The unnatural life must be continued through Christmas; Emma knew it but her impatience to be gone grew stronger each day. Isabella saw and felt sorry for it. She sat in her chair with a basket full of children’s stockings all in need of a mother’s loving darn. Emma, with far less to do now both adults were taking the burden from her, sat at the piano but her fingers remained obstinately stiff and unmusical. It was two days before Christmas and Mr Knightley had not yet returned from Donwell.
‘Dearest Emma, you have done more for me than any sister should expect.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Emma went to the window.
‘Mr Knightley will not be back till tomorrow.’
‘I am not looking for Mr Knightley. I was looking at the Foundling Hospital.’
‘Ah – poor children! To be without parents! I can hardly bear to think of it!’
Emma returned and came to sit with her sister; she looked into her sweet, kind face.
‘What is it, my dear?’ Isabella pulled a thread through a little stocking and broke the end off with her teeth.
‘You approach life with admirable simplicity!’
‘I am no intellectual being, it is true. I leave such things to others.’ A pause. ‘Did I tell, my dear, that I have invited Mr Dugobair Tidmarsh and Mrs Tidmarsh to our Christmas dinner? They are so dark and lonely in that great gloomy house of theirs and I thought it would please you.’
Emma nodded and turned away; for her cheeks would blush at the thoughts she must hide.
‘One of the joyous gifts conferred by children,’ continued Isabella comfortably, ‘is that one may never be melancholy in their presence. When I consider that this will be the last Christmas I may spend in this house where all my children have been born and lived, a sadness overtakes me; but then Henry or John or Bella enters with a plea for the cup and ball I hid when they broke the kitchen window and one look at the rosy face, the contrite frown ready to break into a laugh or purse into a kiss – they know they will always get their way with me – and my sadness is disappeared as if it has never been.’
‘Your happiness resides in your children, sister; you are fortunate; you are good.’
‘And with my husband, Emma dear. A husband must come first.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ Once more Emma wandered to the piano but this time she did not even attempt a note.
Isabella’s words proved very true. A Christmas that should have been a melancholy event was turned into a happy festivity by all the joyful noise and tumble of children who saw their father restored to them after a long absence, their mother back in their midst after her confinement, and their much-loved uncle and aunt in case they should need further attention. They were cheerful, unspoilt children and seemed quite unaware that their presents were diminished greatly in quality and number from the previous year.
The food was simpler too and the wine less abundantly served but, as they sat down, ten at the table, Emma thought it would do very well as a last supper. She turned to her left where Mr Tidmarsh waited hungrily for the mutton to be carved.
‘Mr Knightley and I will leave earlier than the Mr John Knightleys.’ Mr Tidmarsh knew the situation and had been a great comfort to Isabella throughout the days of her husband’s return.
Mr Tidmarsh bowed. ‘I shall endeavour to be of service.’
‘You are kind.’
‘Mrs Tidmarsh will also do everything in her power to help your sister.’
Now it was Emma’s turn to bow. She had never managed to know Mr Tidmarsh very well, his learning proving a barrier to friendship, either in reality or in Emma’s imagination. Whenever she was with him, she learnt, and, although she enjoyed the learning, she could not be altogether comfortable with the sensation of inferiority it inevitably brought with it.
The meat arrived and Mr Tidmarsh, instead of falling eagerly upon it as was his usual habit – Emma suspected the meals provided in his home by Mrs Tidmarsh were inadequate for the needs of a young energetic man – took to poking about the slices in an absent-minded way.
‘Gravy, Mr Tidmarsh?’ inquired Emma, as a reminder.
‘Mrs Tidmarsh is not as strong as she appears,’ he said suddenly. ‘Her spirit sustains her body—’
‘Oh!’ Emma could think of nothing better.
‘I had thought that country air—’
How Emma blushed! And was angry, guilty, vexed and embarrassed. ‘I – we—’
‘Not now – not yet – the cold—’ He, too, blushed, poked his meat furiously.
‘Please – I beg you—’ So Emma muttered and blushed as Mr Tidmarsh muttered and blushed but she did not give an invitation for Mrs Tidmarsh to Hartfield – she could not.
‘Well then—’ finished Mr Tidmarsh and, at last, began to eat.
It struck Emma as she watched his satisfaction that he might not have noticed the absence of the invitation he had sought.
The dinner continued – everybody in the best of spirits – and even John Knightley’s haggard looks were disguised by a brighter colour.
Afterwards, while Mr Knightley sat beside Emma on their sofa, Isabella and Mrs Tidmarsh left the room and soon there was a sound of heavy scuffling and a bang on the door before it could be opened.
‘Mama has prepared a surprise,’ said Henry, coming in importantly like a little footman. ‘You must pull your seats round.’
The servants appeared next, dragging a load with Isabella darting smilingly around and Mrs Tidmarsh, self-conscious, wearing a grand air and an uncharacteristic bloom on her cheeks, followed. It was a harp. All was explained: Philomena Tidmarsh had been prevailed upon to play; this was a rare treat; they must applaud her even as she sat on a little gilt chair and raised her arms to ripple up the strings just as her cape sleeves rippled down her naked arms. At very least, it was a splendid sight.
‘I thought she would not admit to professional talent,’ whispered Mr Knightley to Emma.
‘She has given up the deception.’
‘So now she gives us pleasure.’
Emma looked to see irony in her husband’s face; but there was none, could be none. As soon as Mrs Tidmarsh embarked on ‘Strike the Harp in Praise of Bragela’, it was clear beyond doubt – even to Emma who was an imperfect judge of the instrument – that here was a very superior player. Even the children sat still while the room filled with noble sounds.
‘I think of Highbury,’ whispered Emma to Mr Knightley; she bethought herself further, ‘and of Donwell.
Mr Knightley smiled and inclined his head closer to hers. The weeks of anguish were replaced, for one evening at least, by the joys of a happy family life – raised to a higher pitch by Mrs Tidmarsh’s art and the consciousness of what had gone before. This house might have reached the end of its era as the John Knightleys’ home – they must leave it in ignominy in the world’s terms – but this evening, this tableau vivant told another story. They were happy and this happiness of an hour or two would always be more real than cleverly-set bricks, a fine staircase and a broad front door.
‘I thank you. I thank you!’ John Knightley did not try to hide the tears in his eyes. His thanks enlarged to include everyone in the room.
Mrs Tidmarsh breathed deep and lifted up her arms again; the music seemed to come out of her white brow and elegant nose, her red curled lips.
Emma sighed and shut her eyes. The river between Donwell and Abbey-Mill sparkled, fast and quiet, in front of her; willow trees trailed their long fingers above, weeds stretched hand upon hand below. Emma sighed again.
‘You are tired,’ whispered Mr Knightley.
‘A little.’ Ah, the secrets, the secrets! Emma saw Frank Churchill’s hangdog but jaunty back disappear along the bank, Harriet’s plumply pleased figure at the gate of Abbey-Mill. Frowning, Emma brought herself back to the present, to the white sinuosities of Philomena’s fingers, to her back straight as a pillar – but then even that turned itself into the dignity of a woman left behind in the hall of the Foundling Hospital, the dignity of someone who stood beside a woman who was not quite a lady. Once more Emma closed her eyes and this time it was Jane Fairfax she saw; and heard her slender fingers make music from the ivory keys.