Chapter 41
BOX HALL
EMMA
Lucy had delivered these invitations after breakfast:
A Musical Entertainment
Mr. and Mrs. Darcy invite you to an afternoon of music and improvised amusement.
The Box Hall, top floor North, at 3 o’clock.
Pemberley’s staff were efficient, so I expected a housemaid that afternoon, but at two o’clock, it was Lucy who appeared at my door asking if I wished help dressing.
“Do you not need to assist Mrs. Darcy?” I said.
“She is off with Mr. Darcy,” Lucy said, swinging her hands dramatically.
“She and Miss Bennet did something brave this morning, but nobody knows what! Then Mr. Darcy scooped her onto his horse without even stopping his gallop, and they rode into the hills! That’s all I have heard.
” Her excited face swung, then became curious. “Is Miss Smith not with you?”
“She will meet me at the afternoon entertainment.” Lizzy was not the only one on mysterious errands.
After my morning meeting with Mr. Darcy—and the peculiarly ubiquitous Mr. Knightley—Harriet had taken Pemberley’s daily coach to Lambton.
I was certain it had to do with the school, but she offered only a tight-lipped smile when I asked.
“I hope she dresses warmly. Miss Darcy is sure the guests will leave all the terrace doors open, and the tunings will be ruined by the cold.” Earnestly, Lucy added, “Miss Darcy will play! You must hear her. She is so much more exciting than those kings.”
“They are a king and a prince,” I corrected while eyeing my sparse wardrobe of formal gowns. When I wrote to my maid at Hartfield, I had not expected to meet royalty. “Let us try the ivory. With warm petticoats for the terrace.”
In most estate homes, the top floor was attic, short and stuffy, fit for aging aunts and overstayed guests. Here, it was as lofty as the lower floors, with a row of towering arched windows on the house’s southern front.
Box Hall was square with a sprung floor of long planks, more an intimate ballroom than a hall.
The room was on the manor’s north side, sun-brightened by dormer windows, and the windows overlooked the hills and a ragged ravine.
A pair of glass doors opened to a long, shallow terrace.
Half the floor had small tables and upholstered seating like a salon, suited for the two dozen guests who would attend.
The rest was sparsely filled. A grand pianoforte stood imposingly, and I recognized the cherrywood case of Mr. Knightley’s violin on a table.
The chairs had been subtly spaced to indicate the royal seats. Eight or nine members of the court entourage were milling. They had indeed opened the terrace doors, and the room was cool.
“Miss Woodhouse,” called one of them, Mr. Howell, who seemed to manage royal gatherings and entertainments. His bony face was perched above a ruffled sky-blue silk coat. He swirled his long-nailed fingers, beckoning me to their group.
I was not fond of the royal entourage. The prince, and even the young princess, had gravitas and thoughtfulness, even if they were sometimes lost in decorum or boredom, but the courtiers were downright dull, saying nothing worth hearing and admiring without intelligence.
They were all jewels and cosmetics and rude rumors, the staples of London society.
But declining Mr. Howell’s invitation would be rude as well, so I joined them, flanked on the other side by a remote royal cousin, one of the few bound wyves at court.
She wore a pleated apple-green bodice trimmed with gauze.
The members of court had brought maids and dressers, which had a selfish benefit for me: there was not one loose thread, stray hair, or crooked tie.
Conversation pattered among fortunes and rumored courtships and smug allusions to gambling debts.
The sole mention of the war was shushed.
A white-powdered, bewigged baronet announced he would perform a pantomime for the entertainment, then asked suggestions for his theme.
I was invited to join him and smilingly declined while wondering what time it was.
Afternoon entertainments usually started promptly.
At last, Mr. Knightley and Miss Darcy arrived, and expectations rose as A’s were struck and strings tuned.
Satisfied, Mr. Knightley set his violin aside and joined our group.
His greetings with the court were casual; we had all mingled during the trip from London.
Mr. Knightley’s deepest bow was for me, and I curtsied carefully.
Perhaps this was his apology for misbehaving at Mr. Darcy’s lesson.
I had dwelled on my behavior as well, and decided it was not my best. He had been trying to help.
The next influx of guests provided everyone except Mr. and Mrs. Darcy and the royal family.
Harriet arrived radiant and slightly rumpled from her tour to Lambton, wearing the green velvet gown she had worn at our frightening visit to Mr. Tinsdale’s rally on the Thames.
She greeted everyone very properly, but the responses disturbed me.
The courtiers flicked too many glances and lifted too many eyebrows.
Harriet, though, was so happy that she held every eye. Amid that attention, she said, “I have had the most wonderful day.”
“Indeed?” inquired Mr. Howell, with a bony half-smile.
“Oh yes! The Lambton school is so charming and modern. The headmistress complimented my explanation of a story. She will recommend me for the Martin School. Is that not wonderful?”
Together, the courtiers’ noses lifted an inch. Rouged lips twitched in amusement. One said, “Quite.”
I felt myself heat with embarrassment. I had warned her about discussing the school. Clearly, she had forgotten.
Harriet continued with supreme confidence, “Teaching is not a position in His Majesty’s court, but it is important. If I improve the understanding of a single child, I should feel tremendous accomplishment.”
“Well, modest expectations are best,” the courtier said with a rude wink to the circle.
“I assure you, sir, my expectations are not modest,” Harriet replied. “You will see what I accomplish.”
Some of the courtiers were openly chuckling. It was time for a rescue, and the bolder, the better.
“Harriet is such a dear,” I said. “I have explained that professional teaching is common, but she cannot master her impulse to be charitable.”
The courtiers hummed and nodded. To my right, Mr. Knightley’s head snapped around to stare at me. And at last, Harriet’s confident smile thinned. Perhaps she realized these horrid people were mocking her.
Still, the reaction of the court proved my point. Vindicated, I continued, “Charity is wonderful, but a setting like a school suggests a person is comfortable there. When a path to genteel society has been offered, one is obligated—”
Mr. Knightley’s foot landed on my toe so hard that I winced. I gave him a hurt look.
“There!” the baronet told Harriet. “You must accept the advice of your better.”
“I have heard her advice before,” Harriet pronounced carefully, but to me, not to him. Her chin was set. She was angry.
Mr. Howell gave a fleeting laugh. “With a sponsor such as Miss Woodhouse, I am certain doors to suitable society can be opened.” He gave me a courtly bow, fluttering his hand.
Harriet’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Mr. Howell’s words had kindled an uncertain sensation in my breast. I tried to remember what exactly I had said…
Loudly, Harriet said, “Miss Woodhouse is not my sponsor.”
“Oh.” Mr. Howell turned to me, screwing up his outlined eyes in curiosity. Every gaze followed. “What, then?”
She is my sister. The words hung, shy of my lips.
Ever since our meeting with Mr. Debrett, I had been pondering when to announce our relationship. There was no rush, as his next publication was months away. And Harriet had not pressed me to hurry. Not once.
“She is…” I began. “We are good friends, as you see…”
“That is very admirable,” the baronet enthused, tapping two fingertips on one palm in tiny applause.
“Is my attendance here obligated?” Harriet asked me with such resounding presence that silence fell and the smirks vanished. “If not, I prefer the afternoon entertainment in Lambton.”
“You do not need my permission—” I started, but she turned on her heel and marched from the room. Behind her back, the courtiers traded ostentatiously shocked looks.
The uncertainty in my chest had exploded to burning guilt. That had not turned out as I intended.
“Miss Woodhouse,” Mr. Knightley said. “May I show you the view from the terrace?” I followed him, very relieved.
The terrace was high and breezy, stripping the residual warmth of the room. I gave Mr. Knightley a thankful smile. “That was well timed.”
He did not return my smile. “How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Smith?”
A startled, hot blush rose in my cheeks, but I laughed his words off. “I was only trying to help.”
“She did not ask for your help. She did not require it.”
The guilt in my heart surged, but I said, “There is nothing wrong with help.”
“Your help demeaned her. Emma, all the time I have known you, you have pressed her to pursue a life she does not want—a life she can achieve only by being dependent on your goodwill. Now, you degrade her accomplishments because they do not align with your goal.”
“I only wish to protect her,” I protested. “To help her accomplish more.”
“Why more? Is it more, or simply different? She is your friend. I know you care for her, and she cares for you. When you are absent, you have no surer defender than Miss Smith. But her entire life has been one of indebtedness. Her boarding school—the nearest she had to a family—was hired by the cast-off coin of a father who rejected her. Then you, her wealthy friend, coddled her. Always, the message has been: My trifling effort has caused your success. But Harriet Smith stands on her own. Have you even watched her in a classroom? The independence you crave for yourself is within her grasp. Yet you celebrate her achievement by belittling it.”