Jane Austen After

  On hearing his daughter’s voice Mr. Woodhouse woke from his doze, and for a short time he must be satisfied that there was no emergency—that Mr. Knightley felt no symptoms of cold—his feet were dry—perhaps a basin of gruel?

  Emma loved to watch her husband’s calm patience in dealing with this little stream of fretful tyrannies, for that patience was never forced. He knew how kindly meant they were. She loved to contemplate the hidden felicities of matrimony. All the effusions from Lord Byron and the Germans in translation did not prepare one for the catch of the heart during quiet domestic moments: the sight of his chin when his valet wiped away the lather; his sudden laugh when nephew Henry hit out against his bowling with direful bravery; his strong hand steadying Emma’s father when Mr. Woodhouse stepped uncertainly on wet flagstones.

  “I chanced to pass through the dining room,” Mr. Knightley said at last. “Serle has dinner waiting on our pleasure. If you will conduct your daughter in, sir, I will undertake to escort our guest.”

  Mr. Woodhouse abandoned his inquiries in favor of a fresh worry, that the dinner might arrive cold. Emma assisted him to rise and affectionately supported his arm as they walked in.

  As the dishes were handed round, Mr. Knightley asked about Jane’s relations, and led the conversation to Mrs. Goddard’s school benefit, and the look of the Donwell strawberry beds: unexceptionable subjects that made replies easy, and could not disturb Mr. Woodhouse’s fragile equanimity.

  When the ladies withdrew, Emma linked arms with Jane, in amity with the world, or at least that portion of it within her purview. But no sooner had they reached the drawing room and she bent to fetch her workbasket when she caught the reflection of movement in the mirror over the mantel. Jane was just turning away from the window, which gave a view down the lane.

  She must be looking for Frank. Emma would not trespass against Jane’s natural reserve. So . . . might she approach that odd matter? Jane after all knew her aunt best of anyone.

  They sat down on either side of the fire, each with her sewing. After a little conversation about ribbon versus lace, and the problems of cleaning silk, Emma ventured her topic. “You mentioned your aunt,” she began. “How fine a needlewoman she is! One of my earliest memories is watching how tiny and even her plaited silk-stitch, how quick she made the needle fly.”

  Jane smiled. “It’s true. I remember her sitting up the night before I was sent to live with the Campbells. She recovered my slippers and trimmed me a new bonnet, and it was not until long after that I realized she had cut up her rose silk gown. Just so I might not be ashamed, though we were so poor.”

  “I am not the least surprised. That is exactly what we have come to expect from dear Miss Bates,” Emma exclaimed.

  “She has a happy quality that way,” Jane agreed.

  “She also has the happy trick of answering questions before I’ve asked. Has that experience come your way?”

  Out the words tripped lightly enough. Emma was about to congratulate herself on how she’d managed when she dared a glance at her friend, to discover a look of astonishment.

  “Oh, pray,” she began. “It was nothing—I only meant—”

  “You saw it, too,” Jane breathed.

  Emma had only enough time to realize that Jane’s exclamation was not a question but a statement when there was a noise and a bustle from without, and the drawing room door opened. It was Mr. Knightley, who ushered in Mr. Woodhouse, followed by Mr. Frank Churchill.

  Tall, smiling, the capes of his greatcoat and his top boots spangled with drops of rain, Frank Churchill was here. He permitted the servant to take his hat and greatcoat then bowed to Emma, smiling in expectation of the welcome she hastened forward to give, but his gaze turned at once to Jane, who held out her hands, her features illumined by a glow of happiness.

  “My dear!” Frank bypassed Emma, crossing the room in two strides and embracing his wife before kissing her soundly.

  Jane’s blush was vivid. She murmured a protest, but Frank only laughed. “What matter? Are these not our friends? They stood up at our wedding, they will not cavil at a kiss. Good evening, Emma. I need not ask how you do as I perceive you are in the bloom of health.”

  “Thank you.” Emma shook hands, and then asked, “Have you eaten? Oh, you are wet!”

  “Nothing to signify. And I don’t mean to dampen your fine room, for I’m merely here to carry my wife back to Randalls, where she will, it seems, have to sit through a second dinner.”

  Jane busied herself with packing away her work. Emma hesitated, uncertain. As Mr. Knightley got Mr. Woodhouse settled in his armchair to his satisfaction the gentleman initiated an exchange about the states of the roads, under which Jane could have said something if she would. Emma began to wonder if her husband’s interruption was welcome in more than one way to Jane.

  But no sooner had Frank Churchill taken the shawl away from the servant in order to bestow it with his own hands when he exclaimed, “Stay! Emma, I am to understand that you also expect your confinement. Then perhaps my news will be of service to you.”

  He cast himself down onto the sofa, his wet boots forgotten—still holding Jane’s shawl in his hands. With a fond smile Jane sat beside him, and so Emma moved to the tea tray, which had been brought in behind Frank Churchill.

  “Tomorrow we will return to Enscombe, where we are to meet with a London physician,” Frank explained. “In fact, he is an acclaimed accoucheur, comes recommended by women of fashion and rank. He is cognizant of the very latest medical theories, and his cases are made up of ladies of fashion. He has what they call le bon ton. He is willing to make an exception for you, my dear.”

  He lifted Jane’s hand with an air, and saluted it.

  Her cheeks glowed as she rose. Emma could not determine whether Jane was embarrassed or pleased as she took the cup and saucer from Emma’s hand.

  Frank accepted the tea his wife offered, his dinner obviously forgotten. He sat back, and smiled at Mr. Knightley as Emma brought his little tea tray to her father. “Well, Knightley, what do you say? Shall I send him on to you when we are done? The fellow is lauded by the faculty—all the fashion—gabbles in Latin tags with the best of them. Perhaps his supreme recommendation is that he charges a guinea a visit, and gets it. But you will not mind that, not for Emma.”

  “I thank you,” Mr. Knightley said, after he set his cup down. “You are right, I would not gainsay a guinea a visit, or fifty guineas, if I were convinced I was getting good worth for my money.”

  “But I tell you, this man comes with the highest testimonials. Ladies of rank insist that they are sylphs again within a week or two after their confinement, and dancing like girls again. They generally call him in at a late date. I conceived the notion of consulting him early, that Jane might gain the benefit all the sooner.”

  “To what does this physician attribute his extraordinary success?”

  Frank laughed, setting aside his untouched tea. “Remember the Latin tags I mentioned? I couldn’t comprehend the whole, but his general theory was sound. If one is blooded regularly, it keeps swelling and extra flesh from forming. That, he says, is the evil: nigh impossible to get rid of afterward. There was also the matter of physic at regular intervals, if Mrs. Knightley will forgive me for introducing such a topic into her drawing room.”

  “Perhaps this matter is not considered delicate within the strictest interpretation,” Mr. Woodhouse spoke up from his armchair. “But on such a subject, that is, health and well-being, there cannot be too much discussion. I know Emma will forgive us.”

  Mr. Knightley said, “All such decisions must rest finally with Emma, as she is the person most closely concerned. If she is content with Mr. Perry, who has the advantage of familiarity with her constitution from a child as well as in the present case, then there’s an end to it.”

  Emma was of mixed mind. “If this gentleman is favored by the faculty, then ought we to trust to his reputation?”

  Mr. Knightley gave her a conside
ring look. “If you desire me to make inquiries, my dear Emma, I shall do so.”

  “Perry!” Frank exclaimed, misconstruing Emma’s doubt. “He’s a mere country doctor. I have seen Perry at the Crown after too convivial an evening. He is a good fellow, but we all must agree, he is finally just a country doctor.”

  “No, no, you must not speak against Mr. Perry,” Mr. Woodhouse exclaimed, his voice agitated. “Mr. Perry, who has been with Highbury so many years, who saved my Emma’s life when she was so ill as a child.”

  Even Frank Churchill could see that he had upset Mr. Woodhouse, whose favorite subject was his own health, closely seconded by Emma’s. There was no danger of Mr. Woodhouse seeing the satiric curl to Frank’s lip, the brightness of his eye; though Mr. Woodhouse was correct in all matters of religious practice, it might be said in his anxious mind Mr. Perry was closer to God than Mr. Elton, a mere vicar.

  “No, no, Perry is a good fellow—the best—I misspeak,” Frank said, laughing a little. “I have done, Mr. Woodhouse, you are quite correct. I retire from the lists, and Mr. Perry shall reign supreme. And so, Emma, have you considered names?” Frank turned her way as she resumed her place on the sofa. “I do not expect you will follow the fashions there!”

  Emma laughed, grateful he had introduced a safe topic. “No, no, we will remain old-fashioned. We have settled it that a boy must take his papa’s name, as Mr. John Knightley named his first for my Papa, and his second for himself. A girl will be named after my dear Mama.”

  Mr. Woodhouse, restored to good humor, nodded. “The old names wear best. They wear best indeed.”

  “I must agree with you there. Jane, you were saying that a boy must be named for my father? I catch your sentiment, I honor it. A second son—a fifth—might be saddled with Frank. But I condition only for a little girl. If she is as beautiful as you, she must have a romantical name, she must be a Clorinda or a Clarissa.” He caught his wife’s hands and kissed them.

  Jane smiled at his nonsense. “I am still in favor of Henrietta, for my aunt.”

  “Henrietta!” Frank protested.

  Jane gave her firm nod. “I cannot see a Clorinda sitting obediently to her stitchery, or a Clarissa helping me to count out the linens with the housekeeper. They are names made for fantastical adventures, in short they are fine names for the heroines of a book. But a Hetty I could kiss and cuddle, and not be afraid as soon as she is sixteen she will be captured by Greek banditti and taken to the moldering castle of a mysterious German graf.”

  Frank laughed, darting a merry glance toward Emma. “Greek banditti! Mysterious German noblemen! Is she not enchanting? I love how her mind works!”

  Then stop home and hear more of it, Emma thought, but she only smiled in return, shaking her head a little.

  “Come, my dear,” Jane said. “If you have finished your tea, there is still your dinner keeping in wait at Randalls. If you have forgotten, I expect dear Mrs. Weston hasn’t.”

  “You are right, as you are always right, and that is why I adore you. Well, we must be off, and I will take the blame, and be forgiven.”

  They were very soon gone. As Emma saw them off, she reflected that of course he would be forgiven, though the meat would be quite dried out by this time, the rest gone cold and congealed. He must be forgiven because he was young, rich, and handsome. No, because he was Frank Churchill, he loved the world and expected it to forgive him. The world loved him back, and did what the young, the rich, the handsome, the Frank Churchills expected.

  o0o

  There could be no more discussion on the topic of medical men and ladies of fashion until Mr. Woodhouse had at last retired, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Knightley to themselves.

  Emma asked, “Do you think I ought to consult Frank’s physician?”

  Mr. Knightley did not respond immediately, and Emma heard him again in memory, Your amiable young man can be amiable only in French and not in English. Mr. Knightley had long since retracted those words. He had pronounced Frank Churchill to be a very good sort of fellow, but the poignant sting, as he had said once in another context, had lingered in her mind.

  “In any other situation,” he said at last, “would you take what he terms le bon ton as an arbiter for your own conduct?”

  Amiable in French. “No,” she said. “I hope it will do for Jane.”

  “They must be the best judges of that. You may take comfort in the reflection that Jane Fairfax is a sensible young woman.” He smiled, bent to the dying fire to light their candle, and led the way upstairs, Emma on his arm.

  o0o

  As it seemed to every year, summer ended far before Emma was ready for the sudden cold rains that smote the colored leaves from the trees instead of rustling through them. She tramped dismally toward Highbury on the daily walk the doctor had ordered, but the lane had never seemed longer or more dirty. Had she been closer to home she might have turned back; the rain began when she was just in sight of the post office, and so she bent her head, pointed her umbrella into the wind, and toiled on.

  Highbury’s shops were either closed or crowded with others escaping the rain. Emma walked on to the Bates residence.

  Her disagreeable mood vanished with the last drops of rain shaken off her umbrella as little Patty, the maid of all work for the Bates ladies, opened the door to her.

  Miss Bates’s glad voice was heard from the apartment at the top of the stair. Walking up the stairs had become a labor of no small moment, but this, too, Mr. Perry had insisted did her good—he said that fine ladies who took to their couches for the better part of a year, too often required the better part of the next year to recover. Emma was active, she must be doing, so she heeded his advice.

  She walked into the tiny apartment, neat as always, to discover that she and Miss Bates were quite alone. Mrs. Elton was not there; since Mrs. Churchill’s return to Enscombe, Emma had only seen her in church. Old Mrs. Bates was stretched upon her bed, asleep.

  “It’s nothing, nothing, dear Mrs. Knightley, thank you for asking. Grandmamma merely feels the cold a little. You are so kind, so like your dear Papa, always thinking of others. Why, just yesterday, I was remarking to Patty about the apples good Mr. Knightley had William Larkin bring, that the Donwell apples are so good—none better—that it is entirely the doings of our friends at Hartfield that we live better than queens. May I take your wrap?”

  “No, no, I’ll only stay a moment. Pray do not stir yourself, dear Miss Bates. I only stopped on my walk to inquire after you and Mrs. Bates, and to wait out the rain. I was also in hopes you might have had a letter from Jane.”

  There had been a time when Emma had gone out of her way to avoid that very thing. How life changes, she thought as Miss Bates searched on the table and then her work basket for her latest letter.

  After her departure Jane had begun by writing frequently to Emma, but the letters had become more infrequent, and though breathing friendship in every line, curiously uncommunicative.

  Trusting in Jane’s strict adherence to duty, Emma had begun asking Miss Bates about Jane’s letters. Jane would never be remiss in writing to her aunt. Miss Bates was always glad to share missives, whether of interest to her auditors or not.

  As thunder rumbled in the distance, Miss Bates read aloud from the letter she had received only the day previous. Frank had gone to London yet again. The fourth time in six weeks, Emma thought as Miss Bates read through a long description of the late roses at Enscombe, and Jane’s plans for the garden come spring.

  Jane’s letters to her aunt were always filled with inconsequentials. One had to listen closely to descry meaning. Emma had become accustomed to that. “‘The consequence of my not wanting to eat is that no fashionable lady could be more slender. From the back I am even more of a sylph than I was in my single days,’” Miss Bates finished, read the closing, and then dropped her hand.

  Jane had penned the words to sound playful. Miss Bates had done her best to read them that way, but Emma gripped herself inwardly. Jane is u
nwell.

  And then, quite deliberately, she formed the thought as if speaking the words aloud: She is not in health, Miss Bates?

  Miss Bates started, turned a quick, frightened look toward Emma, and then began talking as fast as she could, the letter rattling in her trembling fingers.

  There could be no question of trespass now, no penetrating question about whether or not this elderly maiden, so humble and so poor, could do something deemed humanly impossible. Emma’s curiosity flamed higher, but her newly born adult compassion doused it, and she agreed to everything Miss Bates said, even when she strayed onto the topic of grandmamma’s stockings, and the difficulties of darning them.

  Emma found an excuse to leave as soon as she decently could. Miss Bates and her extraordinary ability (even if it existed: no sooner had Emma regained the road than she was already doubting her senses) must wait upon another day.

  There was another matter that she far better understood. Emma was filled with the righteous indignation that must result in action, and as soon as she reached her home, and could get her husband aside, she said, “Jane is alone in that great house. And she is ill. I think we should invite her here.”

  Mr. Knightley might have been forgiven for observing that Jane’s husband might be expected to object—or to take whatever steps were necessary—but he was never one to belabor a point, even one he had long ago gained. He said only, “Write your letter, and if she assents, I will see to everything.”

  o0o

  Emma went so little into company as the autumn advanced that she did not question why she seldom encountered Mrs. Elton outside of divine service, and they sat in different parts of the church. Emma continued to call upon Miss Bates, but never again found her alone: when Patty opened the door to her, inevitably she discovered Mrs. Cox or Mrs. Perry there, and once Mrs. Goddard, with two of her girls in tow, both mute and stiff as they practiced company manners. Other days Miss Bates was denied—she was out visiting, or making a purchase. Emma did not question.