Mr. Knightley's Diary Page 8

  I thought how kind he was, and I was pleased he had entered into our ways already. It was very good of him to look in on Miss Bates, and to say how agreeable he found her chatter.

  Miss Nash was there, and I took the opportunity of asking her how Harriet did.

  'Very poorly, thank you for asking,' she said. 'The poor girl has a shocking cold and a sore throat. She has kept to her bed since returning from Hartfield, and will not be out of it for several days.'

  The service began, and I thought Elton looked subdued, though it could have been my imagination, for afterwards, Miss Nash said she thought the service had been particularly good, and Mr Longridge declared it the best service he had been to for a long time. He left me with the intention of calling on the Bateses on his way home, so that he could tell them all about it.

  I walked to Hartfield, and found the family indoors. Mr Woodhouse had recovered from his shock of the night before, and was sitting by the fire with Isabella, the baby on his knee. Little Emma was looking placid and contented.

  Her namesake, my Emma, was playing with the other children. She looked up as I entered the room, but she could not meet my eye.

  So! Elton had spoken, I thought, but I did not plague her by mentioning it.

  Mr Woodhouse was shocked that I had walked over to Hartfield in all the snow, and he was even more alarmed when I said that I had been to church. Isabella asked about the service, but Emma made no enquiries. Instead, she became absorbed in Henry's blocks, and did not look up until the conversation had moved on to other things.

  John was cheerful, having worked off his ill-humour yesterday evening, and was enjoying his children. Despite Mr Woodhouse's protests, he ordered Henry and John wrapped up warmly, then he and I took them out into the garden. They delighted in walking through the snow, trying to step in our footsteps.

  When we returned to the house, we exchanged presents, and I enjoyed seeing Emma's face when she unwrapped the gloves I had bought her. I rejoiced in her present to me, a pen-wiper, which was to replace the one she made for me ten years ago.

  'It is much better made than the last one,' I remarked.

  She smiled, and said she hoped so.

  Her spirits improved as she watched the children unwrapping their presents, and then she encouraged them to sing for me. They had already sung for the others. To begin with, the children stood mute before us, Henry and John looking bashful, Bella giggling and George trying to do what his brothers and sister did. Isabella gave them encouragement, and Henry began to sing. The others, emboldened, joined in with:

  Rejoice our Saviour he was born

  On Christmas day in the morning

  Or so I took the words to be, for they came out with a lisp and a stutter that was perfectly charming. Their efforts were heartily praised, and each was rewarded with an orange.

  After dinner, when the children were in bed, Emma suggested we play at bullet pudding. John declared that he was too old for such a game, but when the mound of flour was brought in, with the bullet set on top of it, he joined in with as much enthusiasm as anyone. Isabella was the first to let it fall, and when she had retrieved it with her teeth, her face was covered completely in flour. She looked such a strange sight that we all burst out laughing, and Isabella had to wipe her face quickly for fear of the flour choking her if she started to laugh, too.

  John was next to let it fall, by cutting the flour too finely, and when he emerged with the bullet held triumphantly between his teeth, his face was worse than his wife's had been. Emma was the next to let the bullet fall, and Mr Woodhouse worried about her until she had restored the bullet to its place at the top of the shrinking pyramid and wiped her face clean. I, too, came in for my share of flour, and ended up with a great deal on my coat as well as my face.

  Our evening did not end there. Emma played the pianoforte and we sang carols, and then Isabella played and Emma and I had an impromptu dance. It ended only when she declared her sister must have her share of the fun, and she sat down at the pianoforte herself.

  So ended a very enjoyable Christmas Day. Mr Woodhouse entreated me to stay the night, rather than face the walk home, but I would not be persuaded.

  As I walked home through the freezing night, I felt I had never liked a day more in my life.

  Saturday 26 December

  Another snowy day. I walked over to Hartfield and spent it with my family. A cheerful sight met my eyes as I arrived. John was in the grounds with John and Henry. The boys were wrapped up warmly and were running about.

  We went into the house together. The smell of spices lingered on the air, and the fires sent it round the house.

  Emma seemed in better spirits, and before long we were playing hunt-the-slipper with the children. Isabella was as pleased as could be, playing with her children, and John joined in.

  He is a lucky man to have five such fine sons and daughters. I thought again of my hope to marry, and I was sorry that I had not managed to find a suitable wife.

  I passed the day most agreeably, regardless. I spent the time with the children, and when they were in bed, the adults played charades.

  Mr Woodhouse entreated me to stay the night, as he did yesterday, for he feared something might happen to me on the walk home, but I would not give in. I returned to the Abbey. There is nothing better than a crisp walk through the snow on a moonlit night at the end of a happy day.

  Sunday 27 December

  I went to church this morning, but I was not surprised to find that Emma and her father had not ventured out, for the snow was still lying thickly on the ground. There was some good to come out of the weather, however, for it would delay John and Isabella's departure. I said as much to Emma when I walked over to Hartfield after church.

  'To be sure, that is a happy thought,' she said.

  We took the older children out into the snow without, however, letting her father know.

  'Papa worries so,' she said. 'It is better not to draw attention to our absence. He will be happy sitting by the fire.'

  After a while, Isabella brought Bella and George out to join us. She had been torn between maternal solicitousness, not wishing the children to get their feet wet, and a desire to please her younger children, who had begged to be allowed to join us, Bella with words, and George by walking over to the window and looking longingly at the snow.

  'You must be thinking of marrying soon, Emma,' said Isabella.

  'I shall never marry,' said Emma firmly. 'What could marriage offer me that I do not already have? I could not have a better house, or a higher place in the neighbourhood, or more agreeable company, and no one could ever love me more than Papa.'

  'But they would love you in a different way,' said Isabella, 'and you would have your children.'

  'I do not need any children, when I can play with yours.'

  Isabella was torn between an urge to see her sister with a family, and a belief that Emma's children could not be any dearer than her own.

  'I only wish you did not have to leave us so soon,' said Emma.

  'I do not know how we will return to London in all this snow,' said Isabella.

  'We must do it if we can,' said John, joining us. 'I have to be in London on the twenty-eighth.'

  'Business will not continue in this weather, surely?' I said.

  'It will if it is at all possible.'

  We returned to the house, where we drank mulled wine, much to the concern of Mr Woodhouse, who thought it bad for our constitutions, and tried to encourage us to take a bowl of gruel. I was almost in a mood to humour him, so well at ease did I feel with my world.

  Almost!

  Monday 28 December

  John and Isabella were to have departed for London today, but the roads were still impassable, so they remained.

  John was fretful, but the children lifted him out of his ill-humour. Isabella was pleased to be still at Hartfield, and Mr Woodhouse went so far as to say that he hoped it might snow again tomorrow, so that he would have the pleasure of hi
s family for a few days longer.

  Emma was glad of her sister's company, and I was glad for her.

  'It is not easy for you, having no one of your own age to talk to,' I said, as I sat down beside her and watched her doing some embroidery.

  'I have Harriet. I am lucky to have found her. She is the best friend I could wish for. She is good-humoured, and I have the added enjoyment of feeling I am doing her good.'

  'She is not the right companion for you,' I said. I could see she was about to argue, so I added: 'She is three years younger than you.'

  'She is not my only friend,' said Emma. 'I have you.'

  I was gratified, but I said: 'I am so much older than you.'

  'Yet for all your superiority, I have yet to see you embroider a handkerchief,' she said archly, and held out her work for me to examine.

  'Perhaps I should learn!'

  'What? And neglect your work at the Abbey? William Larkins would never forgive me. He looks at me darkly as it is, when I pass him in Highbury. I am sure he thinks you spend far too much time here.'

  'Do you think so?' I asked her.

  'You can never spend enough time here for Papa and me.'

  For some reason, the answer did not satisfy me as it should have done. I am becoming as uneven-tempered as my brother!

  Wednesday 30 December

  John and Isabella were at last able to leave for London. They left with many good wishes, wrapped around with blankets, and with hot bricks at their feet. Mr Woodhouse insisted they take a hamper, in case they were delayed on the road, and he had his housekeeper pack it with so many good things that they will have enough to eat for three days!

  At last they set off. Emma and I walked to the edge of the estate, cutting off a loop of road, so that we could wave to the coach as it passed us again. The children returned our waves, their faces aglow.

  'And so they are gone,' said Emma. 'The time went so quickly, it does not seem two minutes since they arrived.'

  I was as disappointed as she, and I found myself already wishing for their return.

  'I will try and persuade John to visit us again at Easter.'

  'You are luckier than I, for you see them all when you visit London,' she said.

  'I do, but it is not the same as having them here in Surrey.'

  We watched the carriage until it had shrunk from view, and then we returned to the house. Emma fell behind me, and when I looked round, I saw her walking in my footprints! It reminded me of her antics as a little girl. But she is a little girl no longer. She is turning into a beautiful young woman.

  She joined me, and together we walked back to the house.

  'Poor Isabella!' sighed Mr Woodhouse. 'I wish she had not had to go back to London. It is so much better for her here.'

  Emma set about soothing him.

  'She will visit us again before long,' Emma said.

  By and by, he accepted their departure, and after playing a game of backgammon with him, I set out back to the Abbey. It was looking very pretty, with the snow still lingering on the branches of the trees. If only it had a mistress, it would be complete. But I have found no one who pleases me, and have no desire to marry for the sake of it.

  Thursday 31 December

  I walked to Hartfield to see how Emma and her father were bearing the loss of their guests.

  'Ah, Mr Knightley, we feel it sadly,' said Mr Woodhouse. 'Everyone is leaving us.'

  'Papa, tell Mr Knightley what Perry said of the children,' said Emma. 'He said he had never seen them looking better, did he not?'

  'That is because they have been staying at Hartfield, my dear,' he said. 'They should not have left us. And Mr Elton, too, is leaving us, and going to Bath. Young people are always running about.'

  'Mr Elton?' I asked.

  'He sent me a letter. A very pretty letter, very long and civil, was it not, Emma?' he asked.

  Emma agreed, although without much conviction, and when Mr Woodhouse showed me the letter, I could see why. Elton, though effusive in his compliments to Mr Woodhouse, had not mentioned Emma once. I guessed there must have been some unpleasantness, though Emma had not mentioned it, because, if not, his letter would have conveyed his compliments to her. Even so, his neglect to mention her was the kind of bad manners I would not have expected of Elton.

  Poor Emma! As I looked up from the letter and found her eyes on me, I did not know whether to be more exasperated by her folly, or more sorry for her at its outcome.

  'Emma is talking of walking over to Mrs Goddard's and seeing her friend, Harriet,' said Mr Woodhouse. 'She has not been able to enquire after her because of the snow, and she does not wish to be remiss.'

  I could guess why Emma was so eager to visit her friend. Although, eager is not the right word. Say rather, I could guess why she felt it her duty to pay an early call on Harriet: she had to break the news of Mr Elton's true feelings, and admit that his attentions had been for herself and not her friend. And she had to reveal that he had left the neighbourhood. I did not envy her the task, but I hardened my heart, for I sincerely hoped it would prevent her from creating havoc in the lives of those around her in the future.

  'Tell her she must not go, Mr Knightley,' said Mr Woodhouse. 'The weather is not fit. She will slip, and take cold, or lose her way.'

  'Nonsense,' I said cheerfully. 'The exercise will do her good. She is looking pale from spending too much time indoors. A brisk walk, in this winter sunshine, will put some colour in her cheeks. Perry himself recommends walking, you know, and I am sure he would consider the exercise beneficial.'

  I offered to sit with Mr Woodhouse whilst she was gone, and he accepted my offer. I set out the backgammon board, and as Emma left the house, her father and I settled down to a game. He played well, but I managed to beat him. I then offered to help him with some letters of business, and remained with him until Emma returned.

  She did not look happy. But her unpleasant task was behind her, and she had the new year to look forward to.

  I returned to the Abbey and began to plan in earnest for the spring.

  JANUARY

  Friday 1 January

  It is the New Year!

  I was not surprised to find that Emma had drawn up a list of resolutions. They were written in a fine hand, and exquisitely illustrated. If only she could put as much earnestness into keeping them as she does into making them!

  My New Year's resolution is to take a wife, if I can find anyone to suit.

  Saturday 2 January

  The thaw has left a number of problems in its wake at the Abbey. The stream has flooded, and as the thaw progresses there will be worse to come. I made provision for attending to matters once the water subsides.

  I called on Graham this morning to wish him the compliments of the season. He returned the greeting. I soon learnt that he, too, had received a letter from Mr Elton.

  'I should not wonder if his visit to Bath was prompted by all this talk of weddings and families,' said Mrs Lovage. 'First with Miss Taylor getting married, then with your brother and his family visiting, then with talk of Mr Frank Churchill paying a visit to Highbury. Mr Elton is at a time of life when he might well be thinking of marriage, and there are one or two families in Bath who would not be sorry to see him there.'

  I would not be at all surprised if he returned with a bride. It would soothe his pride, and put an end to the kind of scenes he has recently been a part of. Besides, who is there for him in Highbury? He cannot marry Emma, for Emma will not have him. No other woman is high enough in his estimation, I fear. I had thought, at one time, he might marry Jane Fairfax, and provide her with a respectable home. But now that he has shown his true worth, I would not inflict such a man on Miss Fairfax. She deserves a better man than he.

  I wonder...I have always liked Jane Fairfax. It remains to be seen if I can like her enough to think of her as a wife.

  Monday 4 January

  Emma and I have had an argument, and about the most ridiculous thing: Frank Churchill. It b
egan when she told me that he would not be coming to Highbury after all.

  'I cannot say it surprises me,' I remarked. 'He has grown proud, luxurious and selfish through living with the Churchills.'

  'What nonsense!' said Emma, laughing at me.

  'Why else would he keep putting off his visit? If he had wanted to see his father, he would have contrived it between September and January,' I said.

  'You are the worst judge in the world, Mr Knightley, of the difficulties of dependence,' she said.

  It is true I have never been dependent. But even so, I am sure I should never have been slow in doing my duty, and so I told her.

  'Besides, we are for ever hearing of him at Weymouth, or some other such place,' I went on. 'This proves that he can leave the Churchills.'

  She allowed the point, but maintained that his time was only his own when his aunt allowed it.

  'We shall never agree about him,' she said. 'But that is nothing extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man: I feel sure that he is not; but I think he is very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man's perfection.'

  For some reason, I did not like to hear her praising him.

  'He can sit down and write a fine flourishing letter, full of professions and falsehoods, if that is what you mean by a complying disposition,' I said scathingly, for she seemed to think very well of a man she had never met. 'His letters disgust me.'

  She looked surprised at the strength of my feeling, but why should I not have strong feelings?

  'You seem determined to think ill of him,' she said.

  'Not at all. I should be as ready to acknowledge his merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except what are merely personal; that he is well-grown and good-looking, with smooth, plausible manners.'