“Yes, Papa. We entered it in Harriet’s book, remember?” So oft during their enterprise had Mr. Woodhouse repeated the riddle, or at least the opening stanza of it, that Emma had heard enough of Kitty for a decade. “Garrick wrote that one; this riddle’s author must be less clever.” Far less clever, Emma declared to herself, if her deduction proved accurate.
“An object made of hemp would be a rope, I suppose,” offered Mr. Dixon. “And a ray that rhymes with ‘rope’…”
“Hope,” Frank finished.
“So it is!” said Mr. Woodhouse.
Frank gave her a knowing look. “But surely Mrs. Knightley had already figured that out.”
Emma, despite her irritation over the puzzle itself, could not help but admit that she had. “It was not a difficult clue.”
“Nevertheless,” her father said, “I am amazed at how quickly you struck upon it, my dear. Though I should not be.” He turned to Mrs. Darcy. “Emma’s mother had the same quickness for these sorts of puzzles. They take me much longer, though I was faster in my youth. I suppose you, also, had guessed ‘hope’?”
“I thought perhaps that might be the answer.” She smiled. “I am sure you would have realized it, too, in another moment.”
“I am not so certain, but nor am I wont to reject the flattery of a lady. Emma, read the remainder again and let us see whether our guests can solve the whole.”
Emma would much rather have quit the exercise altogether, but could contrive no graceful means by which to discontinue it. Wishing to keep the charade’s incriminating second stanza out of sight, lest anybody in addition to Mrs. Darcy become aware of its existence, she did not reopen the note but instead relied upon her memory. “I believe it was, ‘My second used with ciphers on a slate, will undo sums, and reduce some, I’d say.’ ”
Mr. Dixon pondered the clue with brows drawn together. Frank, in contrast, exhibited the open countenance of one who has either determined the answer or was content to let somebody else discover it. He shot her a conspiratorial glance that seemed to say, “Let us see how long this takes the others,” and then set about finishing his cake.
“ ‘Ciphers on a slate… ’ ” Mr. Woodhouse muttered. “I never cared for arithmetic as a boy. ‘Ten plus fifty,’ ‘sixty less ten.’ I had not the patience for it.”
“But you have given us the answer, sir,” said Mrs. Darcy.
Mr. Woodhouse was all disbelief. “Have I?”
“The word is ‘less’—subtraction undoes sums.” Mrs. Darcy smiled. “And if one begins with ‘some’ quantity and reduces it, there is less.”
“Indeed! Imagine that — I struck upon it without my even realizing. Emma, had you worked it out? Oh, of course you had. Well, no matter. So the second half is ‘less.’ That gives us—” His cheerfulness diminished. “Why, that makes the full solution ‘hopeless.’ What sort of melancholy riddle is that?”
A mean-spirited one, writ by a person of small mind and smaller intellect, Emma wanted to say. But instead she fixed a bright smile upon her countenance. “No one ever said a charade must be cheerful, Papa.”
“But who would compose such a sad verse?”
All save Emma looked at Frank, who of anyone in Highbury had the greatest cause for doleful thoughts. Having just raised his teacup to his lips, he drained it and returned it to its saucer.
“I have not the least idea,” he said.
“Nor I,” Emma said quickly, wanting more than anything to move the discourse along to some other subject. Fortunately, a servant entered to remove the tea things and deliver the message that Mr. Knightley now awaited Mr. Churchill in the study.
It was not without some little trepidation on Frank’s behalf that she watched him go. She knew Mr. Knightley harbored suspicion toward Frank Churchill, and doubted that the length of time her husband had been shut up with Mr. Perry and Mr. Darcy since the apothecary’s return from London presaged an amiable meeting for Frank.
His departure produced the welcome effect of breaking up the rest of their party. Mr. Dixon excused himself with the stated intention of writing a letter, and Mr. Woodhouse retired to his own chamber for a nap before dinner. Emma soon found herself alone with Mrs. Darcy, who looked as if she wanted to enquire about the charade but hesitated to ask.
Emma spared her further awkwardness and handed her the paper. “Go ahead — open it.” She desired Mrs. Darcy’s opinion on it anyway. Though confident of the solution, she sought confirmation.
Mrs. Darcy scanned the remaining stanza. “A hopeless lass, a hopeless cause…” She raised her gaze to meet Emma’s.
“Can that refer to anyone save Miss Bates?” Emma asked.
“Not knowing your entire acquaintance, I cannot say for certain, but from what I have observed, I suppose this could apply to Miss Bates.”
“I am sure of it, and its author.”
“Mrs. Elton?”
“Who else but she would be spiteful enough to write such a message, ill-bred enough to send it, and cowardly enough to do so anonymously?”
“Despite having met her only briefly, I have little doubt of Mrs. Elton’s spite, breeding, or nerve. I do, however, wonder that she possesses the cleverness.”
“She never would have thought to compose a charade were we not just discussing them with Harriet. But after that conversation, and my later circumventing her machinations with Mr. Simon, she no doubt resolved to prove herself superior. In the writing itself, she might have had help from her husband. He wrote a charade for Harriet’s book that was not half bad.” The solution to that riddle, written when Mr. Elton was a bachelor, had been “courtship,” and Emma had realized too late that it had been an attempt to woo her. The clergyman yet harbored resentment toward Emma for having rejected him. “His pride and disdain toward me matches his wife’s, and creating a puzzle meant to mock me would gratify his vanity. Whether he knows that she sent it is another matter.”
“Do you intend to respond?”
“Not directly. However certain I may be that this came from Mrs. Elton, I cannot prove my suspicions, nor will I give her the satisfaction of knowing how it vexes me. But that petty, disagreeable little upstart will eventually receive a response.”
“In what form?”
“The most satisfying of all. In sending this, she has thrown down a challenge. A challenge I shall win.”
“Do you think you perfectly understand the degree of acquaintance between the gentleman and lady we have been speaking of?”
— Mr. Knightley to Emma Woodhouse, Emma
Darcy rose from his seat and moved to an unobtrusive position near one of the study windows, hoping to diminish the effect of his presence on the imminent interview. Were he in Frank Churchill’s position, he would be reluctant to discuss family matters in the company of a stranger. Not all gentlemen, however, conducted themselves as guardedly as did Darcy, and his previous, albeit limited, intercourse with Mr. Churchill engendered hope that the young man would prove to be among those less circumspect than himself.
Upon entering, Mr. Churchill returned Mr. Knightley’s greeting in a genial manner, and extended the same to Mr. Perry and Darcy.
“So this is where the gentlemen are hiding.” Mr. Churchill took the chair Darcy had vacated and settled against its back. “I almost feel as if we should invite Mr. Dixon to join us — I abandoned the poor fellow trammeled in talk of draperies and charades. He did seem rather loquacious himself on the subjects, though, so perhaps he is happier left with the ladies.”
“Better he than I,” Mr. Knightley said.
Frank grinned. “The conversation was most enlightening, actually. I learned that my bride already conspires to spend my money on new furnishings. Perhaps you had rather be in the drawing room after all, to ensure yours does not do the same.”
“Mrs. Churchill decided to reappoint Enscombe without first seeing the extant furnishings for herself?”
“Oh, no — it is not our home she refurbishes. Her generosity is on behalf of her aunt and grandmother, which of course puts it entirely out of my power to object to the scheme. So she and Thomas Dixon will have their way about it.”
“Mr. Dixon?” Mr. Knightley asked. “What has he to do with the matter?”
Frank shrugged. “As I said, he is quite keen on the enterprise, to the point of having designated himself the executor of it. And as you said, better he than I.”
His buoyancy diminished as he turned toward Mr. Perry. “I came on a more serious errand. Have you done with my uncle’s remains? You must understand my desire to proceed with funeral arrangements.”