Chapter 10
The wind had kicked up and gray clouds scudded across the sky, playing hide-and-seek with the sun. Emma slid a glance at her companion marching by her side.
“Miss Bates, are you sure you wish to do this?” she asked.
“I would never abandon you to such an unpleasant task,” the spinster earnestly replied. “What would Mr. Knightley think?”
Emma had a fairly good idea how her husband would react to this excursion, and it would have little to do with Miss Bates.
“That’s very kind, ma’am, but I wonder if Mr. Barlowe might feel more comfortable talking to only one person about such a delicate matter. Since William’s unfortunate conduct occurred at Donwell, it makes sense that I raise the issue with him, particularly as I am the wife of the local magistrate.”
Emma hoped that pulling rank would produce the desired result on the impecunious curate. Besides, as accomplices went, Miss Bates left somethingto be desired. She tended to rattle on about inconsequential matters, which would surely confuse the situation.
Her companion seemed struck by Emma’s comments. “I see your point entirely, Mrs. Knightley. Your position in Highbury is second to none, as mistress of both Hartfield and Donwell Abbey. Mr. Barlowe will no doubt wish to give you as much assistance as he can.”
Emma rewarded her with a smile. “Excellent. Then I suggest—”
Miss Bates held up a gloved hand. “But Mr. Barlowe is shy, and I suspect he’ll find your presence intimidating.
Not that you are an intimidating person, Mrs. Knightley.
Quite the opposite, in fact. No one could be kinder than you.
But as I mentioned over tea—and such an excellent tea it was, I must say—I have a great deal of experience in dealing with timid curates.
Mr. Barlowe is quite comfortable with me, you know.
He calls on us once a week for tea and to hear the latest news from Jane and Frank.
His interest is rather remarkable, I must say.
Always so attentive to everything Jane has to say in her letters. ”
Emma rather suspected that Mr. Barlowe’s interest in Jane had more to do the fact that her uncle-in-law was a wealthy landowner who held the patronage of a tidy church on his estate.
“I’m sure you and Mr. Barlowe get along splendidly,” Emma started. “However—”
Miss Bates rested a gentle hand on Emma’s arm.
“Mrs. Knightley, I know I can be a dreadful nuisance sometimes, and you are so very kind to put up with me, especially given that Mother and I will soon be foisting ourselves on you at Hartfield. But I do want to help you in any way I can. Please let me help.”
The spinster gazed up her with a terribly earnest expression, her bespectacled gaze silently pleading. And, yes, the sweet, odd little woman could be rather a nuisance at times, which might be more a reflection on Emma’s lack of patience and charity than anything else.
Besides, Miss Bates was going to marry her father, so they would soon be on equal footing—a rather alarming concept Emma had yet to fully grapple with. George would rightly tell her that it was time to accept reality and act accordingly.
Emma pressed the gloved hand on her arm. “I shall be glad of your help. I simply didn’t wish to put you in an awkward position.”
While not quite the truth, it sounded reasonable.
Miss Bates shrugged. “I don’t imagine it will be any less awkward for you than it will be for me. Goodness, what isn’t awkward about this situation, starting with Prudence falling out of the window? I cannot imagine anything more awkward in my life.”
It took Emma a moment to recover from that observation. “Indeed, ma’am.”
“And I do feel a sense of responsibility to the poor girl. After all, I was the first person to find her in that terrible state. You will think me foolish, but there it is.”
“Actually, I felt the same way about Mrs. Elton after Harriet and I stumbled upon her lying dead in the church,” Emma admitted.
Miss Bates beamed at her. “I knew you would understand, Mrs. Knightley. You’re so clever about these things.” Her gaze darted off to the side, and she suddenly looked shy. “I count myself so very fortunate that I will soon be a member of your family.”
And wasn’t that a dagger to the heart? Here she was trying to bull the poor woman out of her way, when all Miss Bates wished to do was help her.
Emma gave her a wry smile. “Then don’t you think it’s time you began referring to me by my given name? After all, you’re going to be my stepmother.”
The spinster’s startled gaze flew to hers. “I don’t possibly think I could do so, Mrs. Knightley. Why, I don’t know how I’m going to call your father anything but Mr. Woodhouse, even though he insists I refer to him as Henry.”
A gust of wind swirled up, hitting them both in the face. Emma took her companion’s arm and started her forward. “Come. If we stand about much longer, we’ll both be frozen.”
They hurried along the high street. There were few villagers out and about, and those that were all passed by with little more than a tip of the hat or a quick greeting.
When they arrived at their destination, they paused to catch their breath and shake the dust from their pelisses.
The vicarage was an old and not especially good house. The previous occupants had embarked on a number of improvements, but they would likely be the end of such endeavors. Mr. Barlowe would find it a challenge simply to manage the upkeep of the place on a curate’s salary.
Emma knocked on the door. The hollow sound echoed inside the house, and then a prolonged silence followed.
“Perhaps no one is home,” said Miss Bates.
“You’d think one of the servants would be.”
Emma tried again and was rewarded by the muffled sound of footsteps. The door swung open and Mr. Barlowe stood before them, a befuddled expression on his thin features.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Emma said with a warm smile.
When he peered back at her, wordless, she exchanged a puzzled glance with Miss Bates.
“Mr. Barlowe,” said the spinster, “Mrs. Knightley and I were out for a walk and thought to stop by for a visit.”
“Just to see how you get on,” Emma added.
“How … how kind,” he hesitantly responded. “Though it’s entirely unnecessary.”
“Is this a bad time, sir?” Miss Bates asked a trifle anxiously.
“Actually—”
“We won’t stay for long,” Emma jumped in, forestalling any attempt to put them off. “There are a few matters Miss Bates and I would like to discuss with you. In your role as Highbury’s curate, that is.”
He stared for a few moments longer before moving aside. “Of course. Do forgive me. I was writing my sermon, and I confess to being rather absent-minded while wrestling with the Good Lord’s word.”
Miss Bates fluttered a hand. “Dear sir, as the daughter of a vicar, I perfectly understand. And your sermons do you great credit. Mother and I truly enjoyed your disquisition last Sunday on the Parable of the Wise Virgins. Indeed, it was as full of wisdom as those most excellent virgins and their lamps. It’s always so important to keep one’s lamps properly trimmed, something I say to Mother all the time.
An untrimmed wick or an empty lamp is simply disastrous, as your sermon so finely illustrated. ”
Emma bit the inside her cheek to keep from laughing, since Mr. Barlowe was now looking vaguely alarmed.
“Ah … would you ladies care to step into the drawing room?” he finally said.
He ushered them through to the formal drawing room.
Thanks to its previous occupants, the room was excessively stylish.
Mrs. Elton had outfitted it with bright yellow wallpaper, red velvet furniture and draperies, and a great deal of trim.
It was an absurd room for a country vicarage, and Mr. Barlowe looked completely out of place in such surroundings.
From the fine layer of dust on the tables and the stale atmosphere in the room, Emma deduced that he wasn’t much in the habit of entertaining.
As they took a seat on the sofa, Mr. Barlowe remained standing, eyeing them with a degree of trepidation. She couldn’t help but wonder why he seemed so nervous.
“Would you like some tea?” he asked.
“That won’t be—”
Miss Bates interrupted her. “We’d love tea, thank you. It’s terribly raw outside, and tea will be most welcome.”
He nodded. “I will just step back to the kitchen. Cook was about to bring tea to my study, so it should be ready in only a few minutes.”
“Thank you, sir,” Emma politely replied.
After he’d departed, Miss Bates shook her head. “He’s so very shy. I thought if we gave him something to do it might make him more comfortable.”
Emma had to admit her reasoning made sense. “I don’t think he entertains very much.”
“The life of a curate is a difficult one, Mrs. Knightley. I suspect he cannot afford it.”
That was undoubtedly true, as curates were at the beck and call of the clergymen or bishop who held the living. They did much of the work with little financial reward and an uncertain future.
As they waited, Emma let her gaze wander about the room.
There was only the smallest of fires in the grate, which wasn’t surprising.
What was surprising was the impressive collection of wine bottles and decanters on the sideboard.
That was hardly what one would expect in a bachelor-curate’s modest household.
“Do you know how many servants Mr. Barlowe keeps?” she asked.
“Two, I believe,” replied Miss Bates. “A cook and a manservant.”
That was sparse living, indeed.
The door opened and Mr. Barlowe entered, followed by a grizzled-looking manservant of indeterminate years who carried the tea tray. The man thumped it down on the table in front of them before shuffling back out of the room and slamming the door behind him.
Mr. Barlowe looked embarrassed. “Please forgive Victor, ladies. I’m afraid his rheumatics bother him. I did offer to carry the tea tray myself, but he wouldn’t hear of it.” He dredged up a weak smile. “He likes to be useful, you see.”