The next Sunday England woke to the first frost. The ground was iron hard, the church drafty with bitter air. The world had turned gray and disagreeable; even Mr. Elton’s handsome face appeared marred by the cold when he mounted to the pulpit. No, Emma realized when a watery, bleak ray of sunshine slanting down through the clerestory window shone directly on his face. One’s nose and eyes did not redden like that in cold. Mr. Elton’s features resembled the old coachman who had an unfortunate propensity for liquor; in a voice as hard as the churchyard ground he read an old sermon which Emma remembered only for its tedium and length.
After church, Mrs. Elton’s laugh seemed to break on the cold air like shards of glass. Emma leaned on Mr. Knightley’s arm, her eyes lowered so that her bonnet covered her face as they joined the Westons in passing by the little group the vicar’s wife had gathered about her, her voice sharp as she laid out for compliments on her new hat.
Mr. Woodhouse was deemed too infirm to risk the long carriage ride during bad weather. To spare horses and coachmen, they had settled upon riding to church with the Westons. As Mr. Weston climbed in and dropped onto his seat, the entire conveyance shook.
Mr. Weston’s breath clouded as he sighed. “My thoughts might be more godly reading the Bible in the comfort of my fireside than sitting in that cold church trying to make out Elton’s whisper. He might have done better to put his bands upon his wife. We heard more clearly about the lady’s hat than we did about the Sadducees and Pharisees.”
“You are teasing, my love.” Mrs. Weston resettled her sleepy child on her lap. “You well know that Mr. Elton is not the Word, he’s the messenger.”
“You always have the right of it, Anne.” Mr. Weston reached down to fondle his little Anna’s already disordered curls peeping out from the edge of her bonnet. “But if the message were better delivered, I might think on that, eh, than on wondering how many glasses of flip Elton downed at the Crown last night?”
“Divine Word has survived far worse messengers than our Mr. Elton,” Mr. Knightley said, and the subject dropped.
Mrs. Weston brought the matter up later, Emma having joined her in overseeing little Anna being laid down in her bed for her afternoon rest. “You may not be wearied by Mr. Elton’s old sermon book for much longer,” she remarked.
Emma looked over in surprise. “What does that mean?”
“I overheard Mrs. Hughes talking while I was waiting in Ford’s to buy that netting. She had heard a report of Mr. Elton going to London. There is talk of preferment, and—at least, so Mrs. Elton claims—his bishop dropped more than one hint that it might be well for Mr. Elton to attend Assizes and be seen.”
“I suppose it is too much to be hoped for that she will accompany her caro sposo.”
Mrs. Weston smiled. “I know your generosity of heart too well to fear that you will rejoice, but it is said more quietly that Mrs. Elton stays in Highbury, or thinks of a long visit to Maple Grove, if she can get an invitation.”
Emma looked her surprise. “What can that mean?”
“What do you think? The gentleman goes, the lady stays.”
“After all her caro sposo and Mr. E, and all his talk of being an old married man, I had thought them well matched, particularly in disagreeable qualities. We know they married in haste, but I thought that was a high degree of romantic flight.” Like Jane and Frank, she thought. Except there, she would stake her conviction there was real love.
“Who can say what people’s motives are for matrimony? Perhaps they might not know themselves. And things can change.” Mrs. Weston shrugged. “As for the hint of separation, it may all just be talk. Mrs. Hughes might be mistaken. Mrs. Elton did say she had taken a violent dislike to London.”
“A violent dislike to not being first, I should say.” The sound of men’s voices caused Emma to rise. “If Jane does come to visit, I hope Mrs. Elton will not be forever calling and ‘my dear Mrs. Knightley’ing me in order to get at Jane.”
But when Jane arrived a few days later, Emma took one look at that strained face, and struggled to hide her shock. Jane was very ill, could not walk from the coach to the house without support. By the time Emma had seen her comfortably established in the guest bedchamber, she would have welcomed a hundred Mrs. Eltons if they would divert Jane from her wretchedness.
“I could not let Frank see me,” Jane whispered to Emma, her eyes feverish. “I had to come away. Thank you for your letter. Thank you.”
“But surely, if you are in want, his first concern—” Emma’s voice trailed away. She felt every word a danger.
“He cannot bear to see me not in health,” Jane explained, her swollen eyes filling with fresh tears. “I am certain that is why he goes away. He does not want me to see him in distress. He cannot hide it. His heart—so tender. . . .” Her voice suspended.
Emma pressed her hand. “Never mind. I will bring you something to drink.”
“Oh, I am not to have water, but the merest spoonfuls at stated intervals. Dr. Thayer, the physician, warned that water goes straight to the swelling.” She moved her feet under the quilts.
Emma regarded Jane’s cracked lips and wrinkled palms with hidden horror, and returned no coherent answer. She made soothing noises of the sort she had comforted her little nephew with when he had fallen from the tree and twisted his ankle.
She flew downstairs to the book room, where she found Mr. Knightley. “Dearest, we must have Mr. Perry to her at once.”
“Can she not wait until morning?” Mr. Knightley looked into Emma’s face, and then said, “If you will just oversee the postboys’ dinner in my place, then James can take them and the animals to Donwell, as there is no room in your father’s stable. I will go and fetch Perry myself.”
Emma did not relax until Mr. Perry’s familiar figure was seen in the courtyard.
“Well, well, well,” he said jovially, when he beheld his patient. “First one then t’other. Mrs. Knightley—Mrs. Churchill—you will both be glad to know that Mrs. Robert Martin was just now safely delivered of a little girl. Bless her, she looks just like her mother.”
“I am so glad.” Jane’s voice was a mere thread.
“Is Harriet well?” Emma asked. “And the infant?”
“She’s probably asleep. No problems there! Scarcely had time for young Martin’s sisters to set up a fuss, and the baby was among us, wailing and waving her fists. Now, let’s make you comfortable, Mrs. Churchill, and see what we can do. Beginning with one of my wife’s own possets, and Mrs. Emma, if you will instruct your cook to boil a leg of chicken—”
“But I am not permitted flesh,” Jane said. “I am ordered to take only a daily drink of beaten cream, with the white of egg.”
“Ah, I have read of that diet.” Mr. Perry patted Jane’s hand. “I will consult with your man. I’m sure he’s a fine fellow, but even he will admit the wisdom of one who’s been intimately acquainted with your constitution from a child. He will understand me when I say that in your case—your family having been in my care—the broth of chicken, well boiled, will do you good.”
“I will try to drink it. But I confess, it is the physic,” Jane said in a low voice. “It makes me so ill that—” She turned her head away.
As Mr. Perry put more intimate questions, Emma ran downstairs again. She returned with a tray, and Mr. Perry remained until he had seen Jane drink down the broth and the posset both. Emma remained in case she should be needed; at last she was able to retire to bed the house was quiet, Jane was sound asleep.
o0o
The astounding news that Jane Churchill had arrived at Hartfield without so much as a note to anyone so mortified Mrs. Elton that she resolved to leave Highbury: though the contest of who was to reign over Highbury society had taken place only in her own head, she had not won it.
Mrs. Weston thus found herself the surprise recipient of a call from Mrs. Elton during which the vicar’s wife let drop the news that she was going away on a long visit to friends in Bath, and while protesting
a totally false confidence, proceeded to pour into Mrs. Weston’s ear all the gossip she wanted retailed concerning her doings. She must take care of her health—absurdly delicate—had she ever so many resources, the constant pace of Highbury was too much for the Eltons, in their position, who must go everywhere they are invited.
Mrs. Elton departed, satisfied that by evening there would be no other topic in any household; even had Mrs. Weston intended to perform the office designed for her, the news of Mrs. Elton’s departure would have been buried by the much more sensational news of Frank Churchill’s dashing arrival in a post chaise driven by four steaming thoroughbreds, after a cross country race in search of his wife.
Frank Churchill found no accusation or repulsive welcome, nevertheless he was not happy until he had carried Jane away again, the Westons having given over the upper floor of Randalls for their use. It was better for Mr. Woodhouse, at least. He was rendered so unhappy over Jane’s illness—so certain was he that Emma was next—that Mr. Perry must spend time after each visit to Jane in order to reassure him.
The Westons were of inestimable use. Mr. Weston stayed by his son’s side, exerting an influence of steady good sense. Mrs. Weston, knowing Mr. Woodhouse of old, walked over daily, despite the uncertain weather, bringing cheerful reports: Dr. Thayer, the London physician, had arrived; he was putting up at the Crown and rode over at least once a day; Jane insisted she was well; Frank was the best of husbands, always sending out for delicacies to tempt Jane.
“The only one really unhappy is my cook,” Mrs. Weston said later, when Mr. Woodhouse had gone upstairs to recruit himself with a nap against the evening. “No sooner is some exquisite dish prepared, expressly ordered by Frank, than the physician orders it thrown out again. The bodily humors—red meat contributes directly to the adding on of extra flesh—I confess all this confusing talk puts me all out of patience. But if we’re to live in modern times, I suppose we must submit. The gentleman is certainly very learned. My drawing room is covered in books, most of them in Latin, with exceedingly repugnant drawings. He consults them often.”
o0o
On a windy morning the following week Emma left early for her walk, suspecting rain for later. By the time she reached the outskirts of the town, she had resolved that this would be her last until she was recovered again. Every puddle seemed more impossible to negotiate, the sky lower and grayer, the wind more raw. Even the baker’s bow window, hitherto so inviting, did nothing for spirits or appetite.
But as she stepped into the main street, farther up a window opened in the building where the Bateses lived. Miss Bates looked out, her cap askew. She made a tentative motion, not quite a wave, not quite a beckon.
She knew I was here.
So strange an idea! It must be pursued, though Emma remembered poor Miss Bates’ rattling letter the last time. She waited for a train of high-piled haywains to roll past.
How could such a thing be possible? And Miss Bates, of all people!
True, the Bible was full of strange and miraculous doings, and though it was everywhere agreed that with the Age of Reason having come the Age of Miracles was past, no one could quite explain why. If the vicar had not been Mr. Elton, she might have brought up such a question when it first had darted into her head, but it was now unthinkable. Not just because Emma, as Miss Woodhouse, had turned down his offer of marriage—it was his pride that had been hurt, not his heart—but Emma was not so certain of his theological wisdom.
She sighed, thinking of the elderly Mr. Bates. She could just remember him, his ready smile, his kind voice, whispery as doves’ wings at the end. When he died, he had been everywhere declared a saint—the same sort of threadbare compliment given to clergymen as young ladies on their introduction into society were everywhere claimed to be beautiful as angels.
Mr. Bates, however, had truly been a saint, if it was saintly to never be heard to speak an angry or unkind word. She was not certain, as some of the saints had sounded mighty fiery. Mr. Bates’ general benevolence to all, rich or poor, sinner or respectable, had made him truly beloved, a love so persistent it was inherited by his daughter. That was about all Miss Bates inherited. But for her it had been enough: anywhere else in England Miss Bates might have been generally scorned as a plain old maid scarcely fit to live, whose only accomplishment was that she could outtalk an entire party while scarcely pausing for breath.
As Emma crossed the street behind the last creaking hay wagon, she reflected on the matter of delicacy. No one talked of delicacy in theological matters; still, might she ask generally about the subject of miracles?
She was still undecided about this question when she reached the Bates’s small apartment.
Miss Bates opened the door herself. “Than you, dear Mrs. Knightley. Thank you for coming up to me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper.
Now thoroughly alarmed, Emma exclaimed, “Pray, what is the matter?”
“She is . . . she is . . .” Miss Bates did not have the words. Or if she did, could not utter them. Her work-worn hands drifted over her own flat middle.
Jane is lying in, Emma thought. And no one told us.
Miss Bates jerked her chin up. “Jane is very, very unwell.”
Emma dropped quite suddenly onto the sofa.
For an immeasurable time neither spoke. Emma became aware of the buzzing of a fly caught between the window and the curtain, the rumble of wagon wheels over the road below, and from the back of the building Patty talking to the laundry maid about boiling the bed sheets.
Miss Bates’ gnarled hands worked away at her darning, but her eyes remained closed. Emma suspected she was listening. Not to the sounds of Highbury’s busy street, or little domestic noises, but to the unspoken voices, and she blushed, feeling in a strange way almost unclothed. But she rallied, scolding inwardly: she must look past precious self, for Miss Bates could only think of Jane.
Emma was reminded of a day when she had gone to Ford’s, passing by the Crown, through whose open windows could be heard the convivial voices of a great party, not one of whom could be seen. Was it like that for Miss Bates?
At last Miss Bates looked up, her eyes frightened. “Jane wants you. She was thinking, where is Emma?”
“I will go at once.” Emma struggled to her feet.
“They have given her laudanum—I think she is fast falling asleep.”
“When she wakens, she will find me there. If that might give her strength.” Emma pulled her spencer tighter to her ears, retied her bonnet, tugged her gloves up over her wrists, and bustled to the door. But there she stayed, because she could not suppress a last question.
“How can you bear it?” Emma’s own voice trembled. “No, why must you bear it?”
Miss Bates closed her eyes again, and Emma wondered if she would answer. But at last she said, “I asked Papa the same question—how he bore it—when he confessed to me not long before he died. I think he had come to suspect that I had hidden the same secret. He told me he bore it by always talking to God in his heart. Carrying on his dialogue with God shut out the voices of the people around him, except when he was needed.”
“No one knew?” Emma asked, still from the doorway.
“Not even Mama. Only I knew, at the end. I did try talking to God.” She gave a little jerk of her chin. The ruffle on her faded cap lifted and fell like the old leaves out in the garden, stirred by the wind. “I tried and I tried, but I could not hear the voice of God. I believe I was too frightened, too confused. Papa talked of living and waking in the sunlight of God’s love. At the end, Papa said it was so bright—he could no longer see, Mrs. Knightley. Yet he talked of the light of the Holy Spirit. I always felt I was fumbling in the darkness. So I talked out loud instead.” Miss Bates squeezed her hands together. “And when there are no people by, I do talk to God. It is not what dear Mr. Elton might term a prayer, precisely, though, at least, it has not the form we are taught to think is the proper way to address our notice to Providence. I just . . . say in my heart
what I say out loud in company, but what I see in my mind is my Papa listening.”
“You never heard others like yourself, I collect.”
“Never. I did try to listen for such. I had hoped when a child, even a young woman, I would find another like myself. Even if speaking a foreign tongue.” Her smile was crooked. “After Papa died. Though I was surrounded by countless voices, I felt alone. Because no one heard me.”
Overhead the rapid thud of cats’ paws raced across the roof to the gable. The fire on the small grate crackled, and in the other room the old lady’s breath rasped steadily as she slept.
Miss Bates’ head was turned toward the window, the papery folds of skin about her jaw softened in the shadows.
Emma whispered, “Does God hear you?”
Miss Bates looked her way. “How can I know that? We cannot know. We are taught that we are finite beings, which I can well believe, therefore I can believe in the infinite, and it gives me so much comfort to think of my good father smiling down from heaven, and waiting for Mama and me when we have finished our work here.” She nodded toward the little bedroom where her mother lay asleep. “It gives me comfort.” She pressed her hands again. “Mrs. Knightley, thank you for sitting with me. Thank you. I know you share my love for dearest Jane. I hope and trust . . .” She lifted her hands, then clasped them together, a sudden movement, almost a clap.
Emma understood then what an effort Miss Bates made, and she was very soon gone, altering between wonder and worry as she toiled her fastest toward home.
o0o
She had made her plans by the time she reached Hartfield, muddy to the knees, wet and shivering, for the rain had come early.
“Emma! Here you are at last. I nearly rode out to seek you,” Mr. Knightley exclaimed in distress. “I might have, but for the chance I would take the wrong lane and miss you entirely. Your maid has a bath waiting.”
“Thank you, dearest.” She pressed her cold lips against his warm ones. “But I must not stay. I must go to Jane.”