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Emma knew not what to say — what to think. Her head was full of images, and she wanted them out. She now knew, with a clarity that had escaped her until that moment, what was inside those bulky sacks Mr Knightley's men were carrying. Sick with foreboding, she could not but ask, 'Are you — are you going to burn them, then? Are not they alive, still, if they wake up?'
Crawl up, her mind corrected, and she fumbled for the teapot.
'Burn them?' He leaned back in his chair, and seemed startled, as if he had not thought of it before. But how could he not have?
'The bodies,' she clarified, hearing her own voice as if from a distance, 'that were tied across your men's horses.'
'No,' he said, and his voice was almost gentle. 'I will not do that.'
'But would not that be...?' Dazed, she had to focus on her own hands to keep them from trembling while she poured him tea — she had wanted to say, 'wiser', but instead started again, 'It is late, I think. It will be completely dark soon — you should go.'
He assented, saying nothing. She felt his eyes, probing her demeanour as if they could uncover what she was thinking — she would not have been able to help them. When he stood up, it was with reluctance — he still wanted them to come to Donwell Abbey, she knew, and was grateful that he did not voice his plea again.
She had been the mistress of her house since she was thirteen, and was not about to be anything less. She still felt the absence of Miss Taylor — she told herself it was natural to need more than five months altogether to forget such a dear friend — but that was more companionship than guidance.
After she closed the front door herself, there were tasks she could no longer avoid. She did them, concentrating on the particulars and what ought to be said and done, with precision. She sent at last a boy to the men out in the fields — there were no houses, no wives for them to go home to, and no one ought to step into Highbury.
But she would not allow herself to dwell on what had happened until an upstairs maid, running ragged between the kitchen — 'there is enough food, ma'am, for tonight and perhaps a week more,' was the cook's word — and the labourers' rooms, asked her if someone should go tend the sick lady. Even as she said it, there was a quick flash of fear in her eyes — and relief, when Emma said she would care for Miss Fairfax herself.
'She is feverish,' she had told Mr Knightley after settling her in and coming back to the drawing room.
His eyes had widened. 'She is? She is not — she has had no contact with the diseased,' he had said, the content of his words more re-assuring than his tone.
'Are you sure?' she had asked.
'I am. I would not bring her to you if I were not — I would not put you in danger.' He had seemed injured she had not taken that for granted. He had lowered his voice, and leaning over the tray, had added, 'I would take her with me to Donwell Abbey, but you know how that could look.'
Indeed, she knew. She reached the top of the stairs, and stopped, clutching the banister. The door to the sickroom stood at the end of the hallway, and she could not name what feeling made her reluctant to cross it — she assured herself that it was not fear.
When she opened the door, she found that Jane Fairfax was awake, and no longer on the bed — she stood straight by the window, holding the curtains open and looking in Highbury's direction. It tried Emma's self-avowal to take care of her. She had felt most acutely, when she first saw Jane after almost two years of absence, the unfairness of her own judgement of a person so elegant, so good, who had suffered through a life so unlike her own, and she could not now hold against her any of the petty things she had before. Still, she was reminded then why she had never been able to like her — she was cold and reserved, and incomprehensible.
Jane turned, still holding the curtain up, with a sort of polite, distant smile. 'Miss Woodhouse,' she said. And then Emma saw, startled, that she was shivering, and her eyes were fixated, and too brilliant not to have tears.
This proof of humanity, or weakness, was enough. Emma went to the window, and gently pried the curtain from Jane's fingers. 'Miss Fairfax, what are you doing out of bed? You must rest,' she said in as gentle a voice as she could manage. Emma could not like her, but she could do this much — she helped her into bed, and brought her a glass of water.
Jane did not speak a word more, did not struggle. In the silence, Emma realized with a shudder that she was listening for sounds from Highbury's road — and Jane, who lay back meekly and moved this and that way for her, still had her eyes wide and attentive, fixed on the curtain.
Emma, after finishing those things she knew to do, was at a loss. She could not leave Jane alone for long — but it was a relief when it occurred to her to go to her own room to procure a book. Once there, she happened to glance at her clock over the fireplace — she was not hungry, but she told herself they must eat, and forced herself to call for two trays instead of going down to the kitchen.
When she opened the door to the sickroom, it made no noise, and she was relieved to note Jane in the bed still. For a moment she knew not where to sit — it would hardly do to sit with her back to the other lady, but every feeling revolted at the idea of sitting with her back to the window. Finally, she dragged the chair around to the other side of the bed, and tried to read.
A book could hardly keep her attention long, though. She found herself focusing on the texture of the paper, and the lines of the letters, and her breath, and Jane's breath, and the silence, and the window.
She had seen Mr Knightley's grim demeanour, and he had asked to come inside — he had something to tell her. She had been fearing for London.
'The whole of Highbury? The whole of it?' she had asked, after he told her.
His words blurred in her mind. She remembered her first feelings on seeing Jane, a small, still figure in a sea of moving men — checking their mounts, asking for water, looking over themselves, talking in low, grave voices while they tightened the ropes around some four long, narrow bulks on top of the horses.
She had not thought of them, then. She had thought of her, and how handsome she looked, wan, but never colourless — and suddenly, of her grandmother, and her aunt. Miss Bates! How had Emma scorned her!
When the trays came, she almost dropped her volume to the carpet in her eagerness to receive them. The maid, however, did not want to stay, and made no movement to bring them farther into the room than a side table by the door. Emma could not blame her, as she would have done as much herself if she could.
'Miss Fairfax,' she said, and more strongly, 'Miss Fairfax.'
When at first Jane opened her eyes, they were uncomprehending, and Emma could see the beginnings of a confused smile — but it took her no more than a moment to take in the surroundings and remember.
'Miss Fairfax, you are awake! Good; I took the liberty of ordering a tray to be brought up for you. Can I help you sit up? There it is, with this pillow. And the tray.' Laying it so — 'There, you are all set.' She chattered, she knew, because she did not want to have to talk — and Jane said nothing. She acquiesced, she moved when Emma prompted her to move, and finally sat, still, with the tray in her lap.
So busy had been Emma in bustling about getting everything ready, and sitting down herself, that she only realized Jane was not eating when about to put the first spoonful of soup in her mouth.
She vacillated — she could not be expected to feed Jane? Surely, the situation was not so dire, yet.
'Miss Fairfax, I hope the soup is to your liking.'
It was enough — Jane looked at her, and then the tray, and understanding appeared to finally reach to her, because she started to eat, if not with delight, then at least methodically. The clink of the cutlery made their silence companionable.
As the night progressed, it became easier for Emma to go about her business — it was almost possible to forget Jane Fairfax was in the room at all. Emma had even accustomed herself to the silence, when at length Jane broke it.
'Miss Woodhouse, I could never thank you enough.' Jane's voice was toneless, and had none of the practised gratitude Emma had come to expect, or the usual gracefulness of Jane's manner.
Emma demurred, but it felt hollow. Surely, that could not be Jane's voice now? As cold, as reserved as Jane Fairfax had always been, she had never sounded so devoid of life.
'I trust the Colonel and Mrs Campbell are well?' asked Emma, knowing they could only be dear to Jane.
If Jane was surprised at this non sequitur, she did not show it; she had not laid back again, and instead sat, looking down and playing with the border of the bedding. 'They are very well, thank you.'
'You must miss them; your — everyone says they care for you extraordinarily.'
'I do.'
There was a silence, and Emma was about to go back to her book, which lay open on her lap, giving up on a conversation in which she was hardly interested in the first place, when Jane spoke again. 'They have been too good to me.'
Her tone was, for the first time, something other than indifferent — Emma could hear Jane's down-turned mouth, and the way her breath caught in her throat mid-phrase. She closed the book and lay it aside. She hardly knew what to say that would not bring to mind the present situation — she had never been Jane's friend, but she knew that sudden confidences were not her usual behaviour.
'I dare say they are very happy with Mrs Dixon's marriage,' said Emma finally, before remembering her suspicions, at one time so amusing — but Jane had no opportunity to answer. There was a commotion outside, and in opening the door Emma found a footman, breathless and pale.
'Miss Woodhouse, there is a visitor — '
'Is it...?' She could barely ask.
'No, on horseback, a man.'
She felt almost giddy with relief, and led the way downstairs. They were outside the drawing room when it occurred to her to ask, lowering her voice, 'From which direction did he come?'
'Highbury,' he said, grimly. And forbidding herself to dither outside, she went in.
The man was good looking and young, and had the airs of a gentleman. He held himself as if his current appearance was nothing, and talked to her likewise. His current appearance, however, was what concerned her.
'Mr Frank Churchill, at your service,' he began, with a very correct bow. She startled, suddenly recognizing Mr Weston's spirit and liveliness in his countenance. Without letting her answer, he continued it by, 'And you must be Miss Woodhouse! Mrs Weston and Mr Weston have written to me so much about you.'
She managed to muster a smile, tracing the blood on his coat with her eyes, trying to see if there was a wound. 'They are such good friends, I do not doubt they have told you only good things.'
'Indeed! They are dull fellows that way,' he said, 'not allowing for even a moment of delicious self doubt.'
His tone was lively, and now that she was looking for it, she could see a feverish glint in his eyes. She tried to repress a shiver, though it was highly unlikely he could detect it — the room was lit only by a candle, in the farthest corner, and its light was muted by a screen.
'But how ungracious a hostess I am!' she said, with forced cheerfulness, and sent for a tray with tea and brandy. After the footman had gone she turned to him again. 'These are no times to be travelling alone, and at night — if you do not mind me asking, from where do you come? What is your object?' She had a sudden vision of Randall, savaged; but, surely, he would say first thing if that were the case? Surely?
'I come from London directly,' he said.
'Have you not been to see your father, then?' she asked, dread still a heavy weight in her stomach.
'No, I have not.' His answer was guarded, and by his expression, he wanted to ask what business it was of hers.
'My men have seen you come from Highbury's direction,' she said. 'You must have seen the wreckage.' She was glad she had managed to steady her voice, because she had suddenly spotted, on his moving, a long, bloody gash on his side under the coat.
'I did.'
'Have you gotten lost, then, on your way to Randall?'
He hesitated, almost imperceptibly. 'I have. My father's directions are no good, I am afraid.' He tried to smile, but a rictus — perhaps of pain — was the result.
'Have you found any trouble on the road?'
'Near here?'
'Between the town and here.'
'None at all.'
'London?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Have you found no trouble between London and here?' She supposed that she need not hide the incredulity of her tone.
'I would have never pictured you as an interrogator,' he asked, with a grin that she fancied was slightly mad.
'I suppose any of us can be one, if the situation requires it.'
The footman entered then, bringing the tray, and she poured herself tea while he poured himself a few fingers too many of brandy. He took a long swallow before replying.
'I suppose that in such days like these, we can only afford a thin veneer of civility.' And on seeing she was about to reply, he added, 'As you wish; bandits. The London road is teeming with them.'
She had not seen a bullet wound, she was sure. And no bandits attacked at night, these days. The footman near the door moved almost imperceptibly, but she did not turn.
She decided to move on to the next matter at hand — if he was lost, he could not have been following directions. Though Hartfield was not too retired from the road, nor hidden in any way, it was supposed to be dark, invisible in the night. 'What led you here?'
He could not answer — the door opened, ahead of the footman that was stationed outside it. In the doorway stood Jane Fairfax, tall and wan, and at once she saw Mr Churchill and paled even more, clutching the frame.
Emma stood up, realizing as she did that he did the same. 'Miss Fairfax!'
'Jane!'
'I felt,' said Jane. 'I heard the horse, but it could not be you.'
His expression was joyous, and he bore down on her, saying with a sort of feverish enthusiasm, 'How could I not be? I was here — I was there, and the house was empty and Jane, the windows were broken — but never you mind, how could I not be? I came as soon as I heard — she is dead.'
His tone did not change for the latest news, and Emma saw her own horrified expression reflected in Jane's. She had walked, backwards, her eyes fixed on his face, but never letting him come near. They were in the hallway, and their voices were not audible anymore — they must be whispering.
Emma could no longer avoid the foreboding that had chased her the whole day, nor could she avoid now the questions that crowded her mind after talking with Mr Knightley. Nonetheless, there was not a moment to think, to consider. She called, with barely a gesture, one of the footmen over.
She instructed him in a low, rapid voice. His eyes widened at her last order — but she knew he would do as he was bid.
When she looked back beyond the doorway, Jane had not moved, but the distance between her and Frank Churchill had shortened. Jane's eyes were still wide, and Emma could see her chest gasp out her breath harshly. She had to walk around Mr Churchill to stand beside Jane, but he paid her no mind. From this short distance, Emma could see that it was worse than she thought; he was as pale as death, his eyes brilliant and his hair matted, and his wound, despite being large and gaping, lost no blood.
'Mr Churchill,' said Emma, trying to ignore his exposed flesh, where his coat hung open. He did not divert his eyes from Jane.
'My Jane,' he said, and he was then not twenty inches from them both. His breathing was harsh and laboured, and Emma fancied she felt it stirring the fabric of her dress. She looked over his shoulder, knowing that her men would intervene if he stepped closer. It did not come to that — it was as he took one step forward, Jane's back pushing the wall, her chest just beyond his extended hand, that he collapsed to his knees and then backwards, the dark, glistening flesh exposed by his coat falling to the side. Emma knew the exact moment when Jane saw it, because her body became rigid at her side.
The footman kneeled at the corpse that had once been Frank Churchill, and vacillated for a moment before touching its throat with two fingers. He wiped them on his breeches, and nodded at her — and at once, Jane let out a cry and made a lurch towards him. She was weak, and Emma easily restrained her until she stopped resisting, suddenly limp as a rag-doll.
The footman did not wait and did as she had bid, and, calling the other man, carried the corpse outside. Jane let herself be led upstairs, and left there under the care of a newly awakened maid.
In the gardens, the dark was beginning to lift, the horizon already a line of brilliant orange.
There were four of her men standing outside, and it was all as she had ordered. She neared the corpse, wishing her horror would master her distaste and her pity would master both, and reached to its neck. She waited, for some agonizing moments, for something.
There was nothing.
She asked for the piece of mirror, and got it.
It did not fog.
'A torch,' she said, and the nearest footman gave her one.