Chapter 16 Away from Mayfair
AWAY FROM MAYFAIR
EMMA
Harriet and I packed our things with help from several servants. Then, lit by lamps, we met Lizzy on Chathford’s circular white gravel drive.
“You might try Mivart’s Hotel,” Lizzy suggested. “It is very respectable. But are you sure you will not stay? Yuánchi will be away for at least two days.”
Yuánchi had flown north so the Darcys could repair the boathouse. That much was planned, but Lizzy had been surprised by his abrupt departure. I did not mention his approach to the ship. I would not know what to say if I did.
“Thank you, but we shall enjoy the shopping districts,” I answered. “There are so many affairs to attend in London.”
The Darcys had lent their huge coach for our move. I watched the footmen pile luggage and realized that was lucky. Four chests of clothes had been delightful when they arrived from Hartfield, but the rear rack was nearly full with two strapped in place.
“Do you know how much luggage a hotel expects?” I whispered to Harriet as the footmen hoisted the third with theatric grunts.
“I never left Surrey before,” Harriet said sullenly. She had been moody since I insisted we leave. But she thawed enough to add, “Do you not know?”
“I have never stayed at an inn,” I admitted. “But people do. I shall ask Isabella.” My sister and her husband, John, lived in London. The only London “affair” I had planned was a visit to their home on our way to the hotel.
“Could we stay with them?” Harriet asked hopefully. Staying with family was always safer for traveling ladies.
I adjusted the corner of my shawl and said simply, “No.”
A footman raised a lamp while two others levered the last chest onto a pair of seats inside the coach. It thumped into place, and the carriage rocked.
The coach pulled up outside my sister’s house. The coachman aimed one of the driving lamps to illuminate the walk, then unlatched the door and let down the step.
I stayed in my seat, fingers laced, practicing arguments. And summoning courage.
“Are you sure you do not wish me to come?” Harriet asked. She had abandoned her resentment while watching me stew during our ride.
“You are kind, but this is a private matter. I shall be swift.”
Her concern bolstered my resolve, so I stepped down from the coach, climbed the three steps to the house door, and rang the bell. A maid exclaimed “Miss Woodhouse!” and escorted me to the parlor.
Isabella arrived in a flutter. “Emma! How are you in London?”
We each took a stuttering step, then it became a tight embrace. Isabella smelled of my childhood, that lilac soap she had always loved, and of her London life, coal smoke and bustle and children. She had five already.
“It has been so long!” she whispered into my ear.
“Since Papa’s funeral,” I said. I meant no ill will, but she stiffened and stepped back, her face averted and her eyelids fluttering.
Her husband arrived in an unbuttoned day coat, a pipe drooping from the corner of his mouth. “Emma,” he pronounced. The pipe bobbed.
“Good evening, John,” I said.
“How are you in London?”
I laughed despite myself. “The same question, twice. How does anyone come to London?”
He sucked air through his pipe, which was evidently empty. His tone became gruff. “You have quit Hartfield, then?”
“John…” Isabella warbled, her fluttering eyes skittering between the two of us.
“I have not,” I answered. “Hartfield is my home.”
“That is false,” John snapped.
“Papa made me promise to stay!” I had not wanted to start like this, but those words—the truth—burst out.
John plucked the empty pipe from his lips and jabbed the wet end at me. “How convenient. Your secret conversation at Mr. Woodhouse’s death bed.”
“It is not my fault you were not there. I wrote to you.” I bent to intersect Isabella’s fluttering, lowered gaze. “Both of you.”
Isabella clutched her skirt. “I… I could not bear it. Being among all that sickness, and Papa so wretched. And what of the children? I could not forgive myself if it spread to them.”
“Papa’s malady was old age,” I said. “Children are not at risk.”
“You do not know that! Well… of course age does not infect them, but what if he spread some horrible ague?”
My over-protective sister hoarded her precious children. I lived in terror of imagined disease. The irony was as subtle as a thrown stone. Still, there was a difference. I had not fled.
John adopted a lecturey, pompous tone. “The legal record of Mr. Woodhouse’s wishes is his will.
I am the sole male relation, so Hartfield is my property.
I would say you are living there on my good graces, but it is far past the required date of your departure, so in fact you are occupying it like”—his lips worked wetly as if collecting spittle—“like some loathsome debtor!”
“I have been mistress of Hartfield since I was twelve,” I said and was ashamed that my voice shook. I sucked in a breath and tried to recall my carefully scripted arguments.
He shook his head. “Emma.” He reached for my shoulder but missed when I stepped back. That drew a scowl. “You have a fortune. Thirty thousand pounds! Find yourself a new accommodation.”
“And what shall I do with my fortune? Beg you to buy me a cottage in Highbury, then use the shillings you dole out to attend tea with Mrs. Bates?”
He snorted. “Buy a husband. That is what other women do. You are two and twenty. You are lucky this happened while you are young. Imagine if your father had lived a few more years. At least you still have…” The stem of his pipe sketched circles at my body.
“You might even bargain to keep five thousand for yourself.”
Being assigned the shelf life of a preserved peach was so infuriating that my purpose snapped clear. “I have not come to debate Hartfield. I have business.”
“Business, is it?” John thrust his chin out, then flicked his fingers at Isabella. Head hanging, she scurried from the room. John gave a false smile. “What is it, then?”
“First, I require funds. London is expensive.”
“Until you surrender Hartfield, I will not supply spending money. I already pay the servants. If you love the house so much, run back. They will feed you, at least.”
“Our family has appearances to maintain. You have a reputation to maintain. In London.”
He grunted and tapped the pipe stem against a stained tooth. “How much?”
“Funds for two weeks. Twenty pounds.”
“Ten,” he snapped. “Or nothing.”
“Very well.” I held out my hand. He frowned, so I added, “It will not protect your reputation while sitting in your pocket.”
He stalked to his desk, looked over his shoulder to ensure he had blocked my view, then hunched. Paper and coins rustled. He returned and dropped two five-pound notes into my gloved palm.
A success. My breath eased, and suddenly the rest seemed easy. “Second, I wish to alter the terms of my inheritance.”
He burst into laughter. “Do you never stop? I have just said no.”
“This is not for my benefit.”
“No? For whom? Some tiresome charity?”
“I wish to establish a dowry for Harriet Smith.”
He gaped like a fish. “That colored woman? You cannot be serious.”
“I am quite serious. As the money does not come to me, it will not impede your effort to drive me out.”
“What would people say? We would be laughingstocks!”
“John, please. It is my money. Papa willed it to me. I should be able to do with it as I wish.”
He smiled broadly. “Fortunately, I administer the funds. For your benefit. As this demonstrates, women are incapable of financial judgment.”
“Why do you argue? If I have fewer resources, it will only aid your ability to seize Hartfield.”
That made him squint. He plodded through the implications. “I have an obligation to protect your interests. If you become destitute, Isabella will insist you live with us.”
I gave a dry laugh. “Is that my interest you protect, or yours?”
“It happens that they align,” he said snidely.
My smile was sweet. “I have a legal right to make requests of my guardian. If you find the prospect of assisting Harriet so offensive, then I am sure you do not wish this to be a public petition before a judge.”
His eyes widened. “Are you threatening me?”
“I am asking. Please.”
He wiggled the pipe stem. “I will consider it. A hundred pounds would make the girl prize stock for some pig farmer.”
I gritted my teeth until I could speak. “Her dowry shall be fifteen thousand pounds.”
“What?” he shrieked. “Are you insane? That is half your fortune! You would ruin our family. That is madness. Get out.”
I swallowed. “That is the amount I wish.”
“Has she cast African witchcraft on you? Or… you are scheming together! She will marry a Caribbean slave and slip you the money.”
“There is nothing false about my request. You may make it as legally exact as you wish.”
“You are under a spell.” He reached for the five-pound notes in my hand. I pulled my hand away, and he scowled. “Give those to me.”
“No,” I said.
He grabbed my wrist and turned, shoving his back into my face and trapping my elbow between his arm and his side. My nose ground against his smoky coat. Bones grated in my forearm. I felt him pry at my clenched fingers, then a yank and tearing paper.
Release was so sudden that I stumbled, my chest heaving and my heart pounding. My elbow hurt like fire. My wrist and hand crawled where his fingers had clutched like I was coated with fetid slime.
He buttoned his coat, sniffing in irritation. “I am protecting you from yourself. Good day.”
The driver had the coach door opened and the step lowered before my second boot left my sister’s threshold. I slowed as I approached him, then stopped. “I have decided on an adventure.”
“Ma’am?” he said politely.
“Mrs. Darcy’s suggestion seems conventional. Where would a daring tourist stay in London?”
He frowned. “Not Mivart’s, then?”
I shook my head. “I should like something truer to the London experience.” He looked baffled, so I tried, “Away from Mayfair. Away from all those… shops.”
“Something less dear, then?” he said slowly.
I gave a little laugh. “I suppose that would be a benefit.”
“Can’t be a coach inn, ma’am, or a tavern. You wouldn’t be safe.”
“How interesting. What would be safe?”
His cousin lived on a street I had never heard named. The explanation rolled on, alien and unintelligible, thick with his London accent. I crushed the worthless, torn corners of two five-pound bills in my palm.
When he finished, I said, “That sounds charming!”