Jane Austen Made Me Do It (17 page)

He neither checked his stride, however, nor revealed in any other way that he had seen them. All her uncertainties returned. She could not tell, not unless she saw his face more closely, whether he was still angry, nor could she tell his intentions.

“Emma, is that you?” said her father, coming to the doorway. “Have you come back? Where have you been? You were gone so suddenly, and for so long, I was convinced you had met with an
accident—I have never liked the corner into Vicarage Lane, you know. I was about to send the coachman in search of you, but I did not want James to put the horses to when you might return any instant.”

She hurried in to reassure him, drawing Miss Bates forward. “Papa, I have brought you someone to keep you company,” said Emma. “It is Miss Bates.”

“Miss Bates. Oh, it is indeed good to see an old friend,” said Mr. Woodhouse.

“And here is Mr. Abdy for tea as well,” said Emma. “Shall we go in?”

Mr. Abdy held back, saying he would wait for Mr. Knightley, who had now passed through the garden door. Emma wanted nothing more than to run out to Mr. Knightley and ask him to set aside their differences, but she could hardly do so within Papa's earshot.

“If you will settle in the drawing room, I will ring for some tea.” She watched Mr. Knightley approach with the corner of her eye.

“Tea, but not cake, Emma,” said Mr. Woodhouse, preceding her into the drawing room. “Cake is far too rich. I am quite certain Miss Bates would agree with me.”

“Certainly cake can be rich, Mr. Woodhouse—it depends how the cake is made. There is a way—perhaps I could tell the recipe to Cook—one can make cake so that it is much lighter—Mr. Perry himself has given me his approval—”

Emma, seeing her father move comfortably into a discussion of Mr. Perry, issued directions for tea and hurried to the doorway to meet Mr. Knightley. He was in earnest discussion with Mr. Abdy. Mr. Knightley directed a glance at her and gave her a small smile, a sign, surely, that things could not be that bad between them.

“I have invited Mr. Abdy to take tea with us,” announced Emma. “Would you like to come in, Mr. Abdy? And you too, Mr. Knightley? Miss Bates is here also.”

“We walked back from the village together,” said Mr. Abdy.

Emma, feeling Mr. Knightley's quizzing gaze upon her, looked away, and began to chatter to Mr. Abdy of some trivial matter or the other.

“Oh, there you are, Mr. Knightley,” said her father, looking up as they entered. “I was afraid you had returned to Donwell.”

“I will always return to Donwell when I need to,” said Mr. Knightley. “But my home is here.”

“To be sure, Donwell Abbey is a wonderful place,” said Miss Bates, “but home is where the heart is, as they say, do they not? And there is plenty of
heart
here.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, Miss Woodhouse—Mrs. Knightley—I do believe—
you
who are so clever may perhaps not find it so—but I do believe I have at last said something witty.”

Everyone stared at her without understanding.

“Oh, dear—it is perhaps not as witty as I thought—no, of course not—but I had hoped—it was just that for a moment I thought—but I see I didn't explain myself—I meant heart as in ‘
Hart
-field.' ”

Emma laughed. Then Mr. Knightley. Then Mr. Abdy.

“I am afraid I am not so very witty,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “I do not quite see—”

Miss Bates leaned towards him and whispered an explanation to him, in that way old familiar friends will do.

“You have no need to be witty, Miss Bates,” said Emma, “for you are among old friends. We already value your good qualities. But you
have
proved yourself to be witty. Do you not think so, Mr. Abdy?”

Mr. Abdy agreed that Miss Bates was witty, but he had by now finished his tea, and looked ready to resume work. Mr. Knightley stood up also, his tea only half finished.

“It is so fortunate, Mr. Woodhouse—Mr. Knightley's agreeing to live with you here—few men would do such a thing—to leave their homes—why, it is almost unheard of—but then Mr. Knightley has always had so much sense—he must have seen how it was—and so very considerate—I do believe you are very fortunate, Mr. Woodhouse.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “but poor Emma did not need to marry—”

Emma rose as soon as she could. She needed desperately to speak to her husband.

She found him standing in the entrance, looking so stern her heart sank within her.

“George,” she said, hoping her use of his given name would soften him towards her. He turned and looked at her, and the sternness dissolved.

“I wish I had not asked you to call me by my first name,” said Mr. Knightley, coming over to her immediately. “I can deny you nothing when you do so.”

“You know you cannot deny me anything in any case,” said Emma, reassured enough of his affection to speak saucily.

“I can deny you a great deal, Emma, for I know you have been far too spoilt, and it has not always been in your best interest.” He paused, hesitating to speak. “I have always been honest with you, Emma, and I will confess—and I am ashamed to admit it—that for a time today I believed that it was all a mistake. For you, perhaps, it is nothing, but for me living under this roof will involve a great many changes.”

She, too, had been afraid. She did not wish to disclose the truth, however.

“Your papa is more impossible than anyone could have imagined. It will not be easy for Mr. Woodhouse to see you as a grown woman. He is too accustomed to seeing you as his little girl. He has been indulged by the females in the family for too long. It is too late for him to sacrifice his comfort for your sake; he is too set in his ways. I have seen you being so considerate towards him all these years, but I did not know—” He stopped, not wishing to give offence.

Emma did not know what to say. She would not defend Papa to Mr. Knightley, for she understood Mr. Knightley's difficulty. She understood all too well that the best of intentions must fail when a gentleman's pride came into play. It was women's destiny to swallow their pride to appease others, and men's to assert it.

“I have known you all my life,” said Emma. “I believe I am well enough acquainted with your character to know you would never back out, once you have determined on a course of action.”

“Particularly where you are concerned,” he said, gazing into her eyes. “I am determined to find a way to make this work, Emma, but I do not think it will be easy.” He drew her close to him. “You must be patient with me, Emma, for I will not always be good humoured.”

Their exchange came to an end when two workmen entered, carrying yet another box. Emma, seeing that Mr. Knightley was occupied, and hoping that the worst was indeed over, returned to the drawing room. She discovered Miss Bates extolling Serle's apple pie.

“Miss Bates has convinced me to try a piece of Serle's apple pie,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “She assures me that Mr. Perry has no objection to a tiny piece of apple pie, Emma, and I find I must agree with her.”

Emma stood transfixed as her father and Miss Bates laughed in unison.

Was it possible? If Miss Bates could prevail upon her father to eat pie, what more could she do?

True, it was not cake. If Miss Bates had convinced her father to eat cake instead of gruel, that would have been a triumph indeed. Still, one could not belittle such a startling development.

It was all too soon, but perhaps
here
was the solution to their problems. It may serve, thought Emma. It
will
serve. She knew she could make it possible. A lifetime of cajoling and prompting in little ways had trained her in the art of persuasion. Not now, perhaps, but over time, Emma knew she could prevail upon Papa that Miss Bates was indispensable for his health. Gradually, in slow steps, it could be made possible.

Until then, it was to be her secret, and hers only. She would not allow anyone—no one at all, least of all Mr. Knightley—even to guess.

She was so intent on the idea that she was startled when Mr. Knightley came to stand beside her.

“You think yourself very clever, no doubt, but I am quite aware that you are up to mischief again.”

“Mischief?” said Emma. “I do not understand what you mean.” For a moment she thought he had hit upon her secret already.

“You understand me very well,” said Mr. Knightley. “Will you never acknowledge that you are the worst matchmaker in England?”

“Indeed?” said Emma, noting from the corner of her eye that Mr. Woodhouse had noticed neither Emma's nor Mr. Knightley's presence.

“Do you think I do not know your latest plan?”

Emma tried her best not to look again in her father's direction. She did not wish to give Mr. Knightley the satisfaction of knowing himself right once again.

“I know you intend to bring Mr. Abdy and Miss Bates together,” he said, “but it will not do.”

She put a quick finger to his lips to silence him, trying hard to conceal her laughter from him. She must not laugh at him, but oh, how he was mistaken!

“Miss Bates and Mr. Abdy?” she said, her eyes dancing. “I would never dream of such a thing.”

“I assure you, Emma, if that is your intention, it is not at all advisable. True, Mr. Abdy's fortunes have risen from the time his father was a clerk to Miss Bates's father. He is looking to open his own establishment in the near future. But Miss Bates would not do for him. He is not of the same social station. Besides, she would drive all his customers away with her incessant talk.”

“Who is being unkind now?” said Emma. “It was because of you that I have come to appreciate Miss Bates. It was you who taught me to see Miss Bates's good qualities.”

She was rewarded with a tender smile as he drew her hand within his and pressed it to his heart. A flutter of pleasure ran through her.

“Come,” she said. “While my father is occupied with his old friend, let us determine once and for all which bedchamber is to be ours.”

November 1, 2010

Dear Anna,

I so appreciated your call last evening to tell me of your engagement to Declan. I was thrilled beyond all telling; having met him, I believe he will make a wonderful husband for you and a wise father to your children. I pray they inherit your red hair and charisma, because ten more of you running around would make the world a better place. I am so happy that you decided to take this leap of faith, because that's what is required when you decide to commit yourself to another, to marry for life, to take a partner: it's an enormous leap.

Now, you may be wondering how your spinster aunt would know this, having stayed safely back from the precipice. The truth is I went to the edge once, and after coming to my senses, scurried back to safe ground because I knew a marriage for the sake of marriage would only lead to unhappiness. I could have married, and would have married, but decided that one either marries for love or doesn't, and given the choice, I would have chosen love.

I am so proud of you, my dear niece, for choosing love.

I have been described as “good and quiet,” which is an apt description of a long, hot summer night, not so for the adventurous woman I hoped to become. I was not so much good as timid, and not so much quiet as so full of feelings, I was afraid that if I expressed them, they would pour out of me like a long note on a winded bassoon. I imagined no one would be interested in listening to that kind of music. So, I instead held those feelings in, even when it meant sacrificing happiness with another. I can't explain it any more clearly than this, and even when I try, even when I winnow it down to its most basic form, the truth is always the same. It's just the way I am.