Chapter 31 A Small Thing
A SMALL THING
EMMA
Pemberley House was a massive three-story manse of silver granite, stately and unfamiliar, situated on a grassy rise. Behind, the hill climbed to a peak crowned with ancient forest.
Harriet and I stopped in the entry, amazed by the decorations for the royal visit.
Narrow, ten-foot-tall tapestries showed winter scenes of frozen lakes, snowy forests, and proud elk, all agleam with silver thread.
Green holly with blood-red berries overflowed from vases wrapped in black ribbon.
A few laggard courtiers wandered, nodding their approval.
It was dramatic but tasteful, suited for a country at war and a royal family mourning a handful of lesser cousins.
A maid led us to our room. I left Harriet exploring the cabinets and wheeled Nessy to her chamber, adjacent to ours and cozy with wool rugs, embroidered pillows, and a goose down quilt. Nessy climbed under the covers, and I cracked the window so chill air flowed in.
“The air is healthful in the north,” I said, tucking the quilt to her chin, then wondered why that sounded familiar.
Nessy yawned, her cheeks hollow. “I’m tired.”
“Have a rest. We have traveled a long way.”
She curled up, and her breath settled into shallow, uneven rasps, as much comfort as she ever had in sleep.
I smoothed damp hair from her pale forehead, but I did not remove my glove.
I was afraid of what I would sense. Perhaps I could check after her next dose of tea. The tea did help, for a while.
I eased her door closed. Notes drifted down the hallway from a distant violin. I walked that way, past an unused parlor and several guest rooms pleasantly but sparsely furnished, then stopped by the open door of a small sitting room.
Mr. Knightley was playing; through the doorway, I glimpsed the expert motions of his bow arm.
He had practiced during our trip, technical studies I heard muffled by closed doors, but this was a virtuoso performance—dazzling runs and thrumming double stops as dark and throaty as a pair of singers in intimate duet.
The phrase halted on a sour note with an exclamation of bah! Music sheets shuffled noisily.
I knocked on the door jamb. Mr. Knightley took a step to see me, blinked, then bowed, the curves of his violin complementing his form. “Miss Woodhouse.”
“I do not wish to interrupt. But I was listening, so I should not pretend otherwise. That is beautiful. I have never heard it.”
“It is Bach. The Partita in D minor. A brilliant work, almost lost. But Simrock’s edition is half illegible…” He scowled at the score.
I hesitated, my toes on the threshold. We had walked together every day while traveling, but it would be improper to linger alone in an isolated room.
Mr. Knightley apparently had the same realization. He set his instrument aside. “May I show you Pemberley?”
We strolled down the hallway. Mr. Knightley had visited before, and he named paintings and rooms. He rapped his knuckles on a passing mantle with a smile. “As you see, there is no deficit of walnut.”
“Like your home?” I asked innocently. This had become a joke—I would pry about his lifestyle, and he would defer.
This time his evasion was a flourish of his deft hands, so I pouted.
“You are hiding something. I think you are a secret baron!” He laughed, so I asked, “Have you a home?” Perhaps a musician slept in tavern lofts and patron guest rooms.
Abruptly, he was solemn. “I live in Chelsea. The city has not yet swallowed all the farms, so I watch the sun set into an orchard. One might think it was the country.”
“Oh,” I said, disconcerted that our game had ended so suddenly.
“My room is positively foul with music manuscripts,” he added. “You could not bear it.”
“I like happy clutter. It is clothes that disturb me.”
He nodded in silence, then nervously corrected a cuff. The quiet pooled around us like a tide of intimacy.
We were at a stairway with a north view. The stillness broke when he pointed. “The town of Lambton is over those hills.”
“And another Darcy school,” I sighed. “Harriet chatters about it.”
Mr. Knightley tugged harder at his cuff, spoiling the crease. “The Lambton school is seeking an instructor. I have written a recommendation for her.”
“A recommendation?” Then I understood. “For Harriet?”
“It is a good match,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “Harriet Smith has first-rate qualities.”
“Precisely! That is why she will marry a gentleman. I did not go to all that trouble to have her listed in Debrett’s so she may teach!”
Mr. Knightley’s eyes narrowed. “Harriet Smith is listed in Debrett’s?”
“In the… next edition.” Harriet and I had not yet announced our sisterhood. To fend off troublesome questions, I hurriedly added, “That is thanks to my clever use of Mr. Tinsdale. Which you said would not succeed.”
That unsettled Mr. Knightley. He caught my gloved right hand in his bare fingers and spoke. I hardly heard. He had lifted my hand to his heart, and for a moment I thought—I almost thought—he would carry it to his lips. My temples thudded, and a blush heated the nape of my neck.
“He is a dangerous man,” Mr. Knightley repeated.
I stammered, “I know he is dangerous. I am not a fool.”
“You are not. But you are reckless with your influence. You lead a life gifted with cleverness and beauty and wealth. Do you appreciate the effect you have on others?”
My fingers were still caught in his, my racing pulse barely concealed by silk, but I recovered enough for a bright smile. “That is a very roundabout way of congratulating me on Mr. Tinsdale.” Mr. Knightley gave a startled laugh, and I said, “You see? You like that I am clever.”
“I would like you to face a challenge.”
My smile broke. I had thought he understood my life.
Instantly, he was contrite. “That was an idiotic thing to say. I apologize. You fool me with all… this.” His free hand sketched the air past the brim of my bonnet, my flushed cheek, the sleeve of my gown.
He released my hand from its press against his muslin neckcloth and stepped back, then watched me, the fine lines beside his eyes deepening as if he were deciphering a difficult passage of music.
Like the arrival of a wrathful angel, a memory of Mr. Elton filled my vision—that day in Highbury when, resplendent in his vicar finery and brimming with the holy authority of the Church, he pronounced that I could never bind. Shouted that I could never be a proper wyfe.
I heard my name and hunted blindly to find Mr. Knightley, waiting yards down the hallway. He must think me mad.
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
“I thought this would interest you.”
He stood by an arched stone entryway. I steadied myself for a few breaths, then we entered a large hall.
It was a gallery, long and wide with open arches at both sides.
Five statues were equally spaced along the center.
A few large portraits hung on the stark, white walls.
The effect was dramatic and sparse, very unlike my beloved Hartfield, crammed with needleworks and knickknacks and friendly, amateur watercolors.
Mr. Knightley stopped before a life-size statue of a young wyfe in white marble, standing with her arm stretched to grasp something unseen. A wyvern, poised for flight, crouched at her feet. Two feet of red cord hung looped from her other hand.
“Lady Anne Darcy,” he said simply.
The healer of Pemberley. When she died, six years ago, I was sixteen. My symptoms, or whatever they were, began that year.
“Thank you. I am interested,” I said and circled her slowly. She was carved from marble so pure it was translucent. I stopped when we faced each other. Our gazes—lady, stone lady, and stone wyvern—met there.
I realized what had seemed familiar when I settled Nessy in her bed. The wyvern at the ball said a messenger awaits to the north.
I peeled off my glove and grasped the statue’s outstretched, questing hand. The fingers were unyielding. Lifeless. The hope that had welled within me, a child’s imagined fable of healing, slunk away.
Lady Anne shared the high cheekbones of her children. Her expression was focused and driven. But that was a choice of the sculptor.
“Caring for the sick is not like this,” I said. “It is not great or noble. Healing is a small thing. Little courtesies. Smiles when life is bitter.”
Mr. Knightley, observing from a respectful distance, said, “You never shy from Nessy. When she is wracked with coughing fits, you comfort her, then wipe the gore and smile. It is astonishingly brave.”
“I should think she is the brave one.” I patted the wyvern’s head. The stone scales felt sharp, but they were cold as well. No message here.
“I mean that you do not shy from the challenge. I criticized you unjustly. You help that girl.”
I said nothing. His praise was unjust, not his criticism. When I tucked Nessy into bed, I feared to remove my glove.
Mr. Knightley continued, his voice resonant in the empty hall. “You have a life, Emma. If there are lessons to take from Lady Anne, find them. But do not let Darcy enlist you with his ghosts and guilts. You do not need Pemberley.”
I veiled my thoughts with lowered lashes. Yuánchi was at Pemberley. I could not explain the relief I gained from his strength—not when that relief depended on touching Mr. Darcy. That secrecy, and Mr. Knightley’s undeserved praise for my care of Nessy, heightened the color in my cheeks.
The silence stretched, then Mr. Knightley said, “I must travel to Brighton.”
It took a moment to believe my ears. I turned to him. “You cannot! The south coast is occupied.”
“Slavers have begun to transact their vile business on English soil. The Freedom Society is building a chain of households to shelter escapees while they flee north. I must go to assist.”
“That is madness. You are the last person who should go!”
“Because of my skin?”
“Yes!” I exclaimed. This was no time for false delicacy.
His gaze was level, the line of his chin dark and decided against his starched collar. “I have been privileged with freedom my entire life. Until now, my help for others has been an easy task. A gentleman’s pastime. I must do my duty, or I could not live with myself.”
Miss Taylor, my governess—practically my mother—had left for her marriage two years ago. Then, I lost Papa. Now, my new sister chafed to leave, and Mr. Knightley aided her while planning to leave as well.
I tugged my glove into place, then held my hands side-by-side to check that the trim was identical. The ribbons were trembling. “Send someone else. Please.”
“I cannot. I would not, if I could. We all have duties, Emma. This is mine. I will travel south in a few days. But I will pass through Surrey. I could assist your return.”
Mr. Elton’s condemnations mocked me. What business had I holding hands with a gentleman? This was inevitable. This was for the best.
“Do your duty,” I said and left, my steps dragging as if through icy water.