Chapter Twenty – Hope Once More Blossoms in Highbury

George Knightley knew the foursome of farmers had some information about Charles Weston, but extracting it from them might need some cunning.

“Gentlemen,” he said, in a casual manner, “my friend, Mr Weston, lacks some skill on horseback. We told him to take the carriage, but he refused, claiming he needed the practice. I am fairly certain he might have been taking just a little bit too much of a risk. Or maybe, his horse lost a shoe and has gone lame. I would make it worth your while and offer a reward, gentlemen, if you have some information for me.”

Half an hour later, George knocked on the door of a small, neat cottage, belonging to an elderly gentleman. Dr Richards used to be a London physician but had retired some years before and returned to his childhood village. A few days ago, our four farmers had found a man, lying unconscious in the ditch beside the Portsmouth Road. A horse stood grazing next to him. The men had brought their find to the good doctor, who tended the patient’s nasty, bleeding head wound.

Dr Richards took George to see the man, still unconscious and slightly feverish.

“I think he might have lain there for a good many hours, sir,” the doctor explained. “When they brought him in, he was soaked to the bone, and it has not rained for two nights. So I guess it may have happened at least three days ago.”

George nodded pensively and looked down on the pale, still form of his friend. “I would not want to move him back home now, doctor,” he said. “I think that might be unwise, in his condition.”

“Absolutely, sir. He should at least regain consciousness. It would be my pleasure to offer you my hospitality, if you wanted to stay until your friend gets better.”

That same night, a wandering tradesman brought a message to Hartfield. Emma, Anne and Miss Bates were infinitely relieved to hear that Mr Weston had been found, and was alive but wounded.

Anne Weston instantly wanted to rush at her husband’s side, but her friends dissuaded her, stating that, in her delicate condition, she needed to be properly rested.

They set forth in George’s chaise-and-four, the next morning, bringing along Mr Woodhouse, who insisted that he should accompany them. Three ladies travelling on their own without male company, was not his idea of safely behaviour, he stated.

Emma was utterly bewildered over her father’s decision. She was grateful but bewildered, nevertheless. Moreover, Mr Woodhouse did not behave in his usual wavering, complaining way, but instead, offered consolation and courage to poor Anne Weston, during the whole journey.

“Please, my dear Miss Taylor – erm – I mean, Mrs Weston, do not despair. He lives, remember? I am convinced that Mr Knightley has made all the necessary arrangements to make your husband regain his health. Such a reliable gentleman, Mr Knightley is, Ma’am! A veritable rock!”

“Oh, yes, Mrs Weston!” Miss Bates chimed in. “You should have seen how he handled Mother’s funeral. Such diligence, and such delicacy, Mr Knightley displayed, you have no idea. I could not have managed without him, I am sure.”

Emma listened to all this with amusement. Of course, she knew her George was a paragon of strength and sympathy, but it was nice to hear it from someone else. She could not wait to be at his side, and wished the couch would go faster still. Emma had reasons of her own why she would like to speak to George.

Two hours of travelling brought the company to Kingston-upon-Thames, where they met with George and Dr Richards. Anne rushed to her husband’s sickbed just in time to witness him open his eyes. Mr Weston looked about him in confusion, at first, but when he recognized his anxious spouse, his eyes lit with pleasure. His voice, however, proved a bit lacking in strength, after three days of silence. This was easily remediated with some of Dr Richard’s own herbal tea of sage and honey.

“My dear…” Mr Weston whispered, “there was no need to come to my rescue. I am sure that I am in good hands, with Dr Richards and Mr Knightley.”

Anne dashed away some foolish tears and said softly, “I wanted to tell you something marvellous, my love.” She then bent over her husband’s ear to give him her news about the new baby. Mr Weston’s eyes filled with tears of joy.

High summer found the Highbury company in great spirits.

Miss Bates found a new purpose in life, becoming Clarissa Weston’s governess. She sold her meagre possessions and came to live at Randall, where she assisted the nanny with Clarissa.

Harriet Martin and her husbandRobert became frequent guests to the parties thrown at Hartfield and Randall. The new mistress of Abbey Mill Farm was doing splendidly in her pregnancy, her morning sickness having subsided by now.

Mr Weston fully recovered from his head wound and rejoiced in becoming a father again in December. Anne Weston basked in the joy of motherhood and the devotion her husband paid her.

She and Emma spent many hours talking about babies.

The Eltons… ah! There was an upcoming pin to burst their enormous bubble of arrogance and ignorance. Mrs Elton discovered she was to be a mother in five months time! Because she never learned to watch the signs of her body – hare-brained woman that she was – she had failed to notice that her bodily functions had changed. It was not until she consulted a Harley Street London doctor that she learned of her pregnancy. Baffled and ashamed, the Eltons retired from Highbury society to move to Bath, which left the village without a minister.

Now Frank and Jane  Churchill…that was yet another kettle of fish. Tucked away in Yorkshire and at a far distance from Highbury, they lost contact with their former friends altogether. Mr Weston did get an announcement that their daughter Honoria was born, early September, but by then, the new grandfather had his hands full with his own offspring. The Westons promised to go and visit in the spring, and that was it.

And Emma and George? It was only natural with the present wave of fertility that reigned in Highbury, one supposed. Emma was with child, finally and to her and George’s immense delight. Mr Woodhouse wept with joy when he heard the happy news.

In January, a little Knightley would present himself to Highbury and the world.

All is well that ends well.

The End

 Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoyed my little dalliance with Miss Austen’s ‘Emma’.

Next week, I will be embarking on a new project. A period drama novel of my own, set in  France and England during the restless and dangerous time of the French Revolution. France is being re-shaped into a nation that will become a model of modern democracy, and England is at the height of its power under the reign of the Prince Regent, ‘Prinny’ or the future George IV.

 Sir Richard de Briers, baronet of Bearsham Manor in Hampshire, promises his dying father to search for his sister’s family in Paris. He finds his niece, twenty year old, gorgeous Manon Favier, and his nephew, five year old Jéhan, the day after their father has been slaughtered by revolutionaries.

The task on Sir Richard’s broad shoulders is heavy – to bring Manon and her brother to England and establish them as a member of English society. Yet love and passion emerge to disturb his carefully laid-out plans.

Please join me on Thursday next for

Chapter Nineteen – George Knightley to the Rescue

Emma and George jumped up almost simultaneously to support Anne Weston, whose face was dead-white. Anne could barely stand, and when she groped for support, Emma knew something was thoroughly amiss. They guided Anne to a settee, Emma beckoning Peter to come for instructions. She took him apart and whispered, “Go find my maid Maud and send her to prepare an upstairs room for Mrs Weston. After you have done that, go to the kitchen and ask Cook to prepare a large cup of cocoa and some buttered scones. Be quick, Peter. I do not think she is well. I might have need of you to go and fetch the doctor.”

After Peter had hurried away, Emma turned to her friend, who was sipping a glass of water, given to her by George.

“Dearest, what is the matter?” Emma asked, trying not to sound overly concerned, for Anne’s sake. Anne did not answer, but pulled a letter from her reticule. She offered it to George, who took and read it. As he was reading on, Emma saw George’s face grow paler. “What is it?” Emma asked, almost in panic now.

“It is a letter from Mr Weston’s London agent, saying that he expected his client to arrive the day before yesterday. Mr Weston failed to meet their appointment, so the agent wants to reschedule.”

George lowered the letter and inquired, “I do not understand, Anne. Was Mr Weston going somewhere else before meeting his agent? Maybe, he has been delayed, and has had no opportunity to warn his man?”

“No, no! He would never do such a thing! Mr Weston – Charles – is very punctual and thorough. He would always warn in advance if something came up to prevent him from keeping an appointment. Something is amiss, I tell you! Something bad has happened to him!”

“Ah! See what comes from galloping away from Highbury in haste!” Mr Woodhouse piped up, not really helping. “I do not grasp why people would leave Highbury for whatever reason they think is urgent enough to do so! Only sorrow and disaster can come from such an act!”

“Dear Papa,” Emma admonished, “you are not helping at all. Can you not see that Anne is truly concerned?”

“Well, there is not much we can do tonight,” George matter-of-factly stated. “Nonetheless, my dear Anne, you may be certain that I will take matters in hand, first thing tomorrow morning.”

Mrs Weston stayed the night at Hartfield, and in the morning, a veritable council of war was held over breakfast. Miss Bates, truly concerned when she was notified of Anne’s anxieties over Mr Weston, instantly came over to participate. Both she and Emma fussed over poor Anne, who had not slept at all. Mr Woodhouse also seemed to feel that there was now a person in greater need of fussing over than he was. He wisely refrained from drawing attention to himself and let George take over command.

“We need to know if Charles has met with an accident,” George said, his voice calm and soothing, as usual. “Therefore, I shall ride to London, and investigate at the various inns on the way. If I take off now, and make several stops underway, I still can be in London early in the afternoon. I shall have to stay with John and Isabella, so I will not be back before the day after tomorrow, especially if I have to inquire in London too.”

Emma rose. “I will see you off,” she said, and followed George to their room, where Blaise, his valet, was already packing a small bag, containing the barest necessities for a two-day trip.

“George, do be careful,” Emma said quietly.

“Yes, my love, I will. I will also leave no stone unturned to find Charles Weston. Most likely, his horse has gone lame, or something.”

Emma doubted that but she did not reply.

The distance from Highbury in Surrey to London was approximately thirty-two miles. On horseback, George would be able to travel over a road, that was well provided with inns at frequent intervals. Phineas, his trustworthy, black stallion, could easily cover the distance in three hours at an easy trot of ten miles per hour, but speed was not what was needed here. Because he had to inquire at every farm or cottage in every village along the Portsmouth road, and look out for abnormalities in between, George forced Phineas into a walk of three miles per hour, as soon as he left Highbury. It was unlikely that something out of the ordinary would have occurred within a five mile radius from Highbury, without having someone send a message to Randall. Everybody within that perimeter was familiar with the Westons, and would have notified Anne. Nonetheless, George preferred to be on the safe side, and doggedly rode from cottage to cottage, to speak with the inhabitants.

At Hartfield, matters were as follows.  Mr Woodhouse wisely stayed out of the way and quietly busied himself in his study with his normal activities. Anne Weston bravely tried to calm her nerves with her embroidery, a pair of sheets for Clarissa’s cradle, but she was not truly managing. Emma and Miss Bates kept her company, and attempted to divert her thoughts from worrying over her husband. They were also not truly managing, although Miss Bates was doing her utmost best, in a way that greatly astonished Emma.

It was as if Miss Bates had turned into a completely different person overnight. No more nervous fluttering, no more breathless gasps or meaningless outcries, but calm, sensible words of support and quiet offerings of comfort, without any overbearing hovering over Anne. If anything, it was agreeable to be able to lean upon her, Emma thought.

Due to his usual thoroughness, George Knightley took a long time investigating Mr Weston’s journey. It was not until he reached Kingston-upon-Thames, that he booked his first result. He had stopped at the Clattern Bridge Inn, to enjoy a decent dinner of roast lamb in mint sauce. He was just beginning to ask himself if it would not be wise to stay the night at the inn, when a foursome of farmers, keen on a pint after a long day’s work, entered. Signalling at the publican to put their drinks on his tab, he strolled towards the patrons and asked if they wanted to share his ale.

“Don’ mind if a do, melor’!” the largest one said, and the other three eagerly nodded their agreement. After the tankards had been brought, the toasts had been shared and the well-deserved appreciation had been expressed, George went to the heart of the matter.

“I am looking for my dear friend, Mr Charles Weston,” he said, giving each of the men a serious stare. “He has been gone from home for nearly three days now, and his wife is truly worrying.”

The looks that passed between the four farmers spoke volumes.

Chapter Eighteen – Mr Woodhouse’s Sacrifice

A few days passed, and Emma occupied herself with her usual pastimes.

She visited Harriet Martin, who felt so poorly with nausea, that she was forced to stay abed the whole morning.

“I tell you, Emma,” Harriet complained, “lately, life has become most atrocious.”

She was reclining on a chaise-longue in Abbey Farm’s parlour, her feet propped up with several cushions.

“Oh, my dear,” Emma commiserated, “are you so very nauseated?”

“Oh, that is not the worst of it! I could very well deal with being a bit sick in the morning. No, it is the vomiting, that wears me out, Emma. Even when I only think about food, my stomach protests and throws up its contents! How am I to last through this ordeal?”

“Mrs Weston says the morning sickness will pass when you are in you second trimester,” Emma offered, in lieu of consolation.

“Well, that is pish and rubbish! I am now four months along and it has not subsided!”

Emma feared her friend was working herself into a frenzy, which could not at all be good for her.

“Give it another couple of weeks, dear Harriet. In the mean time, I think you should try to distract yourself, and not fix your thoughts solely on the babe. Will you not come outside with me? The weather is so fine, we could walk for a while.”

“Oh, no!” Harriet closed her eyes and pressed her handkerchief to her lips, in a gesture of pure despair. “No, I cannot! I fear I have not the strength to walk.”

“Well,” Emma said, her tone brisk, “then I will order some tea and scones, and you will try and eat something. You look like a ragdoll, Harriet. You must make an effort to escape from this gloominess!”

Harriet looked at her in astonishment. “Why, Emma! Do you suspect me of dragging my feet? I assure you, I am not play-acting!”

Emma stood and went to the bell-pull. “We will both have a bit of refreshment then, Harriet. I am sure it is more fun to eat in the company of a friend than alone.”

Later, Emma had lunch with her father, in the downstairs drawing room, where he liked to spend his days. Papa seemed in good health, lately, Emma thought. He occupied himself quite assiduously with his books and poetry anthologies, and looked content.

“Mr Knightley tells me he has some problems at Donwell Abbey, my dear,” Mr Woodhouse informed his daughter. “Something to do with a leaking roof, I believe. Ah, these large houses will bring you sorrow and they will cost you an arm and a leg, once they are starting to decline.”

“I do not think it is overly bad, Papa. Some damage has been done in the west wing attics but it is not beyond repair. Apparently, some roof tiles had come loose during the last spring storm. I am sure George will handle it quite efficiently.”

Mr Woodhouse finished his gruel and shoved aside his empty bowl. “I believe I fancy a bit of cold meat, today,” he said, eying the offerings on the sideboard with relish.”

His daughter’s blue eyes widened in sheer astonishment. “Papa! I cannot believe my ears! It has been years since you ate anything but the thinnest, most bland gruel that Cook could produce! Are you certain you are not ailing?”

“No, I am never ill, as you well know, Emma. Why, even though I am careful, not to expose myself to drafts or rich food, does not mean I am weak or prone to illness. I am astonished, daughter, that you should think me so.”

“Fine, fine,” Emma laughed, “I believe you, Papa. So, cold meats, it is, eh? Would you like me to make you a selection of what is on the sideboard?”

“Yes, please,” Mr Woodhouse graciously answered, and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. He irritably kicked aside the blanket that always covered his legs. “Why my valet always insists on tucking me in like some toddler, I will never know!” He grumbled.

Emma repressed a smile and reckoned the fine, sunny and dry weather? they had for three whole weeks now, would have caused this enormous change in her father’s conduct. But, she was not complaining, far from it. It was a welcome change to see him restored to a semblance of normality after so long a time.

Emma was even more surprised to see that her father’s good cheer and health lasted until dinner time. Mr Woodhouse was lively and witty, joking about his ever so earnest valet Jeremy, who was in his service since Mr Woodhouse came of an age. Jeremy was a short, thin man, of a morose, downcast disposition, who saw malice and disaster everywhere.

“I envy you, Mr Knightley,” Mr Woodhouse said, “because your valet, the ever so dashing Blaise, is not as overbearing as my Jeremy. At least, you get to choose a waistcoat yourself, whereas I have to comply to Jeremy’s choices, day after day.”

“I am sure Jeremy is not as bad as you depict him, Mr Woodhouse,” George replied, tongue-in-cheek.

“Oh, yes!  He is, and more so, I assure you, Mr Knightley! Yet I cannot do without the old boy. We have grown old together. We are like twins, joined at the hip.”

Emma burst out laughing at that comment. “Papa! You are abominable! Poor old Jeremy.”

They ate in companionable silence, enjoying the mirth they had experienced before. When dessert came, Mr Woodhouse inquired, “Mr Knightley, how are matters at Donwell Abbey? Any more water damage?”

“It is not overly bad,” George replied, accepting a good slice of apple pie from the footman. “I fear I have neglected the old house somewhat, after our marriage. I should make rounds more often.”

Mr Woodhouse, suddenly very serious, laid down his knife and work, and looked at his daughter and son-in-law, quite solemnly. “My dears,” he began, “I have something to say to you. I am afraid I was a selfish old codger, when I asked Emma to come and live at Hartfield, after her marriage.”

“Papa!” Emma exclaimed. “You were no such thing! I chose to live here, and George agreed, so that is what we did!”

Raising a hand to silence his daughter, Mr Woodhouse continued.

No, my dear, your place is at your husband’s seat, as his wife and the mistress of his house. I am of a mind to ask Miss Bates to come and live here, as my companion and nurse. I shall pay her a salary, of course, and it will be a large one. I like the woman, and I know she tolerates me well enough, too. It is decided, tomorrow I shall pay her a visit and offer her my proposition. If she accepts, you and Mr Knightley can go and live at Donwell Abbey.”

Emma and George were speechless. If one considered the propriety of such an act, her father surely must see that it was impossible. Miss Bates was an elderly spinster. She would never consent to live at the home of an unmarried gentleman without a chaperone. However, before they could formulate their objections, the footman entered to announce Mrs Weston.

The man had barely pronounced her name, that Mrs Weston burst into the room, all aflutter.

“Forgive me, Mr Woodhouse, Emma, but you have to help me!”

Chapter Seventeen – Concerns and Anxieties

“Oh, Anne! How wonderful! When is the new babe due?”

Emma expressed her feelings quite differently than how she truly felt. She was happy for Anne Weston, of course. Anne adored children. Emma and Isabella, as Anne’s former charges, had been the first to benefit from her generous heart and kind disposition. However, a burning sensation of disappointment grew within Emma when she realised she seemed to be the only married lady in Highbury who was unable to conceive. Was something amiss with her? Did her body suffer from some strange disease that prevented a pregnancy? How to find out? Who could help her?

Anne’s cheerful voice cut through her gloomy thoughts.

“Of course, I have not told Mr Weston yet. It is all too soon to be truly certain but I know I am correct. Women know these things, Emma. It is so much part of who we are.”

“Is it?” Emma blurted out. “How exactly do you know, Anne? How is one supposed to feel when they are pregnant? I assure you that I have not the faintest idea, my dear. You must enlighten me, I beg you.”

Anne Weston looked upon her with growing consternation. “Surely, Emma, you know about … Well, you are married for … two months, now! You … You are being visited by Mr Knightley in your room, I hope?”

Emma frowned, not understanding at first what Anne was saying? Then she grasped the meaning of Anne’s words and burst out laughing.

“Oh! Oh, of course! Oh, how funny this is! Yes, of course, George visits me, and quite often, I should say. Anne, George and I share a bedroom. Every night, Anne …”

Now it was Anne Weston who frowned.

“Are you saying that you do not have separate rooms, Emma?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I am telling you, dear Anne.”

“Oh, but … Then, surely, you and he … Have …”

“George is a very dedicated lover, Anne.”

Her friend blinked, no winced at Emma’s blunt words.

“Do not be so shocked, Anne. It is the most natural thing in the words for a husband and wife to love each other as much as they want! What about Mr Weston? Is he as ardent as my George?”

Anne started to fan herself with her hand, suddenly flushing deep red.

“Emma, Emma! You cannot name these things aloud! It is … It is very improper!”

“No, it is not. Not between friends and we have always been the best of friends, Anne.”

“Yes, that is certainly true. But, Emma, I do not understand how you can say that you do not know about being pregnant. You must explain that little conundrum to me.”

Emma grew silent and withdrawn, all of a sudden, so much so, that Anne sensed a deep sorrow in her friend’s heart.

“Oh, my darling Emma! Now, I see! You are afraid because you are not pregnant yet, is that it?”

Emma nodded, tears suddenly stinging her eyes.

“Oh, my sweetling!” Anne threw her arms around her and clucked her tongue.

“There is nothing to worry about, my dearest Emma. You are still so young and you have married only recently. Your body needs time to adjust, my sweet. Be patient, and welcome George as frequently as possible. But, most of all, cut your worrying. When the mind is convinced that your body cannot conceive, it could generate a genuine barricade to becoming pregnant. You must put it out of your mind. Not be obsessed by it. Just be the insouciant, vibrant Emma that you have always been.”

“Thank you, sweet Anne, for truly comforting me. I shall do as you say.”

Later, when she lay next to her husband after their lovemaking, Emma gave a sigh so deep, that George turned his head toward her and asked, “What is it, my sweet? I have not hurt you, have I?”

“No, my love, it is just that I am such a ninny. I was becoming concerned about why I have not conceived yet, even though we … Well, we are having marital relations quite often, are we not? Dear Anne relieved my worries, thank God. She said I am obsessed by the notion, which might cause an obstruction of the mind, and consequently, of the body. I was already convinced I should see some London doctor because there was something amiss with me.”

“Dearest,” George replied, in a tone of voice that was absolutely earnest, “why should something be amiss with you? I could easily be the other way around, sweet. I could very well be unable to father a child.”

“Oh!” Emma looked at him in horror. “Are you? Unable to f … father a child, I mean?”

“I have no idea, my love, since I have never had a child.”

Emma considered this in a thoughtful manner, pondering all the issues that sprang into her mind. Then – in a small voice – she asked, “George, how many times have you … were you with … have you been with another …” She  clasped a hand over her mouth, all of a sudden realising what she was asking. She could not ask such a thing! No, she could not! But, she would like to … She would very much like to know the answer to that question.

George – bless his soul – chuckled, his deep rumbling laughter like music in Emma’s ears.

“Emma Knightley, you are truly shameless! And you are a coward, too! If you are so curious about my accomplishments with women, why do you not ask me straight away?”

“Well,” Emma retorted, “I am asking you now! How many women did you bed before you married me, George Knightley?”

George revelled fiercely in the pink flushing in his wife’s adorable cheeks, which spread to the lovely column of her neck and even lower, to her pert little breasts. He felt a love so great for her that his heart burned in his chest.

“Emma, I was extremely gently bred. When I became of age, my father instructed me about women. He took me to London and introduced me to an establishment that tends to the male appetites. There are women who make their living, providing solace to the aches that besiege us, men. My father had been widowed long before. You know that my mother died in child birth of my brother John, so Father was quite young when he became a widower. Too young to stay celibate, Emma, so he sought relief at Madame Céline’s Parlour, at regular times. After Father introduced me to Madame Céline, I became a regular visitor myself.”

Emma was stunned! She had never imagined such places existed!

“Goodness!” She exclaimed. “How utterly shocking! But George … Did you …”

“No, Emma,” George interrupted her softly, “no, my love, I have never returned to Madame Céline’s, since the day I realised I loved you. You know when exactly I started loving you, do you not?”

Her heart overflowing with joy, Emma whispered, “No, George, pray, do tell me?”

“Do you remember Miss Bates’ visit when she rattled on and on about Jane’s accomplishments?”

“Which one,” Emma yawned. “She praised Jane on whatever occasion she joined our company.”

“The one, when she boasted Jane was already halfway through her reading list. The same afternoon, you were attempting to compose a list of one-hundred-and-one books you wanted to read, just to prove that you were Jane’s equal when it came to being as educated as she was.”

“Oh, right! You were mocking me about it.”

“I was,” George chuckled. “Then we heard John and Isabella dallying in the garden and you came to stand beside me at the window, where we stood watching them. You said they were in love, and I laughed at you in disbelief.”

“Oh, dear! Was that when I said I did a little prodding because they had known each other all their lives?”

“Yes, Emma,” George whispered, drawing her closer into his arms. “That moment, I realised that you and I had known each other all our lives, too. And … that no prodding would ever be necessary to make me love you … I just needed to wait for the right moment to tell you so.”

“Oh …” Emma sighed. “Then tell me so, dearest George, please.”

Chapter Sixteen – Changes and Adjustments

With George Knightley’s stern, masterly gaze upon him, Mr Elton had no choice but to comply, even though his wife was whispering in his ear, not to do so. He manfully lifted his head and strode into Randall’s hall, where he gave his hat and cane to the waiting footman.

“Dearest, you cannot lower yourself this way,” Mrs Elton kept harassing him. “You are entitled to express your thoughts in a sermon, the way you choose! You are Highbury’s vicar, for Heaven’s sake!”

None of her wiles worked on the vicar who now strode into the drawing room, where the guest were assembled. Miss Bates was talking to Jane and Frank, probably discussing their upcoming departure. Mr Elton approached her, wringing his hands, and with a hesitant smile on his features.

“Miss Bates, I wonder if you could spare me a few moments of your time. I have a private matter to lay before you.”

The spinster brought her hands to her meagre chest and instantly was flustered.

“Well … yes, Mr Elton, certainly … erm … shall we go into the hall, maybe?”

“Perfect,” the vicar answered and offered her his arm. However, on their way to the hall door, they encountered the towering figure of George Knightley, staring pointedly into Mr Elton’s fearful eyes.

The vicar began choking and coughing but George only raised his eyebrows. Mr Elton then resigned himself to the worst. “Miss Bates, I feel I have done you a great wrong. Please forgive me my bluntness in mentioning your circumstances in public. I am afraid that was very clumsy of me.”

“Oh, dear Mr Elton, I could never accuse you of being blunt! You are the soul of tact! Do not dwell on that anymore, I beg you.”

When George imperceptibly nodded, the vicar felt himself go off the hook and sighed with relief. His wife, on the other hand, glared at George with eyes full of resentment. George only grinned mischievously into her face.

Emma quickly coughed to hide her mirth. Dear George …

The next morning dawned rosy and mild, the perfect day for travelling.

Frank and Jane Churchill witnessed the departure of Mr Weston for the capital and Mrs Weston’s distress over it. Anne did not cry nor did she throw a tantrum but her eyes were glittering with unshed tears. Emma heard her whispered words to her husband. “Be safe, my love. Return as swiftly as you can.”

Mr Weston mounted his big grey gelding Titan and rode off, turning one last time at the gate and raising his hand in a last salute. Anne Weston bravely swallowed back her tears and turned to Frank and Jane. The Randall footmen had just finished loading their boxes and Frank’s coachman and grooms were already in place on his chaise-and-four.

“Now, Frank, take good care of my Jane,” Miss Bates implored. “Let me know when you have arrived at your Yorkshire home, I beg you.”

“Of course, dear cousin,” Frank assured her. “We hope you will visit us there, one day. Surely, when the baby is born, you will want to see your great-nephew or great-niece?”

“Oh, if that were possible!” exclaimed Miss Bates. “I would be the happiest woman on earth.”

George Knightley, who kept himself in the background up until now, stepped forward. “Dear Miss Bates, I will personally see to it that you are able to visit Frank and Jane. I am sure my dear Emma would love it, too.”

Emma nodded in agreement, and Miss Bates began to thank George profusely, until Frank cleared his throat. “I am afraid we must leave now, my dears. Jane and I wish to make it to London and stay the night at ‘The Lion and Lamb Inn’.”

The couple mounted into their carriage, whereupon their coachman cracked his whip. Frank’s four matched greys darted forward, making the coach disappear from view soon thereafter.

Anne sighed, and Emma took her arm and guided her inside. George devoted himself escorting poor weeping Miss Bates to the drawing room. Emma rang for tea and scones, which greatly contributed to enlighten the sad mood. George then excused himself to go and attend to estate business. Miss Bates retired to her room to lie down, and Emma and Anne went upstairs to the nursery. It would soon be time for little Clarissa’s bath and feed, and Anne Weston made a point to always be present, when that ritual took place. Emma was just curious and excited to learn about the caring for a baby. Not that she would need that in the near future, because just that morning, her courses had started, smashing once again her hopes to become a mother.

“I have asked Miss Bates if she would stay with us for a while,” Anne Weston said. “I am thinking of keeping her here at Randall for good. I just cannot abide that dreary set of rooms above Mr Ford’s shop. They are so gloomy. I will have to invent some task for her to fulfil, of course. She cannot be made aware of her being ‘de trop’.”

“Why not ask her to be little Clarissa’s governess?” Emma proposed. “Miss Bates is a very educated woman, Anne, and her father was a vicar. Did you know she speaks French and German fairly fluently?”

Anne looked at her friend in surprise. “In truth? No, I ignored that! How do you know?”

“From George, of course! My husband knows everything about everyone in this village. He is very interested in people’s lives, so that he is fully informed, should they have need for his support.”

“Well, I will keep it in mind but I will have to speak about it with Mr Weston, of course.”

“Of course.”

The two women became absorbed in the lovely spectacle of little Miss Clarissa Weston, three months old, who was being disrobed, bathed and fed by her nanny. Afterwards, Anne tucked her daughter in and kissed the rosy little face.

Tucking her arm under Emma’s, Anne led her back to the drawing room, where they installed themselves on a couch.

“My sweet friend,” Anne said, “I have something to tell you, and you are the first to know. Not even Mr Weston knows. I am again with child.”