Her recuperation did little to placate his apprehension. There was no one more generously the object of Mr. Woodhouse’s sympathy than a fellow invalid, and he would not be denied the pleasure of commiseration. His watery eyes lit with interest. “Does it pain you still?”
“Not at all,” she assured him as tea was brought in. “Indeed, I am altogether recovered.”
Emma poured tea. Serle had also sent up a warm plum cake, which Emma sliced to serve to her guests, and dry toast for Mr. Woodhouse.
“Even so, you ought not indulge overmuch, or it could return,” Mr. Woodhouse said. “Plum cake is far too rich for a recovering constitution. Do not jeopardize your hard-won health, Mrs. Darcy. Emma, tell Serle to send up dry toast for her.”
Emma, hoping to spare her new friend from this little peculiarity of her father’s — of serving food to guests but then insisting they not eat it — handed a serving of cake to Mrs. Darcy. “I think plum cake will not adversely affect Mrs. Darcy’s head, Papa.”
“One cannot be too cautious. In fact, my dear, we should summon Perry from the study immediately. Surely Mr. Knightley has done with him by now.”
After some little debate between father and daughter, the apothecary was allowed to remain undisturbed, but dry toast was brought up for Mrs. Darcy. Elizabeth politely nibbled upon it between surreptitious tastes of cake.
Before long, Thomas Dixon entered. “Fresh from Piccadilly,” he announced, “my mission fully executed. I come bearing fabric and wallpaper samples. The upholstery, however, I reconsidered. Though I would never utter this in the presence of Miss Bates, her furnishings are so worn that she needs must replace the pieces altogether. I have selected new furniture — my friend Ridley helped me decide. He has a marvelous eye for such things. The furniture maker awaits only my confirmation to execute the order.”
“On whose authority were these items purchased?” Frank Churchill asked.
“Your wife’s.”
“Indeed?” Frank began to say more, but instead lapsed into silent contemplation.
Emma handed Frank a cup of tea. Apparently, Jane had not broached the subject with her new husband, an oversight Emma hardly found astonishing. Even the faultless Jane Fairfax Churchill must be hard-pressed to introduce a discussion of redecorating her aunt’s tired old rooms, into conversations dominated by funeral preparations. Seeking to avert any conjugal disharmony that might result from the omission — and the danger of Frank’s subsequently rejecting the entire enterprise — Emma thought it prudent to voice a few words in its favor. The project, after all, advanced not only Miss Bates’s domestic happiness, but also his own: if new furniture could help bring about a match for Jane’s spinster aunt, the young Churchills would be relieved of responsibility for her care and comfort… not to mention spared the possibility of her taking up residence with them. Though Frank could not, of course, be directly told of Emma’s matchmaking scheme and its benefit to himself, he must not unknowingly thwart it.
“When viewed in light of the more weighty matters commanding your attention in recent days, changing out draperies is so trivial a subject that doubtless your bride either wished to spare you the trouble of contemplating it, or herself forgot it in the course of other conversations,” Emma suggested. “But during previous visits to your new aunt and grandmother, a gentleman of your discernment could not help but observe that they might be made more comfortable by the improvement of a few aesthetic details in their apartment.”
Frank rewarded her with a smile reminiscent of their former rapport. “Perhaps a few.”
She returned to the tea table and sliced a piece of cake for him. “And having already proved yourself possessed of a generous spirit — who but you would have arranged for a pianoforte to grace their sitting room? — surely you wish to do more for them, now that you have the means. Under other circumstances, you no doubt would have initiated the project yourself. I am certain you wish to assure their continued independence.”
“New wallpaper and furniture will preserve their independence?”
“And draperies!” Mr. Dixon added. “Do not forget the draperies!”
“And draperies.” Frank turned to Emma. “Freedom can be purchased with brocade?”
“Yes.” Emma smiled. Then she crossed to Frank, handed him the cake, and said in a tone so soft only he could hear, “At least, yours can.”
His eyes narrowed as he tried to puzzle out her meaning. She resumed her seat beside Mrs. Darcy.
“As you are in mourning,” Emma continued, loudly enough for all to hear, “with more serious arrangements occupying your notice, Mr. Dixon has been so kind as to assume the management of this comparatively trifling matter.”
“Indeed, I am pleased to be of use,” said Mr. Dixon.
“Did you make certain that the draperies are of a heavy fabric?” Mr. Woodhouse asked. “Take care that they are strong enough to withstand drafts.” It was difficult to determine whom he eyed with greater fretfulness — Mr. Dixon, who had been entrusted with so critical a selection, or Frank, who had started to eat the plum cake and seemed quite in danger of enjoying it.
He appeared to settle on Mr. Dixon. In truth, Emma mused, in this instance her father’s perpetual fear of drafts was not unfounded. In winter months, the Bates’s sitting room inspired a new definition of “airiness,” and there was a reason the chair nearest the fireplace was permanently reserved for old Mrs. Bates. But then Mr. Woodhouse’s gaze happened to stray toward Mrs. Darcy, who had been so reckless as to finish her cake.
“Oh, dear, Mrs. Darcy! Are you still feeling well?”
Emma sought a subject to distract him. “Shall I see what today’s post brought? Perhaps there is a letter for you.” She hoped the day’s mail would include a note from her sister confirming their arrival in London. Whilst Emma had no reason to doubt a successful journey, Isabella’s departures always left Mr. Woodhouse nervous until he knew she and her family were as safe in Brunswick Square as anybody could be who breathed London air.
A servant brought in the mail, which included the much-anticipated letter from Isabella. As he read the note aloud to the assembled company — for surely they all, too, waited anxiously upon the news — Emma broke the plain seal of another letter addressed solely to her.
She quickly discovered that it was not a letter at all, but a message of an entirely different sort.
My first rhymes with an object made of hemp
Howe’er, no object this, instead a ray.
My second, used with ciphers on a slate,
Will undo sums, and reduce some, I’d say.
Conjoined, a single word, a single lass
A single appellation for your cause.
You see, not all the scheming in the world
Can undo human nature or its laws.
The verse was unsigned. Frowning, Emma read the lines to herself once more.
“What have you there, Emma? It is not bad news, I hope?”
Reluctantly — for she had not yet puzzled out the solution to the charade, let alone the identity of its author — Emma lifted her gaze from the paper and donned a bright smile for her father.
“No bad news at all, Papa. An entertainment, in fact — a charade. Remember what amusement we had last autumn with Harriet Martin, collecting charades?”
“Ah, yes — poor Miss Smith that was.” Mr. Woodhouse grieved change of any kind, but most particularly that which affected his own domestic circle, to which Harriet had been a more frequent visitor before her marriage. Emma wondered how much time would pass before her father could bring himself to call Harriet “Mrs. Martin.” Emma’s former governess, Mrs. Weston, though enjoying perfect felicity for over a twelvemonth in her own marriage, would forever remain “poor Miss Taylor” in Mr. Woodhouse’s heart. And she had yet to hear him refer to herself as “Mrs. Knightley.”
“If that charade was meant for Miss Smith’s book, it has arrived quite late,” her father said.
Emma scanned the lines again. Whatever had prompted its authorship and delivery? Save for her conversation with Harriet the day before yesterday, such a diversion had not come before her in months. “I imagine Mrs. Martin herself sent it. We were just recalling her book, and she revealed that she had recently tried her hand at writing a riddle. This must be her latest attempt.”
In point of fact, Emma imagined nothing of the sort. The language was more elevated than anything she would expect of Harriet, and the solution, being not obvious, more clever than she would credit her with devising. She had deciphered the first half, but not the second, though she was confident that she wanted only a minute’s uninterrupted study to work out the charade entire.
“Oh, how charming!” Mr. Dixon said. “I adore word games — I find them the most diverting challenges. Ridley once presented me with a series of riddles on various themes — plants, birds, monarchs, cravat styles. There was even one on an Oriental theme. Do read it aloud.”
She recited the first two lines, sure that at least some of the company would solve them as quickly as she had. Frank had proven himself adept at word games on previous occasions, and at Abbey Mill Farm, Mrs. Darcy had scarcely blinked before stating the solution to Harriet’s riddle.
“ ‘My first rhymes with an object made of hemp… ’” She continued through the reference to ciphers and slates. When she reached the fourth line, however, her tongue stumbled over the words as she suddenly realized their meaning. She finished reading the line aloud, then broke off and skimmed the second stanza in silence. She had unraveled the charade — and was not amused by its solution.
Her father penetrated her thoughts. “That seems terribly short. Is that the full charade, my dear?”
“Yes, Papa,” she answered absently, a suspicion forming in her mind of the puzzle’s author. Closer attention to the handwriting confirmed it. Spiteful, vain creature! Emma endeavored to mask her vexation as she folded the paper and tucked it away. She glanced at Mrs. Darcy, who alone sat in sufficient proximity to have observed that additional lines filled the paper. Their gazes met; Emma could read in Mrs. Darcy’s expression that she had been caught in the falsehood. However, her new friend betrayed nothing to the others and merely regarded her with curiosity.