some misapprehension? “Emma, that I
fear is a word—” He stopped. If she had not understood, there was no need to make it plain now.
“No, I have no wish—” He stopped again. “Stay, yes, why should I hesitate? I have gone too far
already for concealment. Emma, I accept your offer, extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and
refer myself to you as a friend. Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?”
He stopped walking and looked fully into her face, allowing all that he felt to show in his
expression. If his hopes perished here, they perished, but he would at least say it all now.
“My dearest Emma—for dearest you will always be, whatever the event of this hour's
conversation—my dearest, most beloved Emma—tell me at once. Say 'no' if it is to be said.”
She stared at him with a look of utter astonishment on her face. This was a revelation to her.
Whatever she had expected him to say, it was not this. But she was not saying no! Even after she
would have recovered from the initial shock and found her voice, she did not say it.
“You are silent,” he said gratefully. “Absolutely silent! At present I ask no more.”
She took him at his word, and said nothing. If he were eloquent, he would say something clever
now, something to make her melt and fall hopelessly in love with him. As it was, he could only be
himself.
“I cannot make speeches, Emma. If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But
you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me. I have blamed you, and lectured you, and
you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it. Bear with the truths I would
tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as
little to recommend them. God knows I have been a very indifferent lover. But you understand me.”
She knew. She knew all about him; she knew what he was trying to say. There was understanding
in her eyes. And the fact that she had not said no, had not contradicted him, meant that she was
willing to be courted.
“Yes, you see, you understand my feelings—and will return them if you can.” She was still
silent, evidently he had understood her aright. If only she would say it! “At present, I ask only to
hear, once to hear your voice.” He waited, holding his breath.
“Must I speak?” said Emma softly. “I would rather listen to you go on talking if you will keep
saying such delightful things.”
A smile broke over his face. “Would you, Emma? I will say them all day if it will please you. If
you will only tell me how to win your heart, I will do it.”
 “You have done it already, Mr. Knightley. You did it long ago. I did not realize—I did not know
my own heart—I was mistaken about my sentiments. But it has all been done.”
“Then—you love me?”
Her look answered the question, but she was so good as to confirm it with the words “I do.”
“Oh, Emma. My love.” He was glad they had paused behind a particularly large lilac bush,
hidden from the house, for even if they had been on the terrace outside the dining-room window at
that moment, he did not think he could have stopped himself from folding her into his arms.

They lingered as long as they dared in the garden, and then entered the house. He could hardly
have thought it possible that Mr. Woodhouse would not notice the smiles that they could not hold
back, or the distracted way in which Emma served the tea and occasionally forgot to listen to her
father. Their eyes met continually.
It was enough for that day to sit and watch Emma, knowing that her heart was his, and that she
was as happy in their understanding as he was. After the agony of the past months, it seemed
impossible that such felicity could be his—and yet it was. He would have been content to sit there
forever, he thought, drinking in her beauty and giving her the loving looks he had been at such pains
to suppress before. But at last the clock struck the hour and he knew he must depart.
“Shall you come tomorrow morning and breakfast with us?” asked Emma as he stood reluctantly
to go.
“Perhaps,” he said, “if you are certain you can bear so much of my company.”
“I am not certain,” Emma said with her left eyebrow raised, “but I am hopeful.”
“You must practice, then. I will come very often, until you can tolerate my presence without any
difficulty whatsoever.”
“You must do as you think necessary, Mr. Knightley,” she said, a sly smile gracing her lips. “I
will try to submit to whatever measures you think appropriate for such training.”

“I could have kissed her then—would have, too, if her father had not been right there, fully
awake and watching us,” he told Madam Duval when he got home. “I restrained myself from kissing
her in the garden—I knew I would have been overstepping the bounds of propriety—prudence—
gentleness—all those things. And we have made no formal promises, after all. That must be
remedied, of course, at the earliest possible moment.”
 He stroked the cat affectionately. “You have been of inestimable service, Madam, during this
ordeal. And although I will not spend my evenings talking to you after I am married, I will see to it
that you are suitably rewarded. A bowl of milk every day, perhaps? And if you promise to be very
gentle, I may even present you with a little Knightley before very long, to roll pencils across the floor
for you to chase.”
 15

He was awake before the sun came up the next morning, in spite of a restless night. Happiness
evidently had no more settling effect on the mind than despair did. He lay in his bed, smiling
drowsily at the enchanting future stretching before him. This house, so long a bachelor’s domain,
would be a family home. Soon Emma would be here—and not only to visit. She would live here, eat
here, sleep here…sleep here! The thought jolted him awake. He must renovate the bedroom that had
been his mother’s. Emma might not—indeed, he hoped she would not—choose to sleep there often,
but it would be a quiet room of her own which she might use for reading or embroidery or writing
letters. There would be other changes to make, too. The garden, for example. He would ask Emma if
there were any flowers she would like planted for the next year. And the carriage—ought he to buy
some carriage horses? That would please her. The drawing room, too—they could order wallpaper
and curtains if she liked.
Emma here; the thought was incredible after so many weeks of being certain that she would be
absent from his life forever. And now he could make plans: firm, concrete plans instead of the vague
wishes that he had never allowed himself to contemplate. He could even think of Emma here in his
bed without guilt—although, he acknowledged to himself, it might not be prudent, considering the
inevitable lapse of time, however long, before there could be a wedding.
His mind moved on to the pattern of days that would develop after the first month or two of
wedded life. He would sit across the table from her at breakfast and she would smile at him and pour
their tea. They would talk about the letters that came or about their plans for the day. And then she
would take her sewing or a book and go into the small parlour near the library—it would make a
splendid morning room for her—or perhaps Mrs. Weston would pay a call. And sometimes Emma
would go out and visit—she would enjoy meeting the inhabitants of Donwell—and someone would
say to her “Your husband says”—and that would be him. Husband. He grinned at the word.
And while she was doing those things he would meet with Larkins and go over the accounts and
visit the tenants and go to parish meetings at the Crown. Now and then he would surprise her as she
read. He would bring her a bouquet of flowers and invite her to take a turn in the garden with her.
And under the fairy oak he would steal a kiss...
And she would visit her father sometimes—ah, yes, her father. She would visit him daily, of
course. She would spend much of the day there. It could not be otherwise—to think of Mr.
Woodhouse sitting alone at Hartfield, hour after hour, would break Emma’s heart. She would hardly
be willing to leave him at the close of every day. Would she, even then? He paused to consider.
 Mr. Woodhouse, who was never easy when Emma was from home even for an hour—what
would he do if Emma lived at Donwell? As soon as he put the question into words, he knew the
answer: an inner conviction told him that he would die within a month. Well, he must come and live
at Donwell, too. He would soon adjust to living in another house. Well, perhaps not soon, but
eventually. He would sit in the drawing room, and…but Knightley’s imagination gave out. All he
could see in his mind’s eye was Mr. Woodhouse perched unhappily on a chair by the fire, anxious to
return to Hartfield. Well—there would be some way around this difficulty. He and Emma would talk
it over, and settle upon some plan. They would talk it over this morning, just as soon as he formally
asked for her hand. He glanced at the clock, wondering how soon he could reasonably arrive at
Hartfield for breakfast.

It was a scene that had met his eye countless times over the years—Emma sitting with her father
in the drawing room—but there was a warmth in her greeting that had never been there before, and
never had she looked so beautiful. He drank in every detail of her appearance, and she blushed under
his open admiration. If only they had been alone so that he could say the things he could only now
express with his eyes!
Breakfast was a quiet meal. Mr. Woodhouse had exhausted his stock of news the evening before,
and Emma seemed more silent than usual, but Knightley reflected that it was probably because, like
him, her heart was fully of loving things that could not be said in front of Mr. Woodhouse. When
breakfast was finished and Mr. Woodhouse settled back in his chair by the fire, Emma expressed a
wish to walk in the garden.
“Will you join me, Mr. Knightley?”
“Why, yes, I believe I will—if you wish it.”
She smiled at him and led the way out to the garden. Once out the door, he tucked her hand under
his arm. He would have been tempted to kiss the hand first if there had not been a gardener working
in a flower bed not thirty feet from where they stood.
“We had a very pleasant walk here yesterday,” he said. “Shall we take the same path today?”
“Please,” came the reply.
The walked silently until they were past the lilac bush, and then Emma gave a happy sigh and
said, “I have been trying all night to believe that this is not a dream; that you have not somehow
changed your mind overnight.”
“I have been pondering the very great change that twenty-four hours can make. From complete
despair to utter happiness—I never knew how heavy my heart was until it was given wings.”
“When Mrs. Weston became engaged to be married,” said Emma, “she told me that she felt like
she was dancing in the clouds. I know now what she meant.”
“I should like to see you dance again.”
“And I, you. We danced well together, did we not?”
“Perfectly. Those were the only blissful moments in an otherwise wretched ball.”
 “I suppose you disliked my dancing with Frank Churchill.”
“You may well suppose it. Although it was your first dance with him—at the Coles’—that
opened my eyes to the true state of my heart.”
“Was it?”
“I knew I cared for you, of course, but thought it was only because of our family connection and
our long friendship. Until I saw you paired with him, that is, and it made me want to challenge him to
a duel.”
“My poor Mr. Knightley! And that was so long ago! You have been very patient. I am sorry.”
“Yes, you have made me suffer a good deal, you know, making me think that you were going to
marry Frank Churchill. At least I never put you through the same agony—I am happy you were
spared that. For, of course, you could not have thought that I really wanted to marry Jane Fairfax!”
“Not after you told me you did not. I knew you were telling the truth.”
“Well—I am glad of that. There is nothing worse than thinking the love of your life is going to
marry another.”
“I can imagine,” murmured Emma.
“But there is no need to think on it any more,” said Knightley. “It is ridiculous of me to use our
precious moments alone to dwell on something so irrelevant.”
“What would you rather speak of?”
Here it was, the perfect opening for his proposal. He stopped walking and turned to face her.
There, not far behind her, was another gardener, trimming the dead flowers off a rhododendron bush.
He sighed and began walking again. In a few moments they would be out of hearing—and out of
sight.
“I would rather talk of you,” he said quietly.
“And which of my particular charms would you like to enumerate?”
“I may start with your beauty,” he said. “I do not think I have yet told you how lovely you are,
but I have thought of it every day for months, if not years.”
She had not been prepared for a serious answer from him, and she looked away, embarrassed at
his praise.
“No, no,” he said, “you must let me tell you the truth. Listen, Emma: you are beautiful, and I
could look at you forever.”
She raised her eyes to meet his. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Next I will praise your compassion,” he went on. “For anyone in need, but particularly for your
father. You are the most devoted of daughters.”
“But you,” she said, cutting short his discourse, “You are as loving to him as a son would be,
even when he has no claim on you. Well, he does now, I suppose, but he did not before. I have
thought about that day at Donwell so many times since—how you arranged for his comfort and his
amusement—so kind in you! And he was not as eager to get home as he usually is. Of course,” she
added with a smile, “when he returned home and was safely back in his chair by the fire, he felt as if
he ought to be given a medal of honour for travelling so far from home.”
His heart sank at the truth of her words. She was only too right: Mr. Woodhouse would not be
easily persuaded to change his home. It was one of the fixed laws of his universe: Mr. Woodhouse
belonged at Hartfield. Knightley had been nonsensical in thinking that Mr. Woodhouse could survive
such a thing as transplantation with his happiness intact. Emma would know this as well as he, and
she would not agree to marry him unless he had a reasonable idea ready for her to approve. He ought
to go home now and devise such a plan.
“Mr. Knightley?”
He started and looked at her. “Yes?”
“Am I not allowed to praise you? I want you to know that I am sensible of your merits, however
much you disclaim and deny.”
“To hear you say so is—precious, Emma. I have often told myself that it was no wonder you did
not love me—so prosaic and plain and…old.”
“Old? I never thought you were old. I have always thought you in the prime of life. And as for
looking plain… I may as well tell you what I thought of you when I saw you walking around at the
ball at the Crown—that there was not a man there to be compared with you.”
He stopped walking again. “Truly, Emma? You think me handsome?”
She looked into his face with a teasing smile. “I wonder at your astonishment. Have you no
mirrors at Donwell?” Her face was tilted up at a very inviting angle, but the snip of gardener’s shears
somewhere nearby checked the impulse to kiss her. And they were not engaged yet, after all. But
soon, he promised himself. Very soon.
“I must be off in a few minutes,” he told Emma.
“So quickly?”
“Yes—I’m sorry. But if I go away now, I may return later this afternoon.”
“All right, then,” said Emma, turning back toward the house. “But I will think of you every
minute until your return.”
“And I will think of you more often than that.”

He was nearly home when he happened to see Larkins at a distance, just entering Donwell’s
sweep-gate. This would never do; he needed to be thinking about his future—his and Emma’s—and
he could not bear to be closeted with Larkins now. He would not go into the house; he would go
directly to the lime walk and do his thinking at once. Larkins would probably not wait for long. And
when he had thought of a solution, he would go back to Emma and unfold it all to her.
He paced the lime walk for an hour, and then, needing a change of scenery, he started down the
path to Langham. He devised one scheme after another—Mr. Woodhouse gradually making the
transition over to Donwell… Mr. Woodhouse staying with John and Isabella in London… Mr.
Woodhouse spending his days at Donwell but his nights at Hartfield—but all these ideas were found
wanting and ultimately impracticable. Mr. Woodhouse would probably not survive any change of
abode, and Emma would never leave her father.
He would not give up, however. There must be a way. Having gained Emma’s heart, he was not
about to spend his days for the next several years spending more time than he ought at Hartfield, by
Emma’s side, loathing the moment each night when he would tear himself away… But why should
he? Why could he not go to Hartfield and live there? It was so simple! He would move to Hartfield
himself and stay there as long as Mr. Woodhouse lived. It was the perfect solution.
No, not perfect. He was disappointed that his dreams of Emma living at the Abbey would be
postponed. He would not be master at Hartfield, and would be little able to arrange things the way he
liked. But the other arrangements were easy to plan. He would go back and forth between the two
houses every day—that was not much of a change. He would continue to meet with Larkins at
Donwell and visit the tenants there, and on sunny afternoons he would bring Emma with him to walk
in the gardens. He could still occasionally steal kisses beneath the fairy oak. It was settled now in his
own mind, and after he returned to Donwell to eat his midday meal, he would go back to Hartfield
and ask Emma for her hand.

He found Emma alone in the morning room—her father was in the garden taking his daily
exercise.
“My dear Emma,” he said, and it was the most natural thing in the world to take the hands she
held out to him and kiss them.
“I have a letter for you to read,” she said before he could embark on his own topic. “Mrs. Weston
gave it to me, knowing that I would want to read it—from Frank Churchill, explaining his conduct.”
“I shall be very glad to look it over, but it seems long. I will take it home with me tonight.”
“No, that will not do. Mr. Weston is to call in the evening, and I must return it by him then.”
He sighed and summoned what patience he could from the depths of his character. “I would
rather be talking to you, but as it seems a matter of justice, it shall be done.” Hardly had he read the
opening words, when he stopped and said, “Had I been offered the sight of one of this gentleman’s
letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, it would not have been taken with such
indifference.”
The letter explained Churchill’s conduct, even if it could not quite exonerate it; to his credit,
Frank did own he had been at fault at several points, although Knightley did not think he felt the
weight of his crimes as he ought to have done. On the other hand, he did seem genuinely attached to
Miss Fairfax, and he was able to assure Emma, after he finished reading the lengthy epistle, that he
thought Frank capable of improvement, especially with the companionship of a woman like Miss
Fairfax. But time was pressing on, and Mr. Woodhouse might soon appear.
“And now,” Knightley said decisively, “Let me talk to you of something else. I have another
person's interest at present so much at heart that I cannot think any longer about Frank Churchill.
Ever since I left you this morning, Emma, my mind has been hard at work on one subject. You must
know I want to make you my wife, but I have not yet asked for your hand because I was deliberating
how to do so without attacking your father’s happiness.”
“While my dear father lives, any change of condition must be impossible for me. I could never
quit him.” She spoke with a sort of serious determination—she must have been thinking of the
question herself for the answer to come so readily.
“I know you could not—and you should not. I would never think of dividing you. However,
having won your heart, I am not going to sit by for some indefinite time—years, perhaps—before
obtaining your hand. I have been thinking it over deeply, intently. I had first thought of inducing your
father to live with us at Donwell; it seemed the most natural way out of the difficulty. But upon
further reflection, I determined that it would not do. To transplant your father would be the loss of all
his comfort, so much so that he might not even survive the experiment. But I have another plan,
which I trust, my dearest Emma, you will not find in any respect objectionable—it is that I should be
received at Hartfield. So long as your father’s happiness—in other words, his life—require you to
remain living at Hartfield, it shall be my home, too.”
“Oh!” It was evident from the look on Emma’s face that such a thought had never occurred to
her. “You are very good. But it would not be comfortable for you, I am persuaded. Your
independence—your hours—would all be curtailed. You would not be the master of this house, and
there might be many things which would vex you but would not be in your power to change.”
“I know it, but I do not think I would find it so very dreadful. I would do far more in order to be
married to you. Will you not consider it? I will not give up, you know.”
“I will think on it. You had better think on it a little more yourself.”
“No, I have done all my thinking already. I am convinced that no amount of further reflection
will alter my wishes or opinion on the subject. I have given it long and calm consideration. I was
walking away from William Larkins this whole morning in order to have my thoughts to myself.”
“Ah! there is one difficulty unprovided for. I am sure William Larkins will not like it. You must
get his consent before you ask mine.”
He laughed at her. “William Larkins is the very last person I would consult. But you will marry
me, won’t you?”
“I will.” She looked at him with a sweet seriousness that took his breath away.
“And you will think on my plan of moving to Hartfield after the wedding?”
“Yes, I will.”
“And you will allow my pleading looks at this moment to influence you, will you not?”
“No doubt I will.”
“And the fact that my hand is resting on yours?”
“That will probably influence me as well.”
He leaned toward her; their faces were close together now. “And—”
A sound outside the door startled them, and they had only time to sit up straight again before the
door was opened to admit Mr. Woodhouse, back from his three turns in the garden.
“Ah, Mr. Knightley. Emma said you would come again in the afternoon, but I did not know you
were here already. I am sorry I was not here when you came in. I stayed out of doors too long and am
a little late.”
“Not at all, sir,” said Knightley with a wry smile. “If anything, you are a little early.”

Larkins was waiting in the library as soon as he had finished breakfast the next morning.
“Hello, Larkins.”
 “I have been waiting to talk to you, sir, since yesterday.” There was a note of rebuke in this
statement, but Knightley smiled blandly at his steward.
“Happy to see you, as always, Larkins. What is it you needed to say?”
“It’s the trouble in Langham, sir.”
“Is there trouble in Langham?”
“Yes. I think you should know, Mr. Knightley, that there is a bit of a scandal there—the serving-
girl at the Crow’s Nest.” He paused.
“Yes, Larkins? The Crow’s Nest? What about the serving girl?”
“She’s with child, Mr. Knightley. Several months along, by Simon’s reckoning.”
“Not married, I presume.”
“No, Mr. Knightley.”
Knightley’s face became more grave. “And the father?”
“Unknown, sir. She won’t say. Rumour is, though, that it’s Cooper—landlord of the place, you
know.”
“But he—”
“—is married,” finished Larkins. “I know it. But Mrs. Cooper has been seen to be unhappy in
recent months, and that seems to confirm...”
“Yes, Dr. Hughes once told me something of the kind.” He wondered if Mrs. Hughes had seen
Mrs. Cooper again, and if she really was being ill-treated by her husband. He wondered if Emma had
heard anything…no, Langham was too far away for that sort of gossip to reach her ears. She would
hear things from him after they married, of course—he couldn’t imagine keeping everything from
her, although there were some incidents so sordid that he thought she would prefer not to know. He
ought to talk to Dr. Hughes to see if there was some rule by which he decided what things to tell his
wife. It helped, of course, that neither Mrs. Hughes or Emma were the sort to break a confidence…
“Mr. Knightley?”
“Yes, Larkins?”
“I said, I thought you ought to be told, and I wanted to be sure of speaking with you before you
go off to the quarter sessions next week.”
“The quarter sessions…next week…Oh, Larkins, I do not think I will be attending the quarter
sessions this time.”
“Not attending, sir?”
“Not this time.”
Larkins stood rigid. “Are you ill, sir?”
“No, not in the least. Never felt better. I must, however, excuse myself now; I have an urgent
need to speak with Mrs. Hunt.”
“But the accounts, Mr. Knightley!”
“Oh, the accounts will wait for us, Larkins. We must not be rigid in our habits. Another day will
do as well.”
 Mrs. Hunt was most grateful to hear of the plans going forward for the asylum. Her sister was
about the same, she thought, or perhaps slightly worse—she had taken to sleeping in the daytime
more than at night.
“It fair worries me,” she said. “I try to keep an eye on her, but I can’t be always running after her.
I’m an old body, and she’s younger than I. If she does anyone a harm…”
“I think it unlikely,” said Knightley, “But if you wish, she could be put into gaol until the asylum
is ready—for her safety and your peace of mind.”
“No, Mr. Knightley. She’s my sister and I won’t banish her to such a place. I’ll look after her—
I’ll find a way.”
He honoured her sentiments, but wondered how long she would be able to bear up under the
strain. He spoke cheerfully, however, and gave her what encouragement he could before taking his
leave. He was coming through the gate outside the cottage, carefully keeping the geese inside the
yard, when Spencer appeared in the lane.
“Mr. Knightley—I only just heard that you had returned. I am happy to see you, sir.”
“And I, you.”
“Are you—have you—That is, you were not away long.”
“No, there was no reason to stay longer.” He was conscious of a reluctance to share his news
with Spencer. The curate would not begrudge him his happiness, he was sure, but he knew it had
been a comfort to both of them that they were not the only ones in the parish who were suffering
from unrequited love. That particular bond of fellowship was there no longer.
“You do not seem unhappy, Mr. Knightley—am I right in supposing that something has
occurred…?”
He had no choice—he would have to tell him. “Yes, something has happened—something to give
me the very greatest happiness.”
Spencer looked astonished. “You have spoken to Miss Woodhouse?”
“I have—and been accepted.” He could not help the smile.
“Oh Mr. Knightley, that is very good news indeed! May I offer you my most sincere
congratulations!”
“You may, although I am a little ashamed of accepting them from you. You are the first to know,
and perhaps the pain of being still a bachelor may be a little mitigated by the pride of knowing
yourself to be the only one who is aware of our engagement besides Miss Woodhouse and myself.”
Spencer’s quick smile removed his worry. “Please do not apologise, Mr. Knightley. I understand
your feelings—and have no doubt that I would feel the same in your place, but I am truly delighted
for you!”
“Thank you, Spencer. It will remain a secret for a little while yet—our engagement dates only
from this afternoon—and I am thankful that you know how to hold your tongue.”
“Of course. But I am still amazed at the sudden change in your circumstances.”
 “Come to Donwell, Spencer, and let me find you something to drink. You may as well hear the
whole story.”

7 July
Brunswick-square

Dear George,

In your haste to depart yesterday you neglected to bring away your absorbing book about
agriculture. Although I have known you for thirty-two years and am well accustomed to your powers
of quick decision, I have rarely seen you act so precipitously. I do hope all was truly well.
The children were dismayed at your hasty removal, and hope that you will return very soon. I had
some ado to convince Bella that the letter which seemed to prompt your departure did not contain
any bad news about Madam Duval. I comforted her with the thought that although you have the
utmost affection for the creature, and would doubtless do anything to assure yourself of her well-
being, the chances were that you would not have spoken of a calamity involving the cat as “business
to attend to.” Her mind was set at rest by this reasoning. She was further relieved to know that we
will be making the journey to Surrey about the second week of August, so that even if you do not
return to London in the next week or two, she will see you before long.

Yours in equal parts perplexity and affection,

John
 16

He did not expect, when he visited Randalls the next day, to find Emma there. He had felt himself
noble and self-denying to go to Randalls first instead of Hartfield, and was rewarded with a half-hour
spent in her presence. Better still was the walk back to Hartfield with her as they dawdled on the road
that was, miraculously, devoid of fellow-travellers.
“Mr. Weston is most attentive to his wife, is he not?” said Emma.
“Indeed. I hope I may follow his example.”
“I hope you may, too,” said Emma. “Of course, Mrs. Weston is a better wife than I shall be—not
nearly so headstrong and impulsive, and not at all meddlesome.”
“Mrs. Weston makes an excellent wife for Weston, but you are a better wife for me. If you doubt
it, you may recall that I might have married at any time in these last ten years, but I have never found
anyone that came close to what I hoped for—until you grew up and I saw you as the woman you
are.”
“I have the comfort of knowing, at least, that you have seen me at my worst, and that did not
drive you away—for long.”
“Nothing would, Emma.”
“Not even if I attribute Paradise Lost to Milton?”
“But Milton did write—”
Emma giggled.
“Stop teasing me, Emma, or I may be driven to do something unprecedented.”
“Such as…?”
He leaned down impulsively and kissed her cheek.
He could see that she did not mind—her cheeks were tinted pink, but there was still a teasing
smile on her face. “I believe,” she said with a raised left eyebrow, “that you missed your mark, Mr.
Knightley. Your aim is a little faulty.”
“Is it?” he said. “I must try again.” He leaned down slowly and kissed the other cheek. “I see you
are correct, my love. My aim is a little faulty.”
 “My aim is perfect,” said Emma unexpectedly, and she stood on her toes to kiss his lips. It was a
good thing they were standing on a public road, for if they had been in a secluded place he surely
would have been tempted to practice his aim for some lengthy period of time. As it was, he smiled at
her and murmured “Perfect” in a voice not nearly as controlled as it ought to be.

12 July
Hartfield

Dear John,

I am writing this from Hartfield—Emma has just informed me that Miss Smith will be travelling
to Brunswick-square in the Hartfield carriage tomorrow, and has invited me to send you a few lines
by her. Keep the book until you come to Surrey in August—there is no hurry about my getting it back.
Tell the children I am sorry my departure was so sudden, but it will not be long until they see me
again. They will enjoy playing with Miss Smith, and I daresay they will have forgot all about me
before an hour has passed. Let us hope that the dentist has good–and rapid—success with Miss
Smith’s tooth.
I have not forgotten what you said while I was in Town—that you might be willing to be a trustee
of whatever asylum is set up. Clatworthy has written to me to say that his young friend, Grainger, is
keen to begin. He desires me to draw up a plan—or convey my suggestions, at least, for such a place.
I have very few ideas, as it happens, but I will write what I can. I beg you will have the goodness to
look them over and see if you can add anything—the legal mind, of course, sees with clarity such
things as distracted farmers such as myself might miss.
Madam Duval is very well. I am certain she will enjoy seeing Bella when you all come. I will try
to remember to put the ribbon around her neck for their reunion.
Mr. Woodhouse has just come into the room and is voicing his fears for Mrs. Weston’s safety, so I
ought to cease writing and begin helping Emma to calm his nerves. It will not be easy, I fear.

Knightley signed his name, folded and sealed the letter, and gave his attention to the
conversation.
“But my dear,” Mr. Woodhouse was saying, “How can you be sure that Mr. Weston will be at
home when the time comes? He might be away—at the Crown or at church—and Mrs. Weston left
alone!”
“She is never alone, Papa,” came Emma’s soothing reply. “Hannah is with her constantly—never
leaves her side, I believe, when Mr. Weston is away. And all the servants know who is to fetch the
midwife and who is to find Mr. Weston—they have all been told. You need not worry about that.”
“Very true, my dear, that is very true. I remember Mr. Weston told me the same. But it is all very
distressing—so many women I have heard of who died giving birth—”
“But, my dear sir,” put in Knightley, “you must think how strong Mrs. Weston is. Remember her
general health. It was all those years at Hartfield with your constant care for her that has preserved
her constitution; she may thank you for such scrupulous attentions.”
“Well, I daresay you are right,” said Mr. Woodhouse, although the anxiety had by no means
disappeared from his face.
The door opened and Mr. Perry was announced. His visit could not have been better timed,
thought Knightley; he alone could calm the agitation of Mr. Woodhouse’s fretful mind, at least
temporarily. They all sat together for a decent interval, and then Emma said, “Mr. Knightley, would
you be willing to come with me to the garden? I wish to have your opinion on the placement of the
new hyacinth beds.”
“By all means,” he said, rising quickly.
For form’s sake, they wandered toward the suggested spot and Knightley pronounced it an ideal
location.
“Good,” said Emma, with an impish smile. “My mind is much relieved.”
“I consider it to be my duty to relieve your mind of all its apprehensions.”
“Speaking of duties, Mr. Knightley, have you nothing to do at Donwell? You have been at
Hartfield every day for the last five days, sometimes more than once, and you are never in a hurry to
leave…”
She did not look as if she were rebuking him, but he was a little hurt all the same. “Would you
prefer I come less often?”
“Oh no! Only you have always seemed so full of business before—journeys to Kingston,
appointments with William Larkins, visits to tenants… now it seems you have nothing at all to do.”
“Sheer laziness, my Emma. I am having the greatest difficulty in finding any of it important. A
temporary state of mind, I am sure, but there it is. I will be forced back to my duties soon, however;
there is a meeting at the Crown on Saturday.”
He tucked her hand under his arm and began strolling down the path. “Do you enjoy having a
secret that no one else knows about?”
“I did at first,” she said. “At least, the thought of sharing a secret with you was entertaining. My
mind must be more inclined to mischief than I knew. It is growing a little inconvenient now. I
suppose it is as well that everyone is used to you calling here—no one yet suspects from our
behaviour that there is any attachment between us.”
“Yes, that is a boon. I must say, Emma, I’m tired of keeping it a secret. It is a little amusing to
confound Larkins, but to be forming all one’s plans around something that no one knows—well,
almost no one...”
Emma’s eyes held a question, and he answered before she could voice it.
“I had to tell Mr. Spencer—actually, he guessed.”
“He guessed?”
“He had divined my malaise some weeks ago, and when I went away, he knew why. When I
suddenly returned, looking happy…”
“I see.”
“But he is more discreet than anyone I know, and poses no danger to our secret. All the same, I
wish it known. I have little relish for mysteries.”
“Neither do I,” said Emma. “But I fear we cannot tell my father now. He is so worried about
Mrs. Weston! I have resolved to defer the telling him until the baby has arrived.”
“You are right, of course. We cannot add to his burdens just now.”
“I wish the news would not be a burden to him.”
 “Yes.” Knightley pressed her hand sympathetically.
“It will be for his happiness, if only he could think it.”
“True. He will be happier for it—eventually. It is only that it is a change, and he dislikes change
of any sort. At any rate, we shall wait until Mrs. Weston is safe.”
“And if we have Isabella and Mrs. Weston telling him that this is a good thing, it will help him to
be convinced.”
“Exactly. And once your father and the Westons and the Knightleys are told, we may begin to
tell everyone else.”
Emma laughed. “There will be no need for us to tell everyone else. When Mr. Weston hears it,
the news will be all over Highbury and Donwell within a day.”
“Indeed it will. I must take care to tell the news to Larkins the same day we tell Weston; that way
both parishes will hear the news together.”
“John and Isabella might be trusted to keep the secret.”
“Yes, we can tell them sooner. As soon as the Westons’ baby arrives, our engagement shall be
known in Brunswick-square. At least, I will write to John then; you may write to Isabella when you
like.”
“I should think our letters should arrive together.”
“I am a besotted fool, I know, Emma, but I do not think I will ever tire of hearing you say the
word ‘together.’”

Baxter met him at the door when he returned home.

“Mr. Larkins is waiting for you in the library, sir.”
“Is he?” Knightley paused in the very act of handing over his hat to the butler. He really had no
desire to be talking to Larkins. Perhaps he could go out again…
“He is, sir, and determined to wait for you. He has the account-books opened on the desk, and
has refused any kind of refreshment. I suggested he might return in an hour or two, and he said he
would wait until you arrived—‘Even if he doesn’t appear until midnight!’ was his statement. I
thought you might want to be aware...”
“Poor Larkins,” said Knightley. “He tries so hard to do his duty. Thank you, Baxter. I shall see
him now, then.”
Larkins was, as Baxter had said, seated at the desk looking at the open account-books.
“Well now, Larkins, what is the news?”
This breezy greeting was evidently not what Larkins had been expecting, for he gaped a little at
his employer before clearing his throat and unburdening himself.
“Have you heard that the farmer Mitchell had some of his farm tools stolen?”
“No, I had not heard. Does he know who took them?”
“He suspected Mrs. Plover’s son, evidently, but Mrs. Plover said he was with her during the
evening in question, and she is not one to cover up anything for him.”
 “No. And has there been any news about the paternity of the child of the serving maid at the
Crow’s Nest?”
“Nothing, sir. But there is something else—there has been another incident with Miss
Castleman.”
“Oh? What happened?”
“She became convinced that this man that follows her, as she thinks, was lying in wait under her
bed. She went and hid herself behind a hedge near the smithy, and was out all day and all night. Her
sister was frantic with worry, of course. The smith found her this morning.”
“And she is unharmed?”
“Yes. The night was warm, and she caught no chill. She was brought back to the widow Hunt’s
and has slept all day.”
“That is well. But I see that there is now an urgent need to do something about her.”
“Yes, Mr. Knightley. Mrs. Catherwood has offered to help watch over Miss Castleman, but she
cannot be expected to do so continually.”
“No. I will write to Clatworthy today and ask if there is some temporary place she could be
confined until the asylum is ready to receive her.”
“And now, Mr. Knightley, will you permit me to go over the accounts with you?”
Knightley heaved a sigh. “As you wish, Larkins, as you wish. ‘What cannot be cured must be
endured,’ I suppose.”

Among the letters laid beside his plate the next morning was a message from Elton, saying that
he wanted to see him about a matter of importance, and that he hoped to consult with him at Donwell
in the course of the morning. Knightley scribbled back a note saying that he would certainly be at
home until one.
After breakfast, Rooker desired him to come to the kitchen gardens and see the largest cabbage
Donwell had ever grown. He was suitably impressed with the immense vegetable, and praised the
skill of the gardeners. John Page was at work on a row of marrows, and it was only natural to greet
him and ask after his family. John said he was very well, thank ye, sir, but one of the children was
ailing, and if it wasn’t too much trouble, sir, Mags would be ever so pleased to receive a visit from
Mr. Knightley. Of course it was no trouble for Knightley to oblige—he would not omit doing
anything that might cheer the little sufferer—and he promptly left for Page’s cottage.
Children played around the doorway as Knightley approached; they greeted him with clumsy
bows and curtseys. Little Mags was indeed heartened by such attention, and she promised to get well
as soon as she could. And as the cottage was on the road to Hartfield, it was unsurprising that his feet
turned in that direction when he was finished with his visit.
Mr. Woodhouse was very glad to see him, the more so as Emma was in Highbury, visiting the
Bates’. He talked over all Mr. Woodhouse’s bits of news and talked away all his anxieties, and by the
time Emma came in, he felt that he had been of service to more than just the Pages that day.
 Emma answered all her father’s enquiries about Mrs. Bates, Miss Bates, and Miss Fairfax, and he
was very interested to learn that the Eltons had also made an appearance there.
“I daresay they were very pleased to see you, my dear. I’m sure I do not know who is not.”
“Mr. Elton was rather too hot and tired to be pleased at anything, I think,” said Emma. “He told
us, Mr. Knightley, that he had expected to find you at Donwell this morning.”
“Oh! I did forget. He sent me a note this morning.”
“For shame! You had better go and see him now.”
“But you only just returned home,” said Knightley quietly. “You cannot expect me to leave your
side now.”
“He said it was most important—something about the meeting at the Crown tomorrow.”
“Well, I will go and see him this evening. When I can no longer in politeness stay here.”
Emma glanced at her father who, apparently exhausted by so much conversation, was beginning
to nod. “I wish you never had to leave.”
“That, Emma, is exactly the sort of thing you ought not to say to me, lest I be tempted to elope
with you. I try to think myself content for the present, having won your hand against all expectation.
But such thoughts as you present overthrow all that.”
Emma blushed and looked at her sleeping father. “I could not.”
“I know. I could not, either. But still, you ought not to tempt me.”

Knightley, standing in the vicarage drawing room with his hat in his hand, felt more like a truant
schoolboy than he had in thirty years. “I beg your pardon, Elton. I meant to wait for you this morning
and was distracted and then forgot all about it.”
“Well, I am glad to see you now,” said Elton, rather ungraciously. “Pray, be seated.”
“You wanted to see me about the meeting at the Crown tomorrow?”
“Yes. You’ve heard, of course, about this theft from the Mitchell farm.” He waited for
Knightley’s confirming nod before going on. “I heard today of another theft, this time from Edwards,
who lives on the road to Aston. I have heard that there was a spate of thefts from Langham in the past
months; might it be that the thieves have been venturing nearer to Highbury?”
“Possible, of course, although it is difficult to say. There are always reports of thefts—most
unreported to me, as they are so petty, and the perpetrator unknown. Two such thefts in two weeks is
not unusual for Highbury. On the other hand, it may be that same gang of thieves coming this
direction. But what has this to do with the meeting at the Crown?”
“I wondered if a watch could be set, and the perpetrators caught in the act.”
“Well, it is feasible. I must tell you that not one in twelve cases that come before me have the
offender caught by such means. You may have a long, lonely night of waiting for no purpose.”
 “I? I could not be part of a watch. Mrs. Elton would not desire it. But I wondered if the parish
council could not hire watchers—we have the constable already, and perhaps a few of his friends—to
see what they could discover.”
“You know that the coffers of the parish are not exactly brimming now.”
“Could the watch be hired on the basis of potential reward?”
“They could, I suppose, but one wonders, if it is a fruitless errand, how long they will be willing
to give up their nights.”
“Could we pay them a small amount for keeping watch for a week, with a larger reward if the
thieves are caught? It would be worth something to the parish to keep its citizens from worrying
about being robbed.”
“That is so, Elton. We shall bring it before the council tomorrow. But why did you need to tell
me now? You could have brought it up at the meeting itself.”
“I wanted to know if there were any objection to the idea—be sure it would go through… to say
the truth, Mr. Knightley, Mrs. Elton urged me to do something to protect her silver.”
“Ah!” was all Knightley trusted himself to say.
“You are fortunate not to have concerns at home pressing upon you regarding such things. A
wife is such a delicate creature and her sensibilities must be considered. A single man has no such
burdens.”
“A single man has other burdens,” said Knightley. “But I agree with you: I am most fortunate.”

21 July
Donwell Abbey

Dear John,

Mrs. Weston’s baby has made her appearance—all well, which is a relief on more than one score.
I hope you are seated while reading this, because the news I have to share will be a shock,
though not an unpleasant one, I trust.
Emma and I are engaged to be married. My love for her is long-standing, though unrecognized
as such until a few months ago. I will not enter into the raptures you are no doubt expecting from me;
I will only say that I know now what the poets speak of.

In brotherly affection,
George
 23 July
Brunswick-square

Dear George,

I do congratulate you with all my heart. You were formed for the role of husband and father, and
I am exceedingly pleased to see you finally assume that position. (I will, of course, be on hand to give
you advice on both responsibilities, and will be giving it to you freely whether you think yourself in
need of it or not.)
I ought really to be congratulating Emma, as she has gained a splendid partner in life, who will
provide her all that she needs to mature into the role of wife and mother and chief benefactress of
Donwell. When I consider how many young women marry into a great estate, only to find that their
new husbands are debauched and worthless (and I hear of many such cases in my profession), I am
extremely happy for her.
Contrary to what you might have expected, however, your information did not take me wholly by
surprise; I was rather in expectation of hearing something of the kind. Your behaviour during your
stay in Brunswick-square was indicative of such a state, and I am gratified to have my suspicions
confirmed.

Your most perceptive brother,

John

24 July
Donwell Abbey

Dear John,

If I did not know you better, I would have thought from your letter that you did not admire Emma
at all! While being entirely too flattering to my person (do not think I do not appreciate it,) you did
not praise her near enough. You must write again and make it a better letter than that.
You will be glad to know that Emma thinks you write like a sensible man –yes, of course I showed
her your letter, and will from now on, just as I have no doubt that Isabella reads all the ones I send to
you. Emma and I are fairly like a married couple already, except that she still retains the formal
mode of addressing me as Mr. Knightley. I asked her to call me George, but she says she cannot do it.
She shall, though: I will not consent to living out the rest of my days as a husband whose wife calls
him “Mr. Knightley” in private as well as in public! I will take your advice on that matter, if you can
think of a way to speed the change in her mode of addressing me.
In a very few days, as soon as Mr. Woodhouse can visit the Westons and see for himself that all is
well, Emma and I will tell Mr. Woodhouse of our plans. It will need all of the support you and
Isabella can give the notion to reconcile his mind to the idea.
Emma tells me that Miss Smith is to stay with you until you come to Surrey, and if you had hoped
to send your thoughts on my notes about the asylum by her, you had better send them by post instead.
We cannot wait long to begin setting up the Refuge (I have begun to call the place that in my own
mind; whether it will stick as a name is another matter.)
Yours, etc.
George
 17

“Mr. Spencer to see you, sir.” Baxter’s announcement broke into Knightley’s thoughts as he sat
at his desk in the library, ostensibly looking over Rooker’s plans for the autumn planting of the
kitchen gardens, but really daydreaming in time to the summer shower which had broken over
Donwell.
“Spencer! You got my message, I see. Are you soaked through?”
“No, thank you, sir. My umbrella is large. I am thankful to see it rain—for the sake of my little
garden, which was looking very parched.”
“I suppose my news is all over Donwell now.”
“Oh, yes. I have been told by four different people. I hope you intended to make it known.”
“Yes. We had the spreading of the news ordered like a military campaign. Miss Woodhouse and I
determined to keep it to ourselves until Mrs. Weston had her baby, so that Mr. Woodhouse would not
be overwhelmed with anxieties. After Mrs. Weston recovered enough to receive visitors and Mr.
Woodhouse had seen her and the baby for himself and been assured of their good health, Emma told
him of our plans.”
“And how did he receive the news?”
“Not very well. A pity, but no more than we expected. I came to Hartfield a half-hour later to
plead my own case. I think he was a little mollified by hearing my praise of Emma, but not much.
The next day Emma told Mrs. Weston, and we knew that once that happened, all of Highbury would
know within twenty-four hours.”
“The word spread to Donwell very rapidly.”
“Oh, I told Larkins yesterday myself. I thought it the best way to ensure a quick distribution of
the news.”
“And how did he take your announcement? He seems no friend to change.”
“I believe he almost fainted. He would have liked to give the impression that he was not
surprised, I’m sure, but he was too stunned to dissemble. He actually sat down under the weight of
the shock and had to be given a glass of water.”
 “He seems to have recovered.”
“Oh, yes. As soon as he realized he was in possession of knowledge that no one else in Donwell
had, he perked up amazingly.”
“I suppose you are pleased that the secret is out?”
“I am. I was not made for subterfuge, Spencer. It wearies me.”
“Yes. There is an openness about your character that seems inconsistent with concealment. Now,
about that message you sent—you said you wanted to see me about Miss Castleman?”
“Yes, yes. I heard from Clatworthy yesterday; he has found a disused gaol in Leatherhead—it
was abandoned because of its small size, but it is dry and clean—or will be when someone has
brushed out the cobwebs. He says it does not much look like a prison—more like a secure room.
Better still, there is a woman there who once worked in a madhouse and is willing to be the guardian
until our asylum is ready.”
“Would Mrs. Hunt be the one to pay her?”
“No. I will consult with Dr. Hughes about whether the parish can help with the cost, and if not,
the expense—it is not much—will appear in the Donwell accounts as ‘general benevolence.’”
“You are very good.”
“It all comes of a conscience that will not let me sleep unless I do what I feel is my duty. My
father began the training of it, Dr. Hughes continued it, and I may say that you have done your share
in maintaining it.”
“I? I have always thought myself a poor excuse for a parson. Not eloquent, not good in company,
prone to attacks of nerves and the fear of man…”
“You have spoken and lived the Truth among us, and we have been challenged by it—the more
so, perhaps, because you are not a practiced politician. You are not, pardon me, eloquent enough to
be a charlatan.”
Spencer laughed. “I must learn to see my deficiencies in that light.”
“Now then, will you come with me to see Dr. Hughes?”
“No, I thank you. I will rather pay a call on the Martins; I am invited to take tea with them.”
“Give them my regards, if you will.”
“Of course, Mr. Knightley.”

The rainshower had exhausted itself before he went to the rectory, and he spent the rather muddy
walk there wondering if anything could be done for Martin. He had been pretty well convinced that
day when they had picked strawberries at Donwell—how long ago that seemed now!—that Harriet
was as likely to marry Martin as anyone else who might ask. He greatly wished that he could find a
way to bring the two of them together, but no flickers of inspiration lighted his mind. He found Dr.
Hughes in his garden, leaning on his cane and looking over his flowers.
“My dear sir!” he said when he saw Knightley. “I heard the news this morning. I wish you joy,
with all my heart.”
 “Thank you, sir,” said Knightley, shaking the offered hand. “I am already far happier than I
deserve to be.”
“That is the proper attitude for a bridegroom to take—very fitting and becoming. When is the
wedding to be?”
“I do not yet know. It rather depends on when we can persuade Mr. Woodhouse to think it
something other than a tragedy. He will grow reconciled in time, and I know he will be happy as soon
as the fatal step is taken, but Emma cannot bring herself to name a wedding day yet. She knows such
an action will be painful to her father. I cannot force her to do so against her conscience. And so we
wait, for now.”
“A wise proceeding,” said Dr. Hughes, beginning to walk back slowly toward the rectory.
“Impatience will bring about more problems than it solves in this case.”
“I am almost content. I have won her heart and her hand is pledged. The chase has almost
ended…the pursuit is almost done.”
“My dear fellow, you must not think of matrimony in that light. The real pursuit has not yet
begun. The pursuit begins with marriage.”
Knightley stopped walking. “Whatever do you mean?”
“It is only once a man is married that he has the ability—the freedom—to pursue his wife.
Finding a wife is only the beginning. The pursuit of her heart, in the deepest sense, the pursuit of joy
with her and in her, the pursuit of the deepest love… those things commence in earnest after the
wedding. For pity’s sake, do not abandon the chase just when you have license to do it freely! There
now, you have heard my lecture on marriage; you will be spared any more unsolicited advice from
me. We shall move on to other subjects. I suppose you have heard of the peregrinations of Miss
Castleman—poor woman.”
“I have, and I think I may have hit upon a solution to the problem: we have found a place in
Leatherhead where she may be decently and kindly confined, and someone to watch over her, until
such time as the new asylum is ready. The cost will not be high, but it will be something. What do
you think about the parish taking on the expense? It is, in a way, for the benefit of the people here, as
many of them are nervous about her, and those that are not afraid are spending much of their time
trying to help Mrs. Hunt with her.”
“Oh, I think the parish may well offer that kind of assistance. And since you would not let me
help with Mrs. Matthews, I should be honoured to help with this, if the parish funds cannot spare the
needed money. I know you would do the same,” he added as Knightley started to speak, “but you
have a wife to consider now.”
“Well, we will see if more help is wanted. There may be no such need.”
“Robert Martin is off to London tomorrow—he has a new buyer for his wool, I believe, and is
going to negotiate an agreement.”
“Is that so? Well, I hope he may have a fine day for his journey.”
Martin was going to London. Harriet was in London. Away from the scene of former
associations, there was great likelihood that Martin would speak again and be accepted—if they were
thrown together. A jumble of ideas gradually shaped themselves into a solid plan. Knightley finished
the rest of his visit with a distracted mind, and he received the good wishes of Mrs. Hughes with only
half his attention.
 “There now,” said Knightley to Madam Duval late that night, and putting down his pen. “I have
finished laying the trap for Martin and Harriet—although to call it a trap is a little misleading. I
should rather say that I have been energetic in my efforts to secure the happiness of them both. The
proposals for the new asylum are written up, and I will ask Martin to take them to John for me, along
with this letter. Tell me, Madam, do you think this will raise any suspicion in John’s mind?

“Dear John,

“Robert Martin is coming to town on a matter of his own business, but as he will be there
regardless, I am asking him to deliver these papers to you for your approval. I beg you will have the
goodness to invite Martin to dinner. He has no friends in London, and a little society—for he knows
Miss Smith—would be just the thing for him.
“Trusting you remain the ‘sober, godly and righteous’ married man I will emulate before long,

“George

“I have sent a note to Martin tonight,” Knightley went on, “asking him to come ‘round to
Donwell before he leaves tomorrow. If all goes according to my expectations, it will not be long
before Mr. and Mrs. Martin take their place in the family pew on Sundays.”
He put the letter down on the desk and leaned back in his chair. “I hope Emma will not object to
the union. I hope she will not divine my part in it—I could not bear her to call me a matchmaker
when I have scolded her for doing the same! And after all, I am only giving Robert the opportunity to
ask again, not dictating to him what he ought to do. Perhaps her own happiness will enable her to
think generously of her friend’s choice. She does not speak of Harriet much any more. Of course,
Harriet is not in Highbury at present, but I suspect that Emma has realized the truth of what I told her
before about Harriet’s suitability as a companion, and the friendship is lapsing. It would be a blow for
her to admit it, though, and I have said nothing.”
The cat had long since lost interest in his explanations and gone to sleep. Knightley stretched,
rose, and went over to the window.
“It has been a long day, Emma, and made longer by the fact that I only saw you for an hour.
What a brilliant woman you are, by the bye, for contriving to make your father think that Mrs.
Weston expects a visit from him every day! It is good for him to look forward to that daily journey
and believe that he is performing a valuable service to the Westons. Your brilliance is one of the
things I praise when I say admiring things about you to your father, although I think I must withhold
this particular example of your cleverness. He loves to hear me praise you, and the other day he even
brought up the idea of our marriage—sometime in the years to come—in order to hear me extol your
virtues again, I think. He told me I will make a very good, yielding husband. I may be that, Emma,
but I will not be yielding in one thing: I will not wait two years, Emma, nor even a year, to marry
you. You will find me to be absolutely adamant on that point.”
 Three days later, Martin came to Donwell with a beaming face that Knightley could interpret
before he said a word. He waited impatiently through Martin’s conscientious report of how he had
delivered the papers to John until there was no more to be said on the topic.
“And now, Mr. Knightley, I ought to tell you the progress of my own business.”
“Ah, yes,” said Knightley with a smile playing around his lips. “You had good success with the
wool merchant?”
“The wool merchant? No—no—that is not the business I meant. You see before you an engaged
man, Mr. Knightley.”
“Is it Miss Smith?”
A shade of annoyance passed over Martin’s face.
“Of course,” said Knightley quickly. “Of course. I beg your pardon. How did it happen?”
“Well, sir, I saw Mr. John Knightley in his chambers, as you told me to. He was most civil—
hoped I would not find London wearying—asked if I had plans for the evening—invited me to
Astley’s, where he and Mrs. Knightley and their two eldest boys were going, along with Miss Smith.
I knew propriety ought to forbid me from accompanying them, but Mr. Knightley was so very urgent
in his request, saying the place would be crowded, and he would welcome my help with the little
boys, and he was afraid Miss Smith, not being used to London, would be over-awed by the crowds—
in short, he made me feel I would do him a real service by going, and so I agreed to it. They stopped
at my inn on the way and took me in their carriage with them. Har—Miss Smith was there, and
bashful, I think, to have me there. But she smiled at me…” Martin paused for a moment, lost in the
memory of that smile.
Knightley cleared his throat.
“The family had a box,” resumed Martin, “and we watched the entertainment—I was nearly as
amused watching Miss Smith’s diversion as the little boys’—and I was diverted, too, for I had never
been at Astley’s. And when we quitted the box, Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley took charge of little
John, and asked me and Miss Smith to look to Henry—as well they might, for the press of the crowd
was incredible. And Miss Smith was rather uneasy, and she said, ‘Oh, Mr. Martin, it is a comfort that
you are with us—I should be quite terrified—do you think we will be all right?’ And when they
returned me to the inn, they invited me to dine with them the next day. I could not refuse, and said
that I would. And so I came to dinner, and afterwards, when the children joined us, Miss Smith and I
were playing with little Henry. And he asked me if I had a wife, and I said I did not, and he said that
Miss Smith had no husband, either, and that I ought to marry her. I said that I would be happy to, if
Miss Smith did not object, and she blushed and murmured that she did not. So we were engaged.”
“I do not think I have ever heard so many words from you at one time, Martin,” said Knightley,
grinning. “I am thankful to be one of the first to hear the story—doubtless you will leave out most of
the details after repeated tellings.”
“I wanted to ask you, sir—is there anyone besides Mrs. Goddard that I should speak to? Is there
anything you might propose more fit to be done than to apply to her for information about Miss
Smith’s relations or friends?”
 “I cannot think of anything.”
“Then I will endeavour to see Mrs. Goddard in the course of this day. I hope you will not take it
ill if I excuse myself, sir. I have a vast deal that needs to be seen to.”
“Not at all, Martin. I may say that I know exactly how you feel.”

Emma took the news of Harriet’s engagement very well indeed after he was able to convince her
that it had actually taken place. She wondered aloud if he had misunderstood Robert Martin and had
thought him speaking of Harriet when it was really the dimensions of ‘some famous ox.’ He smiled
at that expression later that afternoon when he walked to Randalls. Fancy her remembering that time
—nearly a year ago now—when she had mistaken his description of the Durham bull for that of
some unknown lady! She must have loved him even then, to have had such a trivial thing imprinted
on her memory.
He was shown into the drawing room at Randalls and was surprised to see only Frank Churchill.
He met him with such benevolent feelings as he would have once believed were impossible, and
shook his hand with sincere goodwill.
“My father and Mrs. Weston—and Miss Fairfax, too—have gone to see what the baby looks like
when she sleeps,” said Churchill. “The nursemaid decreed that the room was too crowded, and I—as
the person of least importance—was put out. I shall have to take my turn later this evening. Be
seated, if you will; I am certain the others will return before long.”
“Thank you. I did not know you were here in Highbury.”
“I came only this morning, unannounced, and leave on the morrow. I came to see Miss Fairfax,
of course, but I have already been presented with Mr. and Miss Woodhouse as well as yourself—and
who knows who else I may see before the end of the day? The Eltons will probably turn up as soon
as you leave.”
“Perhaps a long walk with Miss Fairfax will answer your purpose. I beg your pardon—I have
neglected to offer you my congratulations on your engagement.”
“I thank you. If it is not an impertinence, I would like to wish you joy on your coming marriage.”
Knightley bowed his thanks.
Churchill hesitated, and then said “With your connection—you may have seen a letter of mine...”
“To Mrs. Weston? I did.”
“Then you know my remorse for my improper behaviour. I have been fortunate in obtaining
forgiveness from those I offended; may I ask if I have yours as well?”
“You have it—now. I would have struggled to grant it if I had not secured Emma’s hand. As it is,
I am all generosity.”
“Thank you. You are very good.”
“I may tell you that I owe you a debt. It was through your attentions to Miss Woodhouse that I
came to know my own heart. I had been a blind fool, and if you had not come with your devious
ways, who knows how long it would have been before I knew exactly in what way I cared for her?”
Frank looked at him levelly. “It must have nearly killed you to see me flirting with her.”
 “Yes.” He did not care to elaborate.
“It is no wonder I found you a little—stiff and disapproving. I am doubly grateful for your
forgiveness.”
“I thought you unworthy for the hand of any young woman; I hope you will prove me wrong.
Miss Fairfax is too good for shoddy treatment.”
“She is,” said Frank seriously. “I am not quite so careless as I appear. I have done with my
scrapegrace ways, believe me.”
The door opened and Weston came in, followed by the ladies.
“Knightley! I didn’t expect to see you today.”
“I hope my visit is not inconvenient,” said Knightley with a bow to Mrs. Weston and Miss
Fairfax. “I wanted to see you on a parish matter—I had no idea you had guests. I can come again
later, if it pleases you.”
“Not at all, not at all. Come into the library and unburden yourself.”
“I only wanted to tell you,” said Knightley, when they were alone, “that Burton has found two
other men to keep watch with him. He says they plan to begin their watch tonight.”
“I see. Have they determined a location?”
“They will be behind that hedge near the Foster farm, on the road to Langham.”
“And what do you think their success will be?”
“I am not holding out much hope for the venture, but I have been surprised before.”
“It was a good idea to offer the men a small wage for watching and a larger reward if they caught
someone. It will keep them diligent, I should think.”
“Yes. Well, let us hope that no one who has any connection with this scheme accidentally lets
something slip to the wrong person.”
“Quite,” said Weston. “Perhaps you ought to start some sort of scandal to give the gossip-
mongers something interesting to talk about.” He winked.
“I have done my bit by getting engaged to Emma.”
“True. Well, when the wonder of that dies down, you may be forced to improvise some other
noteworthy deed.”
“I know it,” said Knightley with a straight face. “I believe I will indulge in a spot of
matchmaking—for William Larkins.”

“And what has made you so grave, Mr. Knightley?” said Emma. She had finished writing her
letter to Isabella, for which purpose she had remained home while her father made his daily
pilgrimage to Randalls.
“Am I grave?” said Knightley. “I did not mean to look so.” He had been thinking again of the
question of how much he should tell Emma of the things connected with his work as a magistrate. To
be sure, she was trustworthy—he had no fear of rumours beginning at her instigation—but there were
bad things, disturbing things that came to his attention, and he wondered what he ought to do about
those. He would wish to keep anything unpleasant away from her; she was too good to be exposed to
the worst depravities of mankind. But he knew himself: when distressing things were brought to his
attention, he was troubled and unsettled, and he would rather share his burden with her than have her
think him aloof. Then again, if he did tell her, she would have to keep it a secret from her father—he
who was horrified at an open window must not be alarmed by the knowledge of actual crimes—and
she might not like that.
“You look thoughtful, at any rate,” said Emma, coming and sitting beside him. “May I know
what you are pondering?”
“You may not know all my thoughts, but I will tell you one question which has been in my mind
today: where shall we go for our wedding-trip?”
She smiled at the question.
“I have been in correspondence with John,” Knightley went on, “and he agrees with me that we
ought to marry while the family are at Hartfield. If we are to take a wedding-trip, this will be our only
opportunity, for we cannot leave your father alone.”
“No,” said Emma. “I agree it is a very sensible plan, and it has my hearty approval. I only worry
that it is too soon for my father’s nerves. He thinks of us getting married at some far distant date.”
“I know it; but I will not wait for two years for your hand, Emma. When we are married he will
be well again.”
Emma nodded, but sighed, and he pressed her hand reassuringly. “But about our wedding-trip...”
“I don’t know—someplace beautiful, I suppose.” Her mouth twitched in amusement. “What
about Box Hill?”
He laughed. “That place has no very pleasant memories for me. It was the most miserable day I
have ever spent, I think.”
“It was the same for me. I would be happy never to see that place again.”
“I do not think it would make a good location for a wedding-trip, I agree. However, perhaps we
should go again, after we are married, just the two of us, to make new memories. It is a beautiful
place.”
“It is. A little jaunt to Box Hill for that purpose might be an agreeable thing. But then where shall
we go for our wedding tour?”
“What about the sea-side? I was thinking of Worthing—not so noisy and crowded as Brighton,
but equally fashionable and comfortable. And it is only a day’s journey from here.”
“The sea!” Emma’s eyes sparkled. “I have so longed to see it!”
“I know,” said Knightley softly.
Emma put her hand to his face. “You are the most thoughtful of men, Mr. Knightley, but I do not
require a fashionable spot. I do believe I would be happy enough in a fisherman’s cottage in
Portsmouth—if I were there alone with you.”
The noise of carriage wheels on gravel outside the windows announced Mr. Woodhouse’s return.
Knightley sighed, kissed her hand and gave it back to her, and repeated “Alone with you. Yes, my
Emma, I think under those circumstances I would be contented, too.”
 18

Spencer opened the door of his cottage himself to Knightley’s knock.

“Mr. Knightley! How do you do?”
“Tolerable, Spencer, thank you. Is Maggie unwell?”
“No, no—she’s helping at Mrs. Matthews’—she’s ill, and the children needed minding. Come
in.” Spencer led the way into the parlour and motioned toward a seat. “Please—”
Knightley thanked him and sat down. “You’ve heard about Robert Martin, I expect.”
“Yes, I heard. He is a fortunate man, and he has my best wishes. May I offer you some
refreshment? Maggie is not here, of course, but I am well able to make tea.”
“No, no. I came only to say—I am sorry.”
“Sorry?” said Spencer, and then after a moment added, “No—I will not pretend to mistake you.
Martin does have my best wishes… only I wish his happiness was not quite so near at hand. Once
there were three of us disappointed in love, you know, and then two, and now I alone remain.” He
smiled faintly at his own words. “I am not despairing, just a little bit melancholy.”
“I would feel the same in your place—worse, I’m afraid. I would be bitter. I would begrudge the
others their happiness when I am denied it. But I can see you are not bitter.”
“No. But do not think me more virtuous than I am; I have the seeds of bitterness within me. They
would take root and grow if I allowed them to, but I will not. I have many blessings: health and good
friends, honourable work—work with eternal weight for that matter… I have already been blessed
beyond my deserts—far beyond the ‘food and covering’ that the apostle said we should be content
with. What right have I to complain?”
“I hope your conscience does not induce guilt for legitimate grief. You do not think, I hope, that
the Almighty would begrudge you a few natural sighs.”
“Not at all—‘He is mindful that we are but dust.’ And I have indulged in sighs enough to satisfy
you on that point, believe me. A little time, Mr. Knightley, will remove most of the sting. And poor
Martin is not without his troubles; his love is still in London, after all.”
 “She will return on Friday with my brother and his family. Oh! And that puts me in mind—Miss
Castleman. It appears the arrangements have all been made for her to go to Leatherhead on Friday.
Mrs. Hunt has not told her anything about it yet; she and I thought it would be best to give her little
warning, in case she takes it into her mind to flee.”
“But how will you break the news to her that day? She may struggle or run away. She is
frightened and belligerent as it is.”
“Mrs. Hunt had the idea of telling her that we have found for her a place of safety, where she will
be secure from molestation by anyone. The locks on the doors might be presented as means to
keeping evil men out rather than keeping her in.”
“I daresay that is the best way. What time will she be leaving?”
“I told Mrs. Hunt that I would send my carriage at noon—far better for them than travelling post.
Larkins is going along to help, as well.”
“I would be glad to accompany them, but I fear that my presence would only agitate her. She still
thinks me in league with ‘the man.’”
“Yes, I think it is better that you stay here, although the journey would probably provide a
welcome distraction to your mind.”
Spencer laughed. “I am invited to supper with Mrs. Green and her husband this evening. It will
take all my wits to be a polite guest even while I evade her efforts to extract information from me
about others in the parish. That will prove distraction enough, I think.”
Knightley smiled along with him, somewhat relieved to see Spencer managing his trials so
competently, but irritated that he should need to. It seemed almost as if he who was best suited to
deal with the disappointments of unrequited love must bear the weight of them. Knightley felt
keenly that there was some injustice in that arrangement.

It was several days after they had arrived in Surrey before John was able to bring the older
children to Donwell. Bella was made perfectly happy to see Madam Duval looking so well—“I told
you, Papa, that she would look best with a ribbon around her neck, did I not?”—and the little boys
were eager to see the fish-ponds again. Mrs. Hodges took charge of the children, while John and
Knightley followed behind them at a slower pace.
“They do you proud,” said Knightley. “You make a fine father of five.”
“Six,” said John, smiling, “come next March.”
“Is that so? Congratulations are in order, then.”
“Thank you. I beg you will not see this in light of a competition, but you are sadly behind as far
as progeny goes.”
“Indeed. I must find a way to be married soon.”
“Is there any progress made on reconciling Mr. Woodhouse to the plan of a wedding in
October?”
 “No, none. It was mentioned once—briefly—but the idea produced so much distress that it was
dropped immediately.”
“I read a line in the poet Spencer the other day that made me think of you: ‘Ah! When will this
long weary day have end, and lend me leave to come unto my love?’ It was the long weary bit that
caught my attention. Waiting seems longer, I think, when there is no end in sight.”
“True. If only Mr. Woodhouse would lend me leave to at least name a wedding day…”
“You could name it, you know. Perhaps you might be able, with your native charm, to convince
Emma to marry on that day, and Mr. Woodhouse would have little say in the matter. He will only be
unhappy for a little while, of course.”
Knightley shook his head. “I do not think Emma could be convinced. I might persuade her mind,
but her heart would be unwilling—and I will not have a reluctant bride.”
“Well, we have a little time. No need to rush into anything just yet.”
“True. Martin was only engaged two weeks ago, and he is likely to be married in less than a
month. Simple weddings do not require very much advance notice.”
“He’s a good fellow, I think,” said John. “Seems perfect for Harriet. He told me he needed to
find out her parentage. Has he discovered anything?”
“Yes; Mrs. Goddard had the information that led him to Harriet’s father. He turns out to be a
prosperous tradesman. He is providing a generous dowry for Harriet.”
“Good. And the mother?”
“Dead these many years.”
“Ah. Well, given the circumstances of her birth, I suppose Harriet will have a better life than
anyone would have imagined.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“And now tell me about this watch that has been set to catch a gang of thieves. Didn’t someone
catch a thief in Langham? Gilbert, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. The man was just tried at the quarter sessions, and sentenced to a year in prison. The thefts
have continued, however, so he must not have been the only thief.”
“And I suppose the watch has not discovered anything?”
“Nothing yet. Burton told me that the other night one of the men thought he saw someone
dressed in dark clothes sneaking into the cow-house at the Adams farm. There was almost no moon
that night, and the watcher was out near the road, of course, but he could still make out the form of
someone crouching down in the distance from that spot. He hastened to get Burton and the other man
from their posts, and they converged on the cow-house, ready to trap the thief.” Knightley paused for
effect.
“Go on, what was it?” said John. “A servant, meeting his sweetheart?”
“A big black billy-goat,” said Knightley, “devouring the straw on the floor.”
John laughed. “How long are you going to keep up the watch?”
“I don’t know. Elton—whose idea it was—is adamant that we persist until the thieves are
caught.”
“Perhaps he reads Horace: ‘Iustum et enacem propositi virum’… what was the rest of that?—‘the
man who is tenacious of purpose in a rightful cause is not shaken in his firm resolve’…”
“I think you give Elton far too much credit. It’s more like the old song: ‘Wife a mouse, quiet
house. Wife a cat, dreadful that.’”
 Two weeks passed before Knightley heard any more tales from Burton, but the next report came
in dramatic fashion, after Knightley had retired to bed. Baxter, hastily dressed and carrying a lighted
taper, woke him.
“I beg your pardon, sir—sorry to wake you. It’s the constable Burton, with three other men…
they say it is most urgent.”
Knightley fought against his weariness to open his eyes—he had only just fallen asleep. “All
right, Baxter. Put them in the library. I’ll be with them shortly.”
The candlelight threw weird shadows around the library, and the four men waiting to see him
looked almost other-worldly. The watchers were dressed in dark clothing; the fourth man in very
rough clothes, like a common labourer. He kept his head well down, not looking at Knightley.
“I beg your pardon for disturbing you, sir,” said Burton, “But we found this fellow skulking
around behind a hedge in a field near the Wade farm. He wouldn’t answer questions, and he seemed
to be up to no good, so we thought he ought to be brought to you, sir.”
“Well now, fellow,” said Knightley. “What is it you were doing in that field?”
“Nothin’,” said the man gruffly.
Knightley peered intently at him for a moment, then took a candle and brought it closer to the
man’s face. He finally looked up.
“Edmund Gilbert, I think,” said Knightley.
“Not the squire’s son!” said Burton, aghast. “I didn’t know him, sir—I haven’t seen him above a
half-dozen times in my life, and with him dressed in this fashion and in the dark…”
“No blame can attach to you, Burton,” said Knightley. “But I think perhaps I ought to speak to
Mr. Gilbert alone.”
The watch shuffled out of the room, shutting the door behind them.
“What were you doing there?” Knightley spoke crisply.
“Nothing criminal.” Edmund sounded if he were trying to be belligerent, but was too frightened
to be very successful. “You broke your word to me—you went to my father and told him about my
playing cards in the tavern.”
“No. I told you I would not, and I did not. However, that watch of yours turned up on magistrate
business while your father was present, and as someone else was about to be blamed for stealing it, I
had to at least make my hesitations known. Your father is no fool, and deduced things on his own.”
“You ought to have minded your own—”
“I ought to mind my own business? But I am.”
“Then you should be dealing with criminals, not innocent citizens.”
“Innocent? You lied to me earlier, Edmund. You told me you did not know anything about the
thefts in Langham, and I think you do. Beyond that, you were trespassing tonight. What is it you are
hiding?”
The young man remained stubbornly silent.
“I can question your father…”
 “No!” The young man looked up with a greater anxiety on his face than he had yet shown.
“Edmund, it is too late. I collect you have done something your father would not approve, and
you are doing all you can to prevent his knowledge of it. But there is no concealing it any longer. I
know you lied to me once, and I will dig the truth out if I need to question the entire population of
Langham. Make a clean breast of it now, and it will go better for you.”
The young man’s shoulder sagged, and Knightley watched the fight go out of him. It was not an
indication of humility or repentance, Knightley thought, just hopelessness.
“What do you want to know?”
“What were you doing in that field tonight?”
“Waiting for someone—to give him money.”
“Money you lost at cards?”
“No, money I was paying him for—for his silence.”
“Silence about what?”
A deep sigh came from Edmund, and then, “There’s a girl at the Crow’s Nest—a serving girl. I—
she—there was some connection—she entrapped me.”
“She’s with child.”
“Yes.”
“Yours?”
“So she says.”
“How did she entrap you?”
“I was drunk one night. She invited me upstairs…”
“She did? You are certain you made no suggestion? You used no force?”
“Mr. Knightley! You cannot think that I would—!”
“You would not be the first gentleman’s son to do so.”
“But I didn’t! You must believe me!”
Knightley had little reason to, but somehow he thought that this, at least, was true. “The night
you were drunk—how long ago was that?”
“In December.”
Knightley paused to reckon up the months. “Seven months. I wonder I did not hear about her
condition sooner. Seven months is a long time to hide such a thing.”
“Well, she has not been in that condition for seven months—only for about five.”
“And still she names you as the father? Seven months ago…five months along...”
“I’m afraid that was not the only time I…went upstairs.”
“A regular thing, was it?”
Edmund sighed again. “More or less.”
“Are you going to assert that she entrapped you each time?”
“N-no, but she certainly started it. And I believe she had it in her mind for this to happen all
along.”
“It never occurred to you that such a thing could happen?”
“I thought—she seemed so fond of me—I suppose I didn’t think…” Edmund trailed off.
Evidently he had done little thinking at all.
 “And she informed you of her condition when, exactly?”
“About two months ago. She said I ought to marry her. I cannot, of course, and I don’t think she
really thought I would. But she cried and carried on and threatened to tell my father—”
“Ah, your father.”
“You know—well, you can imagine what he said to me when he learned about the card-playing.
What his wrath would be about this other matter, I can hardly bear to think.”
“He might cut off your allowance, too. And just when you were going to leave for Oxford.”
“Yes.” He seemed more afraid of these consequences than hurting his father. Knightley could not
but contrast Richard Hughes’s attitude with Edmund’s. His voice grew more stern. “So you told the
girl you would pay her—provide for her, that is—as long as she said nothing.”
“Yes. And she kept her word. Luckily, I hear Cooper is blamed for it; no one has suspected me.”
“You think it lucky that an innocent man should be blamed for your sins?”
“He’s hardly innocent. He may not have done that, but he’s no innocent.” Knightley’s ears
perked up at that, but he let it go for the moment.
“And his wife? You think the rumours do not hurt her?”
Edmund was silent.
“So, you had arranged to meet the girl in the field?”
“No, I—That is, yes.”
Knightley lost patience. “Tell the truth, Edmund! You are paying other people for their silence as
well, are you not?”
“Someone has told you.”
“No—only I know a poor liar when I see one. And remember that I am a magistrate and my
brother is a barrister. I know how things happen.”
Edmund groaned. “I am ruined.”
“You and the girl both, then. Who else are you paying?”
The answer came reluctantly. “The lads I play cards with. They could guess whose the child was.
And if they didn’t guess, Ellie probably told them. They were quick enough to demand money,
anyway.”
“And what will you do now?”
“Now? Keep paying them all, I suppose.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “It is a horrible
position to be in. I haven’t done anything to deserve it.”
“You make very light of your offence. You will not marry the girl—all right. What will you do
for her? And the child?”
“You think it’s my responsibility?”
“Well, if it isn’t yours, whose is it?”
“Hers! She sought to entrap me—and it wouldn’t surprise me if Tom put her onto the idea. He’s
always one for making money.”
“And you thought you would just go on paying indefinitely?”
“Well—I didn’t know what would happen. Babies die sometimes—born too early, or some such
thing. I didn’t think I would have to pay forever.”
“And what will you do when you go to University in the autumn?”
 “I don’t know, exactly. It’s been worrying me. I thought I would make a payment to them when I
came back on holidays.”
“You know that you are legally responsible for the child, if she names you. If you fail to support
him, the mother can have you arrested on a justice’s warrant and you would be put into prison until
you agree to do so.”
Edmund’s mouth hung open. “But a person of quality—surely they would not dare—”
“They might. And in any case, would you care for the public exposure that would result from
such an event?”
“Well, I have paid already for silence—of course I would pay for support rather than go to
prison.”
“See to it that you arrange for it, then. Now, about this other thing—I asked you once if you
knew anything about these thefts at Lanham, and you said you knew nothing. But you do know
something, don’t you?
“Not much, Mr. Knightley. In fact, I have no more than a suspicion. But whispered conversations
seem to be the pattern at the tavern.”
“You said before that Cooper was not innocent—were you referring to the thefts?”
“To many things—watering down beer, letting people cheat at cards, obtaining rum from who-
knows-where…”
“I wonder you are tolerated at the Crow’s Nest, since you know so much.”
“I don’t know it—only there are too many signs pointing that way for there to be nothing in it.”
“And they can expose you at any time they please—and you are young. Perhaps they think you
pose little threat.”
“Perhaps. I confess I have acted like I understood even less than I did. Those people frighten
me.”
“Then why did you play cards with them?”
“I wasn’t very frightened at first. It seemed no more than a lark.”
“I see—you liked going to a place your father wouldn’t approve, in order to do something he
wouldn’t like—to prove your independence.”
“I suppose.”
There was silence for a moment.
“You won’t really bring me up on trespassing charges, will you?”
Knightley looked at that young man thoughtfully. He was young yet. Not a hardened rake.
Perhaps he was beginning to see vice as the ugly thing it really was, and not the exciting, grown-up
adventure it had appeared at first. He did not seem so much repentant as lost, but his help in this case
might be valuable.
“No, I think I will not, if you will help me.”
“Help you what, sir?”
“Catch these thieves—and Cooper, for whatever crimes and misdemeanours he may be
responsible for.”
“And how shall I?”
“Play the innocent, but keep your wits about you. If these men, or some of them, are responsible
for the thefts, they must be keeping the goods somewhere, at least temporarily. Not all the thefts have
been consumable goods, and many of them would be recognizable to their owners. They must be
being taken out of the community for disposal elsewhere. Probably they are stored somewhere for a
little while before being transported. If we could find the stash—likely on the property of one of the
thieves—we would have enough evidence to bring a charge against them.”
“Why do you not send a man to search their homes, Mr. Knightley?”
“Someone needs to request a warrant to search; and if we do not know where to look, random
searches will only warn the thieves of our suspicions, and that will be the end of the evidence.”
“I see. So I will continue on as I have been and report to you if I hear anything?”
“Not exactly as you have been. Tell your father about the serving girl. You aren’t the first young
man of your station to do such a thing, and I daresay he will not be as surprised as you think. You
may find his wrath mitigated by your efforts to put things right—as far as you can. Stop bribing the
men at the tavern for their silence. Own your responsibility in the matter, and ease Mrs. Cooper’s
mind, at least.”
The sullen look was back on Edmund’s face. “It is hardly fair I should be put through this,” he
muttered.
“You have odd notions of justice,” said Knightley. “It is entirely fair. But whether you concur
with me or not, you have little choice in the matter. You are not the sort of man I would choose as an
agent, but I have little choice in the matter. You will turn spy for the sake of law and order, and you
may find some satisfaction in being useful, for once.”
 19

“And so you have returned from the wedding, my dear, and Mr. Knightley, too.” Mr.
Woodhouse looked with fond melancholy at the pair. He had been sitting with John and Isabella
while Emma and Knightley attended the Martins at their wedding. “And poor little Miss Smith is
now married,” he went on. “So quickly, too! It seems but a week or two ago when she would come
and sit with us, and I am sure she had no more notion of being married then than you did, my dear.”
“She is Mrs. Martin now, Papa, and very happy,” said Emma. “And she was very grateful for
your kind good wishes. You need not feel sorrow on her account; she will have a better home with
the Martins than she did with Mrs. Goddard.”
“Well,” said her father reluctantly, “she will have a bigger bedroom, I suppose. But our house is
very large, and we were always happy to see her here. She will miss us all very much.”
“Yes indeed,” put in Knightley, “She will always think of your kindness to her with great
affection. But Mr. Martin is an extremely good man—you liked him very much when he was visiting
here two weeks ago, remember.”
“Ah, yes,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “He was most solicitous about my health—quite alarmed lest
the fire be a little too warm for me. He does not know me, you see, and was unaware that I generally
have a fire here. But he was very civil, to be sure—very civil indeed.”
“He will take good care of Miss Smith, you may be sure,” said Isabella, “and his mother and
sisters love her dearly, and will see that she wants for nothing. There is really no need to feel sorrow
on her account.”
“You must be right, my dear; still, I think she will miss Hartfield dreadfully.”
“I will talk with her, Papa, when I make a wedding-visit,” said Emma, “and I will give her your
greetings. Perhaps the Martins will visit us, too; therefore Harriet cannot feel herself neglected.”
“To be sure, my dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “She will enjoy seeing us very much—if only you
think that it will not make her pine for former days when she stayed so often with us.”
“Never mind,” said John with a touch of impatience, “I believe her husband will be able to
comfort her in that event. But you have not told George and Emma about Miss Bates, sir.”
“Ah! You are very good to remind me,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “I have been remiss in not passing
along her greetings. Emma, my dear, Miss Bates called while you were at the wedding. She had a
letter from Miss Fairfax, and she was so good as to read it out to me. Jane is in Town, you know, with
the Campbells. The letter said that Mr. Churchill is in Town as well, with the elder Mr. Churchill.
Jane’s wedding will be in November.” He sighed. “Poor Miss Fairfax—she would have been a very
good governess.”
Emma smiled affectionately at her father, then took a deep breath and said, “Papa, you know that
November is the month that Isabella and John must return to Town; that is why Mr. Knightley and I
wanted to marry in October.”
The change in Mr. Woodhouse was immediate. His face fell, his spirits became depressed, and he
seemed to shrink within himself. “Yes, my dear. So you said. October.” His fingers plucked restlessly
at the blanket draped over his knees. “Well if it must be, it must be, I suppose. I do not know why it
must be so soon. There is all the time in the world. But I suppose there is no help for it.”
Knightley glanced at Emma; she was close to tears. Her tender heart was wrung, he knew, by her
father’s misery.
“Perhaps we ought to take our exercise now, Papa,” said Isabella. “I had promised to accompany
you on your three turns, and the weather is fine now; it may not be as clear later. Shall we go out
now?”
“Ah, yes, my dear,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “I believe you are right. This is a very good time for
our exercise. And when we return, Serle will have our gruel ready for us.”
Isabella took her father’s hand as they left the room, and the three left behind watched them go.
Emma brushed her hand across her eyes.
“My dear Emma,” said Knightley, “you know that when the event is over, his distress will be
over, too.”
“Do you think so? I could not do anything which would leave him permanently dejected.”
“Depend upon it,” said John. “You know your father—he soon resigns himself to what he cannot
change. He is perfectly happy for Mrs. Weston now, you know, both in her marriage and in her
motherhood.”
“Yes; but I am his daughter, and therefore he may not be so easily reconciled.”
“He will always think it too soon for our marriage, my Emma,” said Knightley. “You will
prolong his apprehension if you prolong our engagement.”
“I suppose you are right, but I cannot bear to see the forlorn look on his face and know that I am
the cause of it.” She stood up with an apologetic smile. “I believe I will walk with him and Isabella.”
“She is so good,” said Knightley, almost to himself, when she had left the room. “I have been
often impatient with her in former days, but never on account of her care for her father. Now, I am
almost tempted…”
“Loyalty is almost the leading characteristic of the Woodhouses,” said John. “I think women are,
in general, very constant, but the females in this family are loyal to an extraordinary degree, and not
out of self-interest. It is inconvenient now, I grant you, but you would not really wish it otherwise.”
“No,” said Knightley. “But you are upsetting the balance of things by being sage and wise about
the situation. Younger brothers are supposed to come to their elders for instruction, and not say
anything worth hearing. Speaking, however, of feminine characteristics, I did want to discover your
thoughts concerning one particular topic. How much shall I tell Emma of the evils and horrors I am
exposed to as magistrate? I cannot imagine keeping everything locked within my own mind, but I
also cannot imagine forcing the knowledge of so many dreadful things on her innocent mind. How do
you decide what to tell Isabella and what to keep to yourself?”
John smirked and said, “I have longed for this day—finally you see me as a mentor worthy of
consultation.”
“John—”
 “Yes, yes, of course, I will be serious.” He looked thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment
before answering. “Emma is very different from Isabella, of course, but I should say that you ought
not to tell your wife things that will control her thoughts during the day and disturb her sleep at night.
I once told Isabella something about a murder case—involving a child. I didn’t mean to—it was
troubling me, and she asked what was wrong and I told her. That was a mistake. It might have been
worse because she worries over-much about so many things, but I think any woman, or any man, for
that matter, would have been greatly disturbed by it. I know she suffered nightmares because of it,
and I felt terribly guilty.”
“As would I. Perhaps I will keep everything to myself.”
“No, you must not do that. Emma is, I daresay, more resilient than you imagine. And you will be
surprised how often she will offer up the perfect solution to a thorny dilemma when you unburden
your mind to her; Isabella sometimes does so, even though she has no knowledge of laws or due
process.”
“I see. Well, that will be a tricky balance to achieve.”
“I doubt you will manage to do it perfectly—at least, I never have. But then you may comfort
yourself with the knowledge that Mrs. Elton would not be surprised at your lack of good judgement
—you have sunk very low in her estimation by agreeing to move to Hartfield with Mr. Woodhouse.
She thinks it is quite a shocking plan.”
“I think it will not be much of a change from what I am doing now.”
“True—I notice that you already eat breakfast and dinner here every day.”
“Yes. But I have to leave again every evening.”
“Bear up, man. It will not be too much longer.”
“We hope.”

They were in the middle of breakfast the next morning when Weston was shown in to the dining
room.
“Sorry to burst in on you so frightfully early,” he said, “but I thought you ought to know,
Knightley—our poultry house was broken into last night and all the turkeys taken. I would have
waited until later in the day to inform you, but I heard from Haskins that they were robbed, too.
Several hens missing.”
“Robbed?” said Mr. Woodhouse, pale. “Thieves in the neighbourhood, breaking into houses…
Oh, Emma, Emma, what shall we do?”
“Oh, Papa,” said Emma, getting up to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, “it was only the
poultry house—everyone is perfectly safe.”
“That’s right,” said Weston, “Nothing to worry about.” He looked as if he regretted sharing his
news while Mr. Woodhouse was present.
“But the robbers might come to Hartfield, Emma!”
“With Mr. John Knightley to protect us?” said Emma. “Papa, you forget. While he is here, we are
very secure and need not fear any harassment.”
“Very true, sir,” said Knightley. “John will keep you all safe. He can see to it that the locks are
securely fastened at night, and he can stand guard in the hall, if you wish, all night long.” He smirked
at John who rolled his eyes.
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Woodhouse, colour returning to his face. “Of course. I thank you for
reminding me. Mr. John Knightley is here to protect us. We are safe.”
“I’ll speak to Burton later in the morning,” said Knightley. “And now, sir,” he said to Mr.
Woodhouse, “perhaps you will join me in a game of backgammon while John consults with Tagget
about the lock on the poultry-house.”
Knightley saw Burton later that afternoon, after Mr. Woodhouse’s mind had been distracted by
the game of backgammon. Burton said that the watch had not seen anything the night before, having
been situated on the other side of Highbury, close to the Donwell road. They had seen Mr. Spencer go
by in the early hours—they suspected he had been visiting a house of sickness or some such thing.
Perhaps Mr. Knightley ought to ask Mr. Spencer if he had seen anything?
“I’m sorry to say I did not, Mr. Knightley,” said Spencer when the question had been put to him.
“I was sitting with Mr. Croker; he has been very ill, but he seems to be on the mend now. I saw
nothing as I walked home, but I was probably lost in my thoughts and may easily have missed
something. I’m sorry I cannot be more helpful.”
“Quite all right,” said Knightley. “Very likely there was nothing for you to see.”
Muffled sounds of voices came from the front of the cottage, and after a few minutes Old Maggie
came in, and said in her peculiarly loud, flat voice, “There’s John Lindsay ’ere to say the ewes is very
bad off. He says it’s urgent, though I can’t see why he should come to you with these troubles—you
know nothing about sheep! Shall I show ‘im in, sir?”
“The ewes? Well then, if you please, Maggie,” nodded Spencer, and when the housekeeper
departed said to Knightley, “Very likely she misheard him—I’ll let him speak for himself.”
Lindsay appeared in the sitting room after a moment, hat in his hands, and he declined to take a
seat.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Spencer, and Mr. Knightley, too, but I’ve been sent to fetch the parson
on account of Mrs. Matthews being in a very bad way. They don’t know as she will live the day
through, poor soul, and so I’ve been sent to ask you to come.”
“Of course,” said Spencer, “Will you come with me, Mr. Knightley?”
“By all means,” said Knightley. “We will go at once. Let us hope that things are not as bad as
they seem.”
The Matthews place was not far from Spencer’s cottage, and the men spoke little as they walked.
The sky was overcast and the air seemed close and stale, even out of doors. It was going to rain,
thought Knightley; and he found himself longing for the freshness that a shower would bring, even if
it did make the paths muddy.
Mrs. Catherwood opened the door of the Matthews cottage when they knocked. She was holding
the baby, a lovely little thing that looked to be about baby Emma’s age. Spencer started, the way he
always did when he saw Mrs. Catherwood unexpectedly, but he recovered quickly and snatched off
his hat.
“Mr. Spencer, Mr. Knightley.” She curtseyed briefly and opened the door wider. “Thank you for
coming so quickly.”
They entered the hot, airless room. There was a strong smell of camphor and of sickness, and the
heat from the fire with its pot of boiling water contributed to the atmosphere, made more oppressive
by the quantity of persons in the small space. The rough table in the centre of the room had two little
children sitting at it, eating bread and butter, along with Mrs. Catherwood’s son and an older girl that
Knightley recognized as the daughter of one of the gardeners at the Abbey.
Spencer greeted each child kindly, and said to the older girl, “How do you do, Rachel? Is your
mother here?”
 “She’s in the bedroom with Mrs. Matthews,” said the girl.
“They came this morning, to help,” said Mrs. Catherwood.
“And is she improving?” said Knightley.
“No. Sleeping, now, but…” She glanced at the children at the table. “Are you finished eating
now? Shall you go and play outside for a little while? Rachel, shall you take them? Good girl. Take
James by the hand, if you will.”
“Shall I take the baby, too?” asked Rachel.
“No, she will be asleep soon. I’ll lay her down in a moment.”
“Yes, ma’am. Come along, Sam and Jemimah. Come, James, take my hand.”
Knightley waited until they were out of the house before asking “Is there no hope for her?”
“There is always hope while there is life,” Mrs. Catherwood said quietly. “And after that, there is
a different sort of Hope. I’m afraid it will be the latter hope that we must look to in her case.”
“I see,” said Spencer.
“The thing that troubles me,” said Mrs. Catherwood, “is the question of what will happen to the
children if she dies.”
“There are no other relatives, I know.”
“No, there are not. She is worried that the children would be sent to a workhouse. Her husband
came from one, remember. She has asked me to care for them—and I would—but I don’t think my
brother’s wife would agree to it.”
“I suppose there might be a family willing to take them in,” said Knightley. “I could enquire
around the parish…”
“If we had been married,” said Spencer pensively, “they could have lived with us—”
A gasp from Mrs. Catherwood brought his head up with a jerk—horror on his face.
“Oh! I beg your pardon—I did not mean to say—that is, I did not mean—I was not meaning
anything—only musing—and said it aloud.” He sighed heavily and looked to the floor, mumbling,
“Was there ever such a man for stumbling over himself?”
“Please,” said Mrs. Catherwood softly. “Please do not reproach yourself. The same thought
occurred to me as well.” She said it gently, reassuringly, and it was only after the words were said
that she seemed to realize their implication, and blushed.
“Did it?” said Spencer, with quite a different tone in his voice. “Dearest Mrs. Catherwood—
Susan—” He swallowed and pressed on. “I must ask—that is, permit me to say—my offer still
stands. I will not importune you again on this subject, but as the issue is before us—let me tell you
what I neglected to make clear during our last discussion: I love you. It is not because of little James
or because of these children I make the offer—as much as I truly desire their welfare—I love you,
and want you to be my wife.”
Her whole face was pink now, but she smiled and glanced at Knightley, who suddenly recollected
that he ought not to be there.
“You must excuse me,” he said, and flashed a grin at Spencer, whose attention was completely
absorbed by the lady and did not even seem to notice Knightley going out.
 The passing bell tolled late that night for Mrs. Matthews. It woke Knightley from his sleep, and
he felt a pang for the children, twice bereft. There was a satisfaction in knowing that they would have
the best of care from their new family, but when he fell asleep again, he dreamt of gardens full of
dead flowers.
He ate breakfast in his own home the next morning, and went to the curate’s cottage as soon as he
was finished eating. Spencer was home alone, Old Maggie having gone to help at the Matthews
cottage. He greeted Knightley with a beaming face.
“I need not ask,” said Knightley, “how you parted with Mrs. Catherwood last evening.”
“No,” said Spencer. “I suppose my smile is eloquent enough. There are no firm plans—there was
no time to make any—except that we are to be married. Mrs. Matthews was alert enough in her final
hours to be assured that her children would be cared for, and she died at peace.”
“I am glad for that,” said Knightley. “Will you keep living here? This cottage would be stuffed
full—you and your wife, four children, and Old Maggie. Not to mention that there might be more
children within a year.”
“Oh! I suppose you are right. I had not thought of that. Perhaps we ought to take a larger house.
“Most people would consider you as choosing very stony ground to till—no wedding-trip, no
privacy—beginning married life with four children, three of them recently orphaned—it’s not what
most men would desire for their first months of wedded bliss.”
“No, I suppose not. But I am not getting married only to please myself… and most men are not
getting a wife like Susan.”
“Do you know, Spencer, if anyone else said the same thing, I would think that they were shutting
their eyes to coming difficulties, and that they would have an unpleasant surprise when the inevitable
frustrations began to arise. But I do not have the same worries about you; I think you will actually be
as happy as you think you will be. You won’t wait very long, I daresay, for the wedding.”
“No, a week or two at most. My father will like to come for it, I know. I will write to him today.”
“Well, I will leave you to your letter, and all your other business.”
“Yes. There is the funeral tomorrow, of course, and then we will make our plans.”
Knightley went to Hartfield when he left Spencer, and found a very nervous Mr. Woodhouse in
company with John and Emma.
“Oh, Mr. Knightley, have you heard? There has been another house-breaking!”
“Has there?” said Knightley, looking to Emma for confirmation.
“Not exactly,” said Emma. “It was another poultry house that was robbed. Miss Bates told us on
a visit this morning.”
“It is frightful, quite frightful. The world seems to be filled with marauders in these modern
times. Nothing like it was ever seen in Highbury before. I cannot help but pity those who have been
robbed. They do not have the Mr. Knightleys that we do to protect them.”
“Indeed. But you know, Papa, Mr. John Knightley must be in Town again by the first of
November. After that, we will be alone at night.”
“You had better have George and Emma marry immediately, sir,” said John. “If they married in,
say, three weeks’ time, they would be settled back at Hartfield by the time we leave.”
Mr. Woodhouse was silent, his mind pondering the idea. Finally, with a sigh, he spoke. “Emma,
my dear, I think perhaps Mr. John Knightley is right. Perhaps you ought to bring your wedding
forward a little.”
“Yes, Papa, I agree,” said Emma, looking at Knightley with sparkling eyes. “Three weeks will be
just enough time for preparations.”
 20

“And so we have come to the very last day,” said Knightley to Madam Duval. “This is my last
evening here alone as a bachelor. All is in readiness. In the morning the carriage comes to bring me
to the church in Highbury, and will wait there to take my wife and me back to Hartfield for the
wedding breakfast. And when that is finished, we will leave for our wedding trip to Worthing. A
fortnight of no responsibilities except those demanded by my wedding vows, and the continuing
pursuit, as Dr. Hughes has enjoined me, of Emma.”
The cat purred as he stroked her gently.
“I saw Spencer today—he has been married nearly a week now. He has been busy settling the
family into the new house. Most men would find moving house, gaining a wife, and becoming father
to four children in the space of a week to be a positive penance, yet he thinks of it as a reward. ‘Can
you believe,’ he said, ‘that I have been so blessed?’ He was as happy as a lark.”
There was a tap at the library door, and Baxter entered the room. “Mr. Edmund Gilbert to see
you, sir.”
Edmund entered the room in great excitement, not to say perspiration and dishevelment.
“Hello, Edmund. Come to give me good wishes on the eve of my wedding?”
“What? Oh, no, Mr. Knightley—although of course you have them—but I have some news, Mr.
Knightley. I went to Simmons as constable, but his wife said he was laid up with gout, so I came to
you. I heard of the thefts of poultry in Highbury—I saw feathers outside the door of the cellar of the
Crow’s Nest—I thought someone ought to know.”
“Yes, indeed. You saw feathers, did you?”
“Yes. I was helping myself to another glass of ale—one of the privileges of being a ‘friend’ of
the tavern—and there they were on the floor. I listened carefully for the noise of birds, but I heard
nothing. As soon as I was able to get away without suspicion, I did, and came directly here. Do you
think you ought to search the cellar of the Crow’s Nest? I didn’t hear anything down there, you
know.”
“I should think the thieves would wring the necks of whatever birds they took, to keep them
quiet. It does mean, however, that they will be transported soon—dead birds will not keep long in
this fine weather. They may be gone already.”
 “I suppose that is true. And if you do not find the birds in the cellar, there will be no evidence.”
“I would not go so far as that. If there are feathers, and perhaps other stolen goods, there may be
enough evidence for a conviction. I suppose a warrant is in order. Get Burton, if you will, the
constable for Highbury—he will be willing to go, since Simmons is indisposed. I will have a warrant
for searching the premises of the Crow’s Nest by the time you return.” He paused, looking at
Edmund’s face. Gone was the truculent expression, and in its place was an eager animation. It
seemed that doing some service on behalf of justice had been a good thing for him. “You’ve done
well,” Knightley added.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll be off to get Burton. I suppose,” he added with a grin, “you would not care
to come with us?”
“No. Interested as I am in the outcome of your search, I will leave the strenuous activity to
yourself and to Burton.”
“We’ll be back for the warrant soon,” said Edmund, and vanished.
“There now,” said Knightley to Madam Duval, “perhaps this is the end of the plunderings of
those desperate marauders. And perhaps it is the beginning of a new outlook for Edmund. I will not
spare much thought for it right now, however. I have more important things to occupy my mind.”

The wedding was simple and quiet, just as Knightley and Emma preferred it. Only their close
friends—the Westons, Spencer, the Martins, and the Knightleys, along with Mr. Woodhouse—were
there to see the ceremony. Emma was more beautiful than he had ever seen her. She repeated her
vows in a clear voice, and her hand did not tremble when he slid the ring onto her finger. She gazed
into his eyes with an expression of trust, and he knew he would rather die than prove unworthy of it.
They all repaired to Hartfield after the ceremony for the wedding breakfast. It was not a
boisterous party—it could not possibly be, with Mr. Woodhouse sitting there in patient resignation—
but it was a glad one. The guests stayed beyond the meal, urged by Mr. Woodhouse who insisted that
they all warm themselves in the drawing room for a little while against the chill of an October day.
Knightley noticed Serle quietly beckon Weston out of the room while everyone was standing in
little groups, conversing. When Weston returned, he came up to Knightley and said, “Burton didn’t
want to disturb you, but he thought I ought to know that they found a quantity of feathers, as well as
a number of other items in the cellar of the Crow’s Nest—candlesticks, jewellery, and things of that
sort. Cooper has been bound over till the next quarter sessions.”
“Ah! It seems we have caught our thief—or one of them; he could not possibly be responsible
for all the robberies himself.”
“No. And how does his wife do?”
“She didn’t seem distressed, Burton said. In fact, he thought her somewhat relieved. She said she
would return to her parents’ home while she waited for the outcome of her husband’s trial.”
“Good. Yes, John?” Knightley said, turning to his brother, who had appeared at his elbow.
“You probably ought to be off soon,” said John. “You have a long journey ahead of you.”
“True. You will see to Mr. Woodhouse carefully, won’t you, while we are gone? Emma will
worry, you know.”
 “I will. I promise to remain in good temper, to accompany him on his three turns around the
garden if he wishes it, and to reassure him hourly that you have not encountered any catastrophe on
your wedding trip. I will not, however, promise to eat gruel with him, so you need not ask.”
“I will not. I believe we should slip away now, with no fanfare—it will be less of a wrench for
Mr. Woodhouse if there is not a crowd of people shouting ‘Goodbye’ at our departing carriage, I
think.”
John agreed to this, and Emma was consulted. She, too, agreed that this would be best, and she
quietly said her goodbyes to one and another of the guests as they stood talking with each other. Her
father was not content to say his farewells from his chair, but would accompany them to the front
hall, with John at his side, to bid goodbye to his youngest daughter.
“Goodbye, my dear,” he said with trembling voice. “Come back soon.”
“Goodbye, Papa. Of course we will be back soon—almost before you can miss us.” Emma
smiled, but she was near tears.
“Come, sir”, said John. “Let us go back to our guests—they may need tea or gruel before they
return to their homes.” He nodded to the wedded pair before turning back to the drawing room.
Emma stood for a moment, looking after the retreating form of her father as he accompanied John.
“Emma,” said Knightley. She turned and he held out his hand. “Come, my love.”
She smiled and came to him gladly, and he escorted her to the carriage. He helped her inside
himself, and then took his seat beside her. His arm went around her shoulders; she gave a happy sigh,
lifted her face up for his kiss, and then nestled close beside him with her head on his shoulder.
“How far is it to Worthing?” she asked as the carriage began to move.
“I’m afraid the journey will take all day; we will not arrive until the evening.”
“Ah. Well then, I must inform you that I may spend the entire journey in this position. I hope you
will not mind very much.
“There are worse trials, Emma. And speaking of trials, I quite liked hearing you call me George
during the wedding. Was it very painful?”
“No—I should say more awkward than painful. It seemed to me that I was speaking to someone
else. I daresay I will grow used to it in time.”
“I think you should practice. Make it a habit to call me George at least once a day until it is more
natural.”
“I am sure to forget. I suppose I could make it a rule that I call you George at breakfast. I could
say, “Good morning, George,” and if I forget you could remind me.”
“My dear Emma, you forget that I will see you before breakfast. At least, I hope I will.”
“I suppose so. Perhaps I ought to say it on first awakening.”
“That is a very good plan. Or perhaps you should save it for when you feel particularly tender.”
“I think those instances may be more frequent than once a day.”
“All the better.”
Emma fell asleep in the carriage after a late afternoon meal at the coaching inn at Horsham, and
awoke as they entered Worthing.
“I’m afraid it is too dark now to see much of the town—or the sea—tonight,” he said. “But we
will be here for a fortnight.”
“Yes, of course,” Emma said. “It doesn’t matter. Where is our hotel?”
 “The Anchor—it is on the seafront. Dr. Hughes stayed there once, and recommended the place.
He said that many of the rooms have a fine view of the sea.”
“Ah,” said Emma, blushing a little. “That is very nice. Still—George—do you think we will
really care much about the view?”

14 October
Hartfield

Dear George,

I hope your wedding trip has been all you hoped it would be—and I say that without any sly look
whatever on my face. I had not thought I would write to you while you were away, but there are a few
items of news it would be as well for you to know before you return.
Weston has been in further contact with Burton, who says that Cooper has none of that honour
among thieves that one hears so much about. He has given Burton a list of accomplices’ names—
most of them are the lads in Langham that you suspected. Cooper thinks one of them betrayed him,
and he is determined to see that he is not the only one to be condemned. He has also given the name
of some fellow in London—a cousin of some kind, evidently, who disposed of some of the stolen
goods for him.
Bella has, to her great delight, persuaded her grandpapa to let Madam Duval come to Hartfield.
I gave my permission as well, knowing that you could very easily take her back to the Abbey and keep
her there when you return. However, Mr. Woodhouse has taken quite a fancy to the cat. I have
happened upon him when he was alone with the animal and found that he was talking to it quite as if
it were another person. It may be a sign of senility—I do hope it is not—but I cannot see that he is
generally declining, and it may be that he only desires a little bit of company.
I hope you are fortified by the sea breezes and the granting of your heart’s desire, because when
you return, there will be a severe trial to be borne—the Sucklings will arrive next week.

Your faithful brother,

John

FINIS