It did not rain. A brisk bright day saw Emma in a habit borrowed from Augusta Elton (smelling of mothballs since her Maple Grove days) setting out from Hartfield on a horse borrowed from Mr Weston, and led by Mr Knightley with James walking in attendance.
Mr Woodhouse, standing at the door with Miss Bates supporting him, seemed speechless with horror, although whether it was horror at his daughter’s foolhardiness or his own at remaining outside for so long without hat or top coat, was not clear.
It is a tribute to the power of the human mind that it may shape and colour the inanimate according to mood and attitude. On the morning that Emma and Mr Knightley visited Donwell Abbey, Emma saw no dark corners, long tables, heavy panelling or unwanted ghosts. It was a warm, golden place, whose antiquity made it mellow and welcoming rather than overpowering. Her hand in Knightley’s, she was struck by the perfectly extraordinary fact that she had never paced the stone corridors or walked up the oak staircase, with only Knightley at her side.
As a child, Donwell had been beyond her limits, as a married woman, it had been poisoned for her by the lurking presence of Frank and the too close threat of Harriet Martin’s supposed perfection. This visit was a new experience – they both felt that.
Nor did the excited arrival of Mrs Hodges, the housekeeper, who was woman enough to guess at once what this quiet inspection presaged, lessen Emma’s confidence in the future she could now foretell for herself.
They moved into the gardens – as splendidly arrayed in pink and lilac and yellow and white as any bridal festoon. The trees were freshly green, the lawns smooth as new carpeting and only a fear of anticipation being the enemy to fulfilment, hindered Emma from sharing with Knightley an imagined picture of children – their children – at least four or five of them (two boys and three girls, she thought) – running merrily across the grass. She contented herself with a single sentence, ‘It is a place for a family to live.’
In such perfect happiness, there remained one matter yet to be settled; its shadow could not be long or dark where there was so much decision, but nevertheless it must be broached. ‘I believe we should tell papa of our plans, as soon as ever I have a glass of Madeira and water in my hand,’ said Emma, placing an early rosebud in Mr Knightley’s lapel, ‘because I certainly will not be able to disguise for very long that my whole heart is turned towards Donwell.’
Mr Knightley being in uncomplicated agreement – his kindness to his father-in-law had none of the guilty fervour foisted on the daughter – there only remained the need for an appropriate moment. To Emma’s chagrin, for at first she accused herself of cowardice, this did not present itself for some days; either there were callers or social occasions which could not be avoided – for the Sucklings’ prolonged visit continued to be the excuse for many festivities – or her father was indisposed or, curiously, for no very good reason, unavailable, even to the extent of being absent from his habitual chair at the habitual times. When he was in the drawing-room, Miss Bates, as generously attentive as ever, made it impossible for Emma to conduct a private conversation.
After a full week had passed, Emma was both impatient and bewildered. ‘I do believe papa is determined to avoid my company!’ she cried to Knightley one night in their bedroom. ‘I can hardly credit such a possibility but this night I saw him hide from me behind the door of the parlour and then scurry away when I had passed!’
Mr Knightley laughed. ‘Perhaps he does not want to hear your news! Or perhaps he has a secret himself.’
‘Papa, a secret! Fie, Mr Knightley. You must keep your imagination under more control!’
Eventually, Emma gave up calm rational waiting and determined on direct action combined with cunning. The next morning she saw Miss Bates lead out Mr Woodhouse for his daily walk to the shrubberies, and she immediately joined them.
‘What a very fine day!’ she cried, eyes bright. ‘I cannot hang over my accounts another moment.’
‘A very fine day – how true!’ echoed Miss Bates, who, Emma noticed somewhat to her surprise, had her bonnet trimmed with a frill that was nearer pink than old-maidenly mauve.
‘I think the wind a little cool – not quite trustworthy, indeed a most untrustworthy wind,’ said Mr Woodhouse, glancing anxiously from one lady to the other. ‘Perhaps I shall go inside—’
‘No! No!’ exclaimed both ladies at once and, taking an arm on either side, they set off down the gravel path.
Direct action having succeeded, it now only remained for Emma to put into practice cunning. ‘Oh dear!’ she began. ‘Oh, Miss Bates, I have forgotten a message for Sterne.’
The words were scarcely out of her mouth before Miss Bates had dropped Mr Woodhouse’s arm – after giving it a most intimate and meaning squeeze, which Emma could hardly avoid noticing – and had positively run back to the house, leaving behind her a trail of, ‘So pleased to help – father and daughter – a fine day – an excellent day!’
She had not, Emma recollected, heard the message for Cook but as it was a perfectly unnecessary instruction about raspberry jelly, that was of no consequence at all. At last she could break the news to her father!
‘Dear papa – I have been trying to talk to you—’
‘Oh! Oh!’ His face was alarmed, pale, quivering.
Emma hardened her heart. ‘Mr Knightley has been living here with us as my husband for too long!’
‘Oh! Oh!’
‘Now, papa, we shall sit down on the white bench and I shall tell you calmly—’
‘The white bench, you say? My dear – the damp—’
‘You are right, not the bench. We will walk.’ Emma’s sense of urgency was increased by seeing, as they turned, Miss Bates appear at a window, although she seemed to be gesticulating towards her bosom, rather than making any attempt to rejoin them. ‘I have something to tell you. My mind is made up. You shall have a room, two rooms, three rooms – Donwell is quite big enough—’ Carried away by her brave telling, Emma did not at first notice that Mr Woodhouse was also trying to speak.
‘My dear – Emma – I, also—’
‘So you will not be too upset if we close Hartfield and remove to Donwell? Dearest papa, you have always desired my happiness—’
‘Oh, no. No. It would not do at all.’ Mr Woodhouse shook his head. ‘Close Hartfield. Oh, no, no!’
‘But papa!’ Suddenly Emma was near tears, a child again.
‘My dear – you do not understand – there is no reason to close Hartfield – I also have news for you – perhaps you will not be surprised – Miss Bates feels sure you have suspected these many months, although at my age, I would never have suspected – your dear mother – happiness – Oh!’
‘Papa? Tell me, what are you trying to say?’
‘Miss Bates has done me the honour of accepting my invitation to become the second Mrs Woodhouse.’
Emma, speechless, stared at her father who wore a glowing look of pride, modesty and a little shy pleasure at making an announcement which could cause his clever daughter so much amazement.
‘I told Miss Bates you would be taken aback. I had been a little nervous, I must confess, of breaking it to you. But now you see why I need not move from Hartfield. I shall have a wife.’
Emma, still struck dumb, also saw why he had been avoiding her and could now understand all Miss Bates’ recent cheerful humour and particularly the pink frill. She was seeing herself as a bride.
‘I have written to Isabella already but the letter is not yet sent. She will be pleased, I believe, at seeing me happy.’ Now the expression was a slightly contradictory mix of complacency and pleading.
‘Yes, papa,’ stumbled out Emma. ‘Your happiness has always been our first thought.’
‘And now you will not have to think so hard,’ said Mr Woodhouse and this time complacency had definitely won the majority of his features.
Emma’s amazement continued. Yet Mr Woodhouse was not in his dotage, however he might on occasion pretend to be, and Miss Bates was a respectable vicar’s daughter, even though lack of financial backing had made her play a humbler role in society. But since John Knightley’s downfall, money and position no longer meant so much to Emma that she could see them stand in the way of happiness. If she had been able to believe Miss Bates a selfish, scheming sort of woman, she would never have been able to approve of the matter, although it were beyond her power to halt it. But she knew Miss Bates was a good, true woman, properly attached to her father and his family and – whatever scheming she had employed (Emma remembered Mrs Tidmarsh’s advice not to underestimate Miss Bates) – it had led to an outcome which would be of benefit to all, and most particularly to herself.
Mr Knightley, although nearly as thunderstruck as his wife, felt these benefits at once and added another. ‘Since Miss Bates must be considered, despite a penchant for pink frills, past the age of bearing children, we may be sure that little Henry Knightley, although supplanted from Donwell, may inherit Hartfield. All in all I can only commend Mr Woodhouse and Miss Bates for acting with excellent good sense.’
***
There were now three marriages to be talked of in Highbury. One of course was presumed to have already taken place, although nothing was known of Frank Churchill and Mrs Tidmarsh beyond a brief note to Mr Weston in which he was presumed to have announced his intentions. From that day, Mr Weston, usually so fulsomely loquacious on the subject of his son, never raised his name in public again.
The second marriage was to be held in June, between the Reverend Dugobair Tidmarsh and Miss Elizabeth Martin. The awkwardness that might have risen over Mr Tidmarsh’s unfortunate connection with such a disreputable lady as Philomena Tidmarsh was much diminished by his seeming utterly unaware of any difficulty. His only comment on her sudden departure, made to Mr Martin and overheard by Emma, was, ‘Queen Jupiter vult perdere dementat prius.’ But, since he did not translate, it made no one any the wiser. He was indeed radiant with happiness, impatient only for the marriage to be over so that he could take his bride back to London where she could light up the dark corners of St Peter’s. Already, it was established that Mrs Martin’s wedding present would be an excellent pianoforte in just the same style as her own.
The third marriage, as was to be expected, caused far more comment than the other two. Ford’s shop saw a daily gathering of scandalised ladies amongst whom the voices of Mrs Elton and the happy couple’s dear friend, Mrs Goddard, were the loudest. But what cannot be altered must be accepted and soon there was a general prediction that a marriage made for reasons of comfort rather than any romantic attachment may be as likely to succeed when the participants are approaching the end of their lives than if they still have many years in front of them.
‘To be sure, they will not have time to get tired of each other,’ was Mrs Elton’s generous comment, after she and Mr Elton had enjoyed a fine dinner at Hartfield, over which wedding arrangements had been discussed.
Emma’s remaining anxiety was Miss Bates’ desire to give Isabella pleasure by having all her children (or those that could walk) as attendants at the ceremony. Believing Isabella’s disappointment would be much less than Miss Bates’ if this did not take place, and determined to avoid a scene that could only be ridiculous, Emma encouraged Mr Woodhouse to arrange a wedding so quickly that Henry and John could not be retrieved from school and only Isabella and her husband might attend.
The marriage took place; Miss Bates said ‘I do’ three times and threw her bouquet in the direction of Mrs Goddard – a triumphant frivolity Emma had not been able to curb. Now there was nothing to stop Emma and Mr Knightley from beginning their new life at Donwell Abbey.
***
It was early summer; long months of nature’s most beneficent weather lay ahead. Each new day found Emma more content, more grateful for her contentment.
The morning after Elizabeth Martin and the Reverend Dugobair Tidmarsh’s marriage – following which an elegant reception had been held in Harriet Martin’s even further extended dining-room – Emma looked at her husband across their own breakfast table. ‘I have seldom seen such a joyful conjunction of two good people, about which I can only foretell happiness; yet – oh, Knightley! – for myself, I would rather climb a mountain in a hair shirt than progress again through the first year or two of marriage!’
Mr Knightley smiled and then looked grave. ‘I would agree with your sentiment, exactly, my dear, were it not for one part of your declaration that I resolutely refute.’
‘Oh!’ – she held her toast outside her mouth, surprised at his tone.
‘Who is this “Knightley” you address? He sounds to me like an old man due, indeed overdue, for retirement! Besides, I remember a promise—’
‘Knightley? – A promise? I take your meaning—’ her face too became grave, ‘oh, George, dearest George!’
‘Now I am in complete accordance with you.’
‘Yet I could wish yours were a less royal name for I do not wish to be your courtier!’
‘I wish you to be nothing less than who you are.’
‘And who is that, may I inquire?’ But the eyes were too bright, the face too inviting for Knightley to find the time to explain. With a shocking disregard for the servants, the toast rack and his cup of coffee, which went flying across the table, he dashed round and swept Emma into his arms with all the passion of the youngest and most ardent of lovers.