Chapter Text
Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, was the most universally admired young lady that the village of Highbury could boast. Happily, her superior merits of rank and fortune also left her the least disposed to doubt it. Her mother had died unobtrusively enough during her infancy; her father, for all his imagined infirmities, was the very model of paternal affection; and from her earliest years, Emma had presided over the family estate of Hartfield, and thus the wider district to which it belonged, with all the distinction and propriety expected of a mistress. Where beauty and consequence are united with a cheerful constitution, it need hardly be wondered that such a young lady might enjoy the general good-will of her parish with remarkably little effort on her own part. That she possessed a liveliness of understanding was evident to all; that she was sometimes mistaken was apparent to none but those who loved her best; and if she occasionally fancied herself wiser than her friends and neighbours, it was only because she had not yet been exposed to any proofs that would persuade her to the contrary.
It was true, perhaps, that the society of Highbury was entirely too confined to offer her any real equality of taste or sensibility; yet, as the Woodhouses were always first in consequence there, the situation had always struck Emma as perfectly agreeable. She was cheerfully deferred to in all matters of local opinion, took pride of precedence at every social gathering, and since this constant civility had confirmed rather than corrected the easy confidence of her nature, she was left to navigate the world with the tranquil assurance of one accustomed to being much praised and seldom contradicted. In short, Emma Woodhouse must be introduced to the reader as the most contented of all creatures, and any small vanities in her character must therefore be excused, for such flaws went quite unnoticed by those around her, and thus remained invisible to the lady herself.
And yet there were occasions, very rare occasions, when even a mind so untroubled as Emma’s was seized by a distant sense of agitation, for it is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman in possession of a large fortune must be in want of an occupation. She might spy a neglected copy of some conduct book or other in the library at Hartfield and, in a pique of guilt and self-reproach, resolve to apply herself with greater diligence towards such works of charity as befitted her sex and station. These fits of moral improvement were seldom long-lived, but she always entered into them with a spirit of sincere determination, and when the strength of her fervours inevitably cooled, she was nevertheless gratified by having her brief energies commended by all as evidence of her innate generosity and intrinsic good breeding.
It was on one such occasion in February when Emma felt her sense of usefulness most agreeably stirred. The weather was dry for the season, and with the satisfaction of one who feels herself at once both industrious and benevolent, she persuaded Miss Taylor to walk so far as the turning to the Crown. They were to call upon Mrs and Miss Bates, taking with them a joint of mutton (with Mr Woodhouse’s regards) and a shawl, which, although of good quality, Emma considered to have fallen out of fashion. Miss Bates and her widowed mother, living at the edges of respectable poverty in rented rooms above a shop, had little pretension towards fashion at present; the death of the Reverend Bates had left them in rather reduced circumstances, but their enduring respectability and indomitable good nature made them the perfect objects for Emma’s charitable endeavours, for Miss Bates was always particularly profuse in her gratitude for whatever small tokens of notice fell her way, and Emma was in a humour to hear herself spoken well of that morning. It was the sort of errand that could only be thought of as munificent and improving, and Emma was extremely pleased with herself for having thought of it, though it must be admitted that her attention, as she and Miss Taylor left the lawns and shrubberies of Hartfield and walked along the main road into Highbury, was very much divided between the silvery beauty of the day, the warming glow of her own good intentions, and how remarkably pretty her reflection looked in the frost-brightened windows of the post office as they passed by.
Miss Taylor caught her admiring herself, but only smiled. “You have taken a great deal of care with your hair this morning, my dear,” she remarked mildly. “I do hope that the fresh air won’t spoil your curls.”
Miss Taylor was Emma’s former governess, and perhaps the only person who had ever considered that her young charge’s vanity might benefit from some gentle correction, but since this correction never extended beyond the occasional teasing remark, Emma did not mind it so very much.
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” she replied, patting her ringlets with the self-assured pleasure of one who knows perfectly well that she is handsome. “I had Betsy set the curling papers very tight. Besides, there’s nothing quite like a walk in the cold for brightening one’s complexion. Why, I distinctly recall Mr Weston saying – do you remember? As we were walking out from church on Sunday last? – that he thought that a flush of colour was remarkably becoming on a young lady’s cheek. It signifies health and vitality - was that not his very remark?”
Miss Taylor’s face certainly did turn a rather healthy shade of pink just then, and she had to turn her eyes away before they betrayed her. “Did he?” she mused, taking great care not to appear too affected by the reminder. “I’m afraid that I cannot quite remember.”
Encouraging Mr Weston’s quiet regard for Miss Taylor was another one of Emma’s treasured projects, for he was both prosperous and good-natured, and Miss Taylor was entirely too scrupulous to offer him any such encouragements herself. It suited them both to pretend to be unaware of the scheme, however, and so neither ventured anything further on the subject.
They followed the road so far as the grocers, where a rapping on the door was enough to summon Miss Bates to the window above. Miss Bates, as always, was extremely pleased to see them, but begged them to wait until she could come downstairs to receive them properly – her mother, she explained, had not yet finished dressing, and would not tolerate being seen in her night cap by company. Emma was graciousness itself in her acquiescence to this request, but her smile rapidly dimmed once she perceived that Miss Bates had withdrawn.
“Well, really,” she bristled, glaring indignantly up at the vacant space that Miss Bates’ face had so recently occupied. “To keep us waiting about on the street like a pair of errand boys! I am sure I have no intention of catching a cold simply because some people choose to keep leisurely hours.”
Miss Taylor made a small noise that may or may not have been a laugh. “I had heard that fresh air was remarkably good for brightening one’s complexion,” she observed.
Emma did not appear to be amused at having her own words turned back on her, and turned to give Miss Taylor a rather cool look. “The benefits appear to have been somewhat overstated,” she replied, somewhat primly.
It was not that Emma felt any particular resentment at the delay, of course. It was, strictly speaking, still rather early in the morning for social calls, and she certainly had no objection whatsoever to being seen abroad. But she had, by nature, a strong turn for government, and she did not care for it when others refused to play their roles as she had intended. Had Mrs Bates but anticipated her visit, why, the whole business might have been concluded in a quarter of an hour! Now there would be explanations, and apologies, and no doubt some hurried clearing away of breakfast dishes when they finally went upstairs, all of which rendered the prospect of a charitable visit so much more tiresome than it had appeared on first conception.
Fortunately, however, her attention was soon diverted by an interruption of a rather different sort. A yellow-bodied post-chaise, which must have lately turned onto the Highbury road, had been brought to a standstill close by the Crown Inn. Its size and position were awkward enough to have occasioned some obstruction, and a few men from the neighbourhood had gathered about to inspect and opine. The postillion, she saw, had already dismounted, and was pacing up and down the length of his restive team at the pole. Occasionally, he would bend down to inspect the wheeler’s raised foreleg; and whenever he rose again, he would give vent to his frustration – in language that the narrator regrets is quite unfit for repetition.
Emma was by no means uninterested in perceiving a carriage upon the road, for any appearance of novelty was always welcome. Still, the spectacle was sufficiently distant to pique curiosity without immediately satisfying it, and when the carriage door opened and a young gentleman in a greatcoat alighted with an air of stormy impatience, she found herself attending to the affair with a curiosity that was now considerably heightened.
Her absorption soon drew the notice of Miss Taylor, who followed her gaze towards the stationary post-chaise. Being of a tender disposition, her countenance fell immediately, though whether her concern was more for the horse, the postillion, or the imagined distress of the passengers was difficult to discern.
“Oh dear,” she remarked anxiously, “Their horse must have been lamed. The road from Guildford is so very bad at this time of year.”
Emma, whose thoughts were less engaged in sympathy than in order, continued to survey the scene with a critical eye.
“It is extremely inconvenient,” said she. “The Crown has but two horses as it is. I see no reason why one of ours should be exchanged for a creature that is already past any proper usefulness.”
“Emma - ”
Miss Taylor’s voice, though discreet, carried a note of unusual severity; and Emma, who had at first regarded the affair merely as another vexatious delay, found herself looking again, and with greater scrutiny. There was something in the situation that offended her notions of propriety – not the chaise itself, for it was a handsome one, nor the gentleman, whose appearance was perfectly respectable, but in the untidiness of the pause, the want of immediate resolution, which suggested carelessness where management ought to prevail.
The gentleman had now walked a little way into the street, apparently to consult with the ostler from the Crown. He was good-looking, Emma decided, and very carefully dressed, though his shirt points were too high for her to altogether approve of. In his absence, the carriage window-curtain stirred, revealing a small face framed by a blue bonnet and a quantity of pretty yellow curls. Whether the lady was fatigued or indisposed, Emma could not immediately say; but there was in her expression a degree of discomfort, or perhaps apprehension, that did not accord with the elegance of her equipage. Yet she appeared young, and rather beautiful – two qualities which immediately recommended her to Emma’s attention. She had always felt her sympathies most actively stirred when the object of her pity was picturesque.
“What a curious little thing she is,” she observed after a moment, more to herself than to Miss Taylor now. “I almost wish I might speak to her – I’d very much like to know where she got the trim for that bonnet.”
Miss Taylor did not answer at once. “She looks unwell,” she remarked carefully, too circumspect to offer an opinion on a stranger’s looks without some measure of hesitation.
Emma found that she could not contradict the assessment. “I dare say she is merely tired,” she corrected, with an annoyance she did not trouble to disguise. “And no wonder! It is abominably foolish to attempt to travel by road in winter. A sensible person would have stayed well enough at home.”
At that moment, the carriage door was opened, and the young lady attempted the descent cautiously, and by degrees. One foot found the folding step; the other hovered uncertainly above the ground; and there she paused, clinging to the door-sash, before turning to the gentleman and calling, “Willoughby?”
The gentleman turned with an air of constrained temper, having apparently received little satisfaction from whatever exchange he had just concluded with the ostler.
“Get back in the coach, Eliza.”
The curtness of this dismissal was enough to make the young lady flinch. She looked at him piteously, like a child checked in the midst of some small courage, and attempted again to lower herself to the ground.
“Don’t be angry, dearest. Please. I really do need some air –”
He was at her side in an instant, for she appeared to possess no greater strength or dexterity than if she had been a little cloth doll. She faltered the second that she let go of the door-sash, obliging the gentleman to catch her with greater haste than propriety. He appeared perturbed by her condition, but not altogether surprised, and even from a distance, Emma could see that he was most seriously displeased.
“I told you that the journey would be too much,” he hissed, apparently forgetting that they were on a public street. “I told you –”
But then he seemed to collect himself. He heaved a great sigh, as if burdened by some private struggle, and when he addressed her again, he sounded wearied, but not unkind.
“Come now – take my arm. Perhaps it would be better if you waited at the inn.”
Emma, who had been watching the scene with increasingly rapt attention, felt her interest sharpen into something uncomfortably close to alarm. But before she could reflect on the appropriateness of intervention, there was an unexpected bustle of footfalls and starched cotton at her back.
“Oh, dear! – Oh, bless me! – Oh, you poor, poor child!”
Miss Bates was suddenly barrelling across the road in a fluster, the lappets of her lace cap billowing behind her like a frigate at full sail. Emma had not supposed that she was capable of moving with such rapidity, yet she scarcely had time to process what was happening before the good spinster had the young lady supported securely by the arm. And it was just as well, for at that moment the poor girl buckled again, and a general cry of consternation arose from all corners.
“Sir, you really must allow me to assist,” Miss Bates exclaimed, looking red-faced and slightly winded after her uncharacteristic burst of exertion. “Why, a public house is no place for a young lady – no place at all! My own rooms are close enough by, I assure you. Why should she not rest there for a few moments? She may be made quite comfortable there – quite so!”
Emma was rather startled by the unexpected display of usefulness from Miss Bates, whom she had always considered to be harmless, but scarcely active or competent. But then, her perceptions on the matter had always been somewhat clouded by her own prejudices, and poor and homely as she was, Miss Bates had been raised a reverend’s daughter.
The gentleman, for his part, appeared quite astonished at having been so accosted, and by so unexpected a person. He cast about him with an expression of some confoundment, apparently uneasy at having caused a scene.
“I – thank you, Madame,” said he, perhaps somewhat stiffly, “But really, we could not impose - ”
“Impose?” Miss Bates looked faintly surprised by the suggestion – as though tending to swooning damsels were simply a natural and accepted part of her day. “Oh, no – why, it’s no imposition at all, sir! Pray, do not think anything of it. My mother and I are always glad of company. You may see to your horses while the young lady recovers; I flatter myself that my parlour is every bit as convenient as any rooms in the Crown.”
The gentleman blinked, then rallied himself to try again. “I do not doubt the merits of your parlour, Madame, but we could not possibly –”
But Miss Bates would not be refused, however; not when she knew that it was in her power to offer some small act of service to another living soul. She spoke animatedly of the comforts of her apartments – the superiority of her furnishings – the excellence of the view that her windows commanded of the road – and she did so with such persevering good will that resistance soon appeared not only ungracious, but wholly impracticable. The young lady herself remained silent throughout, though Emma observed that her pallor had grown increasingly pale. She sagged against Miss Bates with a dependency that seemed entirely instinctual, and Miss Bates, for her part, did not appear in the slightest to object.
Once Miss Bates was so good as to supply him an opening, the gentleman dipped his head politely to show his assent. “You are exceedingly kind,” he remarked gratefully, though there was a rigidity to his shoulders that suggested that this gratitude was edged with no small amount of inward frustration. “My, ah, companion has been indisposed for some days, and the journey has not improved her –” (there he paused, and seemed to struggle for the right word momentarily) “ – condition.”
The young lady stirred a little at the mention of her illness, looking very much as if she would like to argue the point. But when she tried to straighten herself, she sagged weakly again, and Emma was left with the uncomfortable suspicion that she was trying hard not to faint altogether.
“I’m sorry,” she managed eventually, deliberately avoiding his – Mr Willoughby’s? – gaze. “It is only that the coach was so terribly close. I should not like to be the cause of any trouble for you –”
Miss Bates would not hear of it. “Trouble?” cried she, still rambling and inconsequential in her usual way, though the warmth she expressed was nevertheless entirely genuine. “Dear me – bless my soul! It’s no trouble at all! Come, my dear, we had better get you indoors directly. I have tea, and seedcake, and a very nice chair by the fire - we shall soon have you quite restored again, I am sure.”
Emma had not perceived that Miss Taylor had moved, and yet there she was, on the other side of the young lady, offering her arm without saying a word. Between Miss Bates and Miss Taylor, the lady’s progress was thus supported, leaving Emma to follow a little behind them as they made their way across the street.
How strange it was to follow Miss Bates of all people! And how unpleasant to find herself so silent and overlooked. She found herself struck less by the singularity of the event than by the ease with which it had been resolved, and determined to think more seriously of the matter later, when its particulars might be reviewed with greater calm. At present, there was too much bustle, too much novelty, and – she was willing to admit – too much mortification, for reflection to be altogether comfortable. She therefore applied herself to the regulation of her features, and walked on with a composure which was properly assumed, if not entirely felt.
Yet she could not help but observe, even in the midst of this discomposure, that the gentleman continued to watch their progress closely as they departed, and with that peculiar mixture of anxiety and restraint which had marked his conduct throughout. That the young lady was delicate was a certainty; that he should consider himself obliged to guard her was equally so; and yet Emma, reflecting upon these circumstances, found herself nevertheless troubled, for there was something in the connection that wanted explanation. What did it mean for young persons to be flitting about the countryside in such a manner? It struck her as imprudent in ways that she could not fully conceive. Still, whatever was amiss belonged properly to their own management, and having settled the matter thus far to her own satisfaction, she was content to dismiss it. Any improprieties, she concluded, were little to concern herself over - an opinion she found rather more difficult to maintain than to adopt.
Thus persuaded that no further consideration was required of her, Emma quietly followed the party indoors.
***
It was true, perhaps, that Miss Bates had somewhat overstated the comforts of her parlour. The room was tidy, but undeniably small, and it soon became clear that there were not quite enough seats to accommodate so large a party. Miss Taylor joined Mrs Bates upon the settle; the young lady – Eliza – was made comfortable enough in a tapestried armchair; and Miss Bates was obliged to squeeze herself into the narrow corner between the dresser and the mantelpiece, looking briefly ashamed when Emma was compelled to accept a little three-legged stool as her portion. The mistress of Hartfield accepted this indignity with such grace as the occasion permitted, and Miss Bates soon rallied herself with renewed expressions of solicitude towards her guests. The tea and cake proved every bit as good as she had promised, and in time Eliza’s bloom began to return, though she ate but little, and remained visibly fatigued.
For a while, the conversation was of a wholly practical nature, and centred chiefly upon Eliza’s recovery and care. Was she warm enough? Too hot? Would she care for the window to be opened, to admit a little air? Then there were the introductions, the formalities, and the exchanging of expected compliments and thanks – it was only when the first cups of tea had been drained that anything of any consequence could be ventured at all.
Once Miss Bates had assured herself that Eliza was no longer in any immediate danger of swooning, she felt bold enough to give her guest a kindly pat on the head.
“You are looking a little better already, my dear – indeed you are! A nice cup of tea always sets the world to rights. But still – such fatigue! You must have been quite worn out by your journey. You young ladies are all so delicate nowadays – or at least, that is what one always hears. Why, if I could take every young lady of my acquaintance and keep her wrapped up safely in straw like a piece of china in a packing-box – quite snug, you know, and completely out of harm’s way – I should sleep so much the better for it. Truly, I would!”
Eliza coloured at finding herself the recipient of such sincere attentions, and smiled with an effort that seemed intended to reassure. The effect, however, only heightened Emma’s impression of her fragility – as if she really were some small article of porcelain, recently broken and ill repaired.
“Oh, I am not delicate!” Eliza insisted with a little shake of her head. “ – At least, not ordinarily. It is only that my health has not been what it ought, of late. I find myself so unaccountably ill at times.”
Emma, who had been observing the young lady with attentive composure, felt that this admission fully justified her own earlier disapprobation of the journey. It was always vexatious to her when inconvenience was incurred without sufficient reason; that any person in indifferent health should submit to the discomforts of travelling by road appeared to her a very needless exertion, and she could not but express herself accordingly.
“You should not be travelling at all if you are unequal to it,” she said, with a firmness that admitted little debate. “A journey by coach is most disagreeable at any time of year.”
Eliza hesitated, looking faintly awed at being so addressed by a young lady of evident rank. Emma’s superiority of dress made her own spencer and print gown look quite plain by comparison.
“I thought – that is – I deemed it necessary,” she replied, faltering in a way that suggested that she had not been anticipating any need to explain herself. “I am – or rather, we are – going to London, you see.”
Emma lifted an eyebrow at the mention of the capital, as though the very notion of a city were somewhat at odds with her sense of taste. Her own sphere of influence extended no farther than the district of her birth; she had never seriously considered that there might be any reason to go elsewhere.
“London?” she echoed, with an expression of surprise that soon settled into conviction. “Why, whatever for? I myself have never had the slightest inclination to go there – there are no diversions in London that cannot be adequately matched in any halfway decent village or town. Consider us here in Highbury: we have society, association, commerce, amusement; there is a travelling library in Kingston, and a perfectly good ballroom at the Crown. Why, I am sure that there is nothing in London that would persuade me to renounce the comforts of home, even if it were only for a short time.”
Eliza listened with the air of one accustomed to receiving opinions without being invited to contest them, and when Emma paused, she answered with evident care.
“Yes, but – well – the gentleman that I was – that is to say, my husband – has business there.” Then she frowned momentarily , as if troubled by some private recollection. “Circumstances made it difficult for us to remain in Bath, I’m afraid.”
This account, brief as it was, proved enough to arrest Emma’s attention. Though she had never felt any desire to travel herself, she was well acquainted with distances, roads, and post-towns. Such knowledge had long satisfied her that the world was quite properly arranged, and she was both puzzled and discomposed to find that others might act contrary to that settled view.
“You have come from Bath?” she exclaimed, setting her teacup down with more conviction than was strictly necessary. “That is a prodigious distance to have travelled so indirectly - why, it must be a hundred miles at least! I should have supposed the Great West Road the more natural course; it is so much shorter, and so well supplied. Did you travel through Maidenhead?”
“No,” said Eliza doubtfully after a moment. “We stayed the first night in Amesbury, I believe; then at the inn at Guildford yesterday evening.”
This was really too extraordinary! That any person should voluntarily exchange a well-ordered road, with its regular stages and tolerable comforts, for the uncertainties of winter travel across exposed country, was to Emma a proceeding beyond comprehension. Discomfort, danger, and delay – all for no evident advantage – were not sacrifices she could imagine any reasonable person making.
“Three days on the road?” cried she. “And with such long stretches between posts? I must say, I find your reasoning to be quite astonishing! Why should you take such a roundabout circuit? The distance might have been covered in one day as easily as three!”
Miss Taylor, who had been watching the exchange with increasing unease, now sought to interpose before further embarrassment could arise.
“We may suppose,” she interjected, with her usual quiet tact, “that any journey which has been undertaken must have appeared necessary to those concerned. A lady in delicate health might very well wish to avoid the traffic and commotion of more established routes, Emma.”
It seemed to Emma that Miss Taylor knew rather more than she was saying – or perhaps, that she suspected something that she felt it prudent to conceal. Whatever the truth of it, her words had the effect of closing the subject for the present, and a short pause followed: one of those little intervals that are felt rather than remarked upon, and which invite reflection without allowing it to rest comfortably on any one object.
Miss Taylor was the first to speak again. She took a slow sip from her teacup, observing Eliza closely over the painted rim.
“You say that you are lately married?”
The question appeared to take Eliza by surprise; yet she seemed relieved to find the conversation turning, as she supposed, to safer ground.
“Yes,” she replied, colouring prettily. “Quite lately.”
Miss Taylor inclined her head, as if merely acknowledging the answer. “From Bath?” she continued, with a serenity so perfect, the enquiry might easily have passed for little more than idle civility.
Emma was reminded, not for the first time, of the manner in which Miss Taylor had once conducted her lessons. When an answer had been given too hastily, or with insufficient precision, she had been accustomed to pursue it gently, by degrees, until either clarity was achieved or the confusion declared itself. Eliza, for her part, appeared suddenly aware that something more than a simple assent was required of her. She hesitated, her expression betraying a conflict between what might be said and what could not; and Emma felt an unexpected stir of fellow-feeling, having herself more than once found such quiet persistence far more disconcerting than open rebuke.
“No. I mean, yes. That is – ” Eliza checked herself, then added with an effort at composure, “Mr Willoughby and I first became acquainted in Bath.”
There was something in the manner of this explanation that caused Miss Taylor to glance towards Miss Bates, whose own countenance was rather more open in betraying her concern. The good lady opened her mouth, then closed it again, as if uncertain whether the moment called more for enquiry or compassion.
“Oh – well – yes – indeed,” she said at last, acknowledging the constraint without attempting to press upon it. But her instinct for benevolence ultimately overcame whatever misgivings she had felt, and she continued more assuredly, and with renewed warmth: “Indeed! It is a happiness when good people get together – and they generally do, as my mother always says.”
Miss Taylor smiled politely at this comforting maxim, and for a moment appeared content to let the matter rest. Yet something in Eliza’s evasions continued to give her pause, and after a brief consideration, she spoke again – very gently.
“And your family?” she pressed, with a look of steady interest. “I hope that they were well pleased with the match?”
Eliza’s countenance altered perceptibly at this. She drew in a long breath and lowered her eyes, looking very much as though the question had distressed her.
“Oh, I have no family,” she said at last, sounding vague and slightly airless in an unaccountable way. “Only a guardian – and he – that is –”
Her words failed her. She rose from the armchair and crossed quickly to the window, as though the question had suddenly made sitting still quite impossible.
“Do you suppose the horses will take long to be changed?” she asked abruptly, her voice both too loud and too high to read as entirely natural in the circumstances. “Poor Willoughby has been gone ever such a long time –”
Miss Taylor and Miss Bates exchanged another one of their enigmatic looks, and Emma found herself momentarily perplexed by their concern. She attributed Eliza’s agitation to little more than youthful embarrassment, and to the natural confusion of a young woman who had entered matrimony with more haste than reflection - nothing more.
And yet – there was Miss Bates, drawing carefully closer to the little figure at the window; and when she laid a motherly hand upon the young lady’s smaller one, her expression was so tender that Emma almost wished she might look away.
“Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear. I am sure that everything will turn out quite right in the end – you’ll see.”
It struck Emma as a degree of feeling quite unnecessary for a conversation concerning the changing of horses; yet when Eliza half-turned and looked towards Miss Bates, she was briefly alarmed by the notion that the poor girl was trying hard not to cry. Her face had certainly assumed a rather strange expression just then, and it left Emma uncomfortable in ways that she could not adequately account for. But then Mrs Bates, who had been dozing on the settle, gave a start and mumbled something indistinct about seedcake. The subject was thus – very fortunately – allowed to drop, much to Emma’s satisfaction and private relief.
***
The ostler at the Crown Inn had the horses changed within half an hour. Mr Willoughby called soon after to retrieve his companion, informing her cheerfully that the post-chaise was at last ready to depart. His expressions of thanks to the ladies of Highbury were so earnest, and delivered with such generosity of spirit, that Emma might almost have forgiven his earlier impatience, had his shirt-points not remained altogether too high. Still, they made a handsome couple – Eliza and he – and Emma could not help but admire them distantly as they were returned to their carriage. She almost wished that she might have enjoyed a longer acquaintance, though it was only a passing fancy that she immediately dismissed.
Miss Bates clung to Eliza’s hand as they bid their adieus, extracting a solemn promise that she would write to her directly. She declared that she would not rest easy until she knew that her new friend had concluded her journey safely, and Eliza could only blush, and smile, and swear heartily that she would. Then with a rumbling heave and a lash of the postillion’s whip, the travellers were off on their way once more. Emma found herself entirely satisfied by the conclusion; beauty and order thus seemed to have been restored.
Yet no sooner had the chaise turned the corner towards Kingston than Miss Bates’ expression gave way entirely. She pressed a lace handkerchief to her mouth and stared helplessly down the road, looking very much as though she had half a mind to run after them and beg them to stop.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” she exclaimed at last, turning to Miss Taylor with a look of the utmost distress. “Miss Taylor, do you suppose – ?”
Miss Taylor met her gaze steadily, but said nothing at all.
Miss Bates hesitated, as though unwilling to proceed, yet seemingly unable to keep her thoughts to herself. “And she is – ?”
Another silence; this one more weighted than the last.
“Then he must have – ?”
Miss Taylor’s lips pressed together for a moment; then she gave a single, grave inclination of the head. Miss Bates, understanding her but only too well, clasped her hands together in a sudden agony of feeling.
“Oh! Oh, that poor child!” she cried. “To be borne about the country so – without a friend, and in such a condition! I cannot but fear that she has been most sadly wronged!”
Emma, who had listened to this exchange with an air of somewhat impatient attention, was struck chiefly by the unaccountable excess of emotion that she discerned from the pair. For her own part, she had seen nothing more than a young woman, lately married, fatigued by travel, and ill-prepared for the realities of life upon the road; and where she herself perceived nothing improper, nothing of consequence could reasonably exist.
“I hardly see that she has been wronged,” she remarked, not wishing to expend any undue sensibility upon what was, after all, a rather commonplace affair. “Merely inconvenienced, and perhaps a trifle discomposed. I daresay she will recover her spirits quite adequately in due course. At any rate, her care is most properly left to her husband’s provision. He seems a perfect gentleman in most respects, if one is willing to overlook the style of his linens.”
Miss Taylor gave her a strangely compassionate look, one that seemed to pity the misunderstanding rather than the speaker herself.
“Of course,” said she, as if that were the end of the matter. Then she took her by the arm and led her quietly back home.