Emma’s fears that she had invited a garish cuckoo into her nest lessened quickly and in a day or two had quite disappeared. Mrs Tidmarsh was very unlike any other lady in Highbury, in looks and manner – that would not change and for that her hostess should have been prepared since it was the very reason she had felt drawn to her. But the particularly exaggerated dress of her arrival had not been repeated on the days that followed, nor that high-pitched level of excitement. Poor Mrs Tidmarsh, without experience of the English countryside, dressed and acted out of nervousness and a wish to impress; indeed she admitted it to Emma. Once she had been shown her room – which she admired excessively, saying it made her feel like a shepherdess – and was assured the harp caused no problems, she settled down into a much easier pitch. Besides, for the first two days she was so tired from the journey that she descended very little from her room and, when she did, won the heart of Mr Woodhouse by a willingness to take any of his health-giving potions, not excluding the noxious gruel.
‘I tip it into the poor geranium,’ she confided in Emma, as they sat in the drawing-room, on the third afternoon of the visit, ‘that way I do not disappoint your dear, kind-hearted father and do not kill myself.’
‘I wonder that no one has thought of that before,’ replied Emma, determined not to be shocked.
‘It is just as well for the geranium that no one has,’ laughed Philomena. ‘Now, tomorrow, I must catch up with Dugobair and become a tourist. I feel quite strong enough. May I meet your old friend, Mrs Weston?’
Emma reassured her this was only too easy as Mrs Weston had far too many responsibilities to be ever away from her home.
This surprised Mrs Tidmarsh considerably and she began further questions about the ladies of Highbury. She showed a great interest in Mrs Goddard’s school. ‘The pupils pay, you say?’
‘Oh, yes. Mr Martin’s wife—’ Emma paused and then went bravely on – ‘Harriet Martin attended the school and so did his sister, Elizabeth, and one further sister, Louisa, is still there, I believe. You will know that the Martins have come into quite a bit of money—’ another gulp – ‘or rather Mrs Martin. They are building a dining-room.’
‘A dining-room!’ exclaimed Mrs Tidmarsh disapprovingly, clearly not appreciating the significance of such an essential to social life. ‘If I came into money, I would not spend it on something as dull as a dining-room; it is always the dreariest room in the house – at St Peter’s I never enter the room from one bishop’s visit to the next!’
‘What would you build?’ asked Emma.
‘A turret! With winding stone stairs and battlements. I should fly a flag—’
‘Oh, Philomena!’
‘Do you remember I once informed you I was writing a novel—’
‘I am not sure—’
‘I stopped. I started. I stopped. And now I have started again. It is to have a heroine who is as brave as Jeanne d’Arc and as beautiful as Desdemona.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you not like the sound of it?’
‘Oh yes. It is just that I thought you would write something more – more serious—’
‘Serious! You do not think Shakespeare combined with an admirable French heroine—’
‘The French are our enemies,’ tried Emma, timidly, feeling out of her depth.
‘The war has ended—’
‘Only very recently. But I had thought you might write about people who are closer to our lives – more real—’
‘You are quite in the right of it. I must not waste my intelligence on sentimental rubbish. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings – on which subject, is it true, as I have been informed, that the ball is deferred?’
‘Only till Friday.’
‘But Dugobair may miss it.’
‘No, indeed. He has promised Mr Knightley to return.’
‘They are very thick, your husband and my dear vicar.’
‘Yes. They are. I am glad of it. I believe they give each other great pleasure,’ Emma smiled at the picture of these two gentlemen, so unlike, and so happy in each other’s company. ‘They instruct each other, one in the art of countryside management and the other in classical learning.’ Indeed, as she finished speaking, she saw the two of them riding up the driveway side by side and, as if in illustration of her description, as they entered the hallway, she heard Mr Tidmarsh proclaim in his clever, quick way, ‘Naturam expellas furca, tamen usque recurret,’ followed by Mr Knightley’s good-humoured plea, ‘Translate, if you please, sir.’ On which Mr Tidmarsh laughed and pronounced, ‘You may drive out nature with a pitchfork but she is constantly running back.’ ‘Oh, I can see why John made a friend of you!’ cried Knightley.
They came into the drawing-room, tousled and hearty, with even Mr Tidmarsh’s sallow cheeks coloured by sun and wind.
Together they removed to Emma’s special round table where they were joined by Mr Woodhouse and Miss Bates. Afternoon cups of tea had become an institution – both Tidmarshes were thought far too under-nourished by Mr Woodhouse – and, as Emma presided over the teapot and sugar tongs, her heart swelled with pride at the scene of cheerfulness for which she could not fail to take principal credit.
‘We looked in at Abbey-Mill Farm earlier,’ said Mr Knightley. ‘Mr Tidmarsh was keen to renew his acquaintance with Mr Martin.’
‘It was my acquaintance,’ objected Mrs Tidmarsh gaily. ‘My cowardly son did not join us at Miss Eliza O’Neill’s performance on the excuse of pressing parish business. Now, Mrs Knightley – you have grown all of a sudden very silent – support me in my remembrance. Is it not true that Mr Tidmarsh declined the honour of an evening with Mr Martin – although I believe it was Miss O’Neill he avoided rather than your friend!’
Since Emma made no answer, Mr Knightley, after casting her an inquiring look, took up the point. ‘Mr Tidmarsh met Robert Martin, I understand, on an earlier occasion – the occasion on which Mrs Martin was staying in my brother’s house.’
‘To be sure. I had quite forgot. Pretty little Harriet Smith, I met her with Isabella. I must be allowed to visit them very soon. Tomorrow, perhaps. I thought Mr Martin such an honest, upright man, it will be a pleasure to see how he makes out in the way of marriage. Emma, may we forego Mrs Weston one more day, and go for the gentleman-farmer?’
But Emma seemed to need all her concentration for a sugar lump that would not be separated from its fellows and fell back off the tongs time and time again, until her face was quite heated. On this occasion, Mr Tidmarsh took up the conversation. I have never seen such a charming pastoral, though they knock walls about just now. Mrs Martin even persuaded Miss Elizabeth Martin to play a tune to show off their new pianoforte. Though her modesty forbade her more than a few bars, I was struck by her talent.’
‘Praise from my son indeed,’ commented Mrs Tidmarsh.
‘We are sorry Mr Tidmarsh must take his leave from us so soon,’ Mr Woodhouse offered, keen to be a part of the general benignity.
Mr Tidmarsh bowed; Mr Knightley comforted Mr Woodhouse by informing him that their guest would return; Miss Bates allowed that no one would wish to miss the Sucklings’ Ball (as the Coles’ dinner was termed); Mrs Tidmarsh smiled at Miss Bates and said that the last ball she had been to was on the eve of the Battle of Waterloo; and only Emma was quiet, the glow that had been around her when they first sat down, dimmed. Gradually her spirits revived, her voice was heard again, but more as if she made an effort than as a natural effusion of happiness.
The next morning, Mr Tidmarsh left early to catch the post-chaise and Mrs Tidmarsh returned to her theme of an early visit to the Martins. Somewhat to her surprise, Emma remained unconvinced that this should take precedence over a visit to Randalls; she insisted that Mrs Weston deserved their attention first and that a visit to Randalls could be combined with a visit to the harp, languishing unplayed in Miss Bates’ rooms; moreover, they could reach all these objectives on foot which, with a rest in between, would do her dear friend good – whereas Abbey-Mill Farm was way beyond Highbury and the carriage would have to be ordered, perhaps difficult as James was suffering from gout. ‘Besides,’ here Emma lifted her voice and smiled at Mrs Tidmarsh, ‘if we did go, we would certainly not find Mr Martin at home in bright weather like this and that, I cannot help believing, my dear Philomena, would seriously diminish your pleasure in the visit!’
Overwhelmed by such a high tide of good reasons to give up a project which was more a whim than an absolute need, Mrs Tidmarsh deferred to her friend and, by eleven in the morning, the two ladies were halfway along the path to Randalls. Philomena breathed deeply of the mild air – particularly so for April – and felt sure she smelled the sharp sweetness of eucalyptus. ‘Ah! How that reminds me of a house Mr Tidmarsh and I inhabited in France – a long summer of study and music – it was the last before we returned to London and he fell ill. My dear, never forget the blessings of a happy marriage.’
‘But I thought – or perhaps it is a consequence of the decease of Mr Tidmarsh—?’
‘You are delicate, my dear Emma. I will not marry again, that is true. I do not believe, as is said, marriages are made in heaven. If an equal partnership were possible – if affection could go hand in hand with respect and friendship – but I must not lecture you – you who are living the very situation that I describe?’ She paused expectantly – the question mark like the Damoclean sword over Emma’s head.
‘It is true,’ began Emma, ‘that Mr Knightley and I, owing to our long association – I have known him as long as I can remember – do not have a marriage based on a sudden,’ she hesitated, but the word must be said, ‘passion—’
‘Ah!’ Mrs Tidmarsh drew in a breath.
‘He has always been my guide in what is right; his upright nature, goodness—’
‘—upright nature, goodness—’ repeated Mrs Tidmarsh.
‘—have shown me the way of right behaviour since I was a child—’
‘But you are no longer a child?’
‘No. No. I am not—’
‘And therein lies a lack – a lack that leads away from perfection—’
‘He is not used to confiding in me. Why should he be?’ Emma had stopped walking, and unconscious of her actions, dug a hole in the gravel with her toe, making it quite damp and dirty in the process.
‘A lack of openness,’ suggested Mrs Tidmarsh, placing her gloved hand (in maroon leather with gold buttons) on Emma’s arm.
Emma looked at the glove askance, but did not see it. How had she said so much to this stranger at her side? How could she be so disloyal to her beloved Knightley as to discuss his faults without use of thumbscrew or rack? A tear came into her eye and she turned an appealing look to Mrs Tidmarsh.
‘I understand,’ Mrs Tidmarsh bowed her head, ‘Your silence tells me all; I see you regret your confidence – the feeling does you credit – but do not fear, the subject is closed. I am a clam – Mr Knightley is as perfectly virtuous as his name. We shall walk on.’
They walked on; the sun continued to shine; Emma’s tear dried and her little act of betrayal began to seem less important. By the time they reached the front of the house, bounded by yellow daffodils like a ribbon round a bandbox, the two bonnets nodded cheerily together like any two gossips on a village square.
‘I saw you approaching from the nursery window!’ Mrs Weston was at the door, her lack of elegance – for she had been supervising the babies’ bathing, if the dampness of the front of her dress were proper indication – made up for by the warmth of her welcome. ‘Mrs Tidmarsh – for I know all about you – will have to forgive my lack of formality; with three babies under two years of age it is impossible to aspire to proper appearances. Come in, come in!’
They did so – Emma most happily and Mrs Tidmarsh with curiosity for she had never been in a home which so combined a high level of gentility with human nature in the raw. She expanded on this to Emma on their continuing their walk to Highbury after half an hour of bustle and childish cries and tantrums.
‘Little Frank Churchill is a noisy baby, certainly,’ laughed Emma.
‘Little, you call him – he seemed a giant!’
‘His father is a tall, well-made man – but narrow rather than broad.’
‘Ah, the runaway father – here is a story out of romance! Has any more been heard of him? I remember when we talked in London, you told me he had gone to Europe.’
‘He is thought to be in England once more – he was seen at Enscombe, the large Churchill estate that he is to inherit.’
‘And his frame of mind? From all that you told me, he is an example of a most passionate man!’
Emma blushed and was glad to find them entering Highbury. Had she really described Frank Churchill to Philomena in such terms, such intimate terms? ‘Now,’ she said briskly, ‘we will find your harp directly; you will be glad to sit down quietly, I have no doubt.’
Faced with her instrument, Mrs Tidmarsh became a different person, Emma thought, as she watched her caress the gold wood surround and lightly ripple the strings. She seemed – how could she phrase it? – complete, perhaps that was the word. And, as she sat in the little room, with its desolate air of unuse, she wondered whether Mrs Tidmarsh’s need for a husband was supplanted by her need for her harp. It was an original idea to her – for in the musical area, Mrs Tidmarsh was modest and did not allow herself any special talent. Yet as her long fingers, released from maroon and gold, tried a few gentle runs, Emma, sitting idly, felt convinced that if Mrs Tidmarsh were ever to be described as passionate, it would be a passion directed not to a person, certainly not to a man, a husband, but to her harp.
‘You have slept!’ Mrs Tidmarsh stood over Emma in mock accusation – ‘and, while you slept, a knock came on the door, and a young man’s head came round. Just for a minute, and then he was gone. A very handsome young man!’
Emma sat up straight. She had been asleep – and dreaming, of the sea, she thought, though the image receded fast enough with Philomena energetic in front of her. ‘You are supposed to be the one who lacks health!’ she smiled.
‘So you are not interested in my visitor?’
‘A young man, you say?’
‘He pronounced, “I heard such music!”, closed the door again and disappeared. I looked out of the window but only saw a parade of burly countryfolk – what can they eat to reach such a size? – and that is when I woke you.’
‘You are a siren,’ said Emma, ‘drawing the soul out of the young men of Highbury – although I cannot think but that you have imagined the “handsome” part, unless it were Mr Elton. Was he very pompous-looking, as if his sermons were printed in good black ink once a week?’
‘Not at all! So it must remain a mystery. I shall tell Dugobair I am the Siren of Highbury – he will be most amused, although in truth it is depressing to think I could not keep you awake, my dear!’
‘I believe it is an inherited family trait,’ smiled Emma, ‘quite impossible to resist.’
‘You refer to your dear sister, Isabella. However, you do not have the excuse of a house full of children to wear you down.’
‘I am shamed. But come, we must return to Hartfield. I do have some household duties and in the country we keep to our dinner hours as if we were on board one of His Majesty’s ships of the line!’
It had been a most companionable day. Emma allowed Merry to dress her hair before dinner with a most smiling visage for her little mirror. Mr Knightley found her thus and showed his pleasure by sitting down to watch the performance.
‘You are not sorry, after all, to have Mrs Tidmarsh in our midst?’ he said.
‘I am not sorry,’ she agreed. ‘Her conversation is stimulating to my mind; it takes me from damp sheets and lardy cakes.’
‘Oh, Emma! Can your husband not do that for you?’ he smiled.
‘He can when he is here but a husband must be out and about.’
‘And have you progressed further with Mr Pope and Dr Johnson?’
Emma admitted that she had not; but she had listened to Mrs Tidmarsh playing and that had been most uplifting; it did not, after all, seem necessary to mention the soporific effect. Mr Knightley expressed himself keen to share this experience and, with good humour showing on both their faces, they descended, arm in arm, to the drawing-room.