Chapter 6: A New Arrival in Highbury

Mr. Elton’s departure to Bath changed the air of Highbury.

He had not been the most important man in the village, though he had often behaved as if good manners and a white cravat made him necessary to society. Still, his absence was felt. At church, people noticed the empty place. At Mrs. Goddard’s, whispers traveled from room to room. At Hartfield, Emma Woodhouse felt his absence most sharply because it reminded her of her mistake.

Harriet Smith tried to be brave.

That made everything worse.

If Harriet had blamed Emma, cried angrily, or declared herself deceived, Emma might have found some relief in defending herself. But Harriet did none of those things. She came to Hartfield with pale cheeks and soft eyes, speaking gently, smiling too often, and pretending she was recovering faster than she truly was.

“I am quite well now,” Harriet said one morning.

Emma looked at her carefully. “Quite well?”

“Almost quite.”

“That is not the same thing.”

Harriet lowered her eyes. “I do not mean to be foolish.”

Emma’s heart tightened. “You are not foolish.”

“I was foolish enough to believe too much.”

“Because I led you to believe it.”

Harriet shook her head quickly. “No, Miss Woodhouse. You were only kind.”

That word, kind, had begun to trouble Emma.

It was too easy to hide behind it.

A person could do a great deal of harm while intending kindness. Emma had not understood that before. Or perhaps she had understood it in theory and never imagined the lesson would require Harriet’s tears.

To help Harriet recover, Emma filled their days with small occupations. They read together, walked when the weather allowed, sorted music, arranged flowers, and discussed gowns. Emma carefully avoided Mr. Elton’s name unless Harriet spoke it first.

But silence did not remove him.

He remained in every pause.

Whenever the church bell rang, Harriet looked toward the window. Whenever a letter arrived, her hands trembled before she remembered it could not be from him. Whenever someone mentioned Bath, she became very still.

Emma watched and felt guilt settle deeper.

Mr. Knightley came often during those weeks, but he did not mention Mr. Elton unless necessary. His restraint was almost unbearable. Emma had expected correction. She had prepared for it. Instead, he gave her something more difficult to receive: quiet understanding.

One evening, as they sat near the fire while Mr. Woodhouse dozed, Emma said suddenly, “You are being very generous.”

Mr. Knightley looked up. “Am I?”

“Yes. You have not reminded me that you were right.”

“I assumed you remembered.”

Emma gave him a reluctant smile. “Very clearly.”

“Then there is no need for me to repeat it.”

“That has never stopped you before.”

“Perhaps I am improving.”

“Now that would be news for Highbury.”

His eyes warmed. “And perhaps you are improving too.”

Emma looked down at her hands. “I would like to think so.”

“Then think so, but do not stop there.”

“There is the sermon.”

“A short one.”

“I doubt that.”

He smiled slightly. “Be kinder by being less certain.”

Emma was silent.

The words were simple, but they struck deeply.

Less certain.

It sounded like weakness. Yet lately certainty had done more harm than doubt.

Before she could answer, Mr. Woodhouse woke and asked whether anyone had opened a window. No one had. The moment passed, but Emma carried Mr. Knightley’s words with her long after he left.

Highbury, however, was not a place that allowed one subject to remain dominant forever.

Soon, new talk began.

Frank Churchill was coming.

The name had floated through Highbury for years like a promise never fulfilled. Frank Churchill was Mr. Weston’s son from his first marriage, raised by wealthy relatives far away. Everyone had heard of him. Almost no one had seen him. Mr. Weston adored him from a distance and spoke of him with such pride that the young man had become half real, half legend.

He was handsome, everyone said.

Charming.

Well-mannered.

Lively.

Perhaps a little spoiled, though Mr. Weston never admitted that.

Mrs. Weston mentioned the news during a visit to Hartfield, and Mr. Woodhouse immediately looked worried.

“Coming here? In winter?”

Mrs. Weston smiled. “Only to Randalls, sir.”

“But he must travel.”

“Yes.”

“Travel is very dangerous.”

Emma looked amused. “Papa, people do survive journeys.”

“Not always comfortably.”

Mrs. Weston said gently, “Mr. Weston is very happy.”

Emma’s expression softened. “I am sure he is.”

“He has waited a long time for this visit.”

That was true. Mr. Weston’s affection for his son had always been one of his most tender qualities. He spoke of Frank Churchill with the hopeful pride of a father who had missed too many years and was determined not to complain.

Emma was curious.

More than curious, perhaps.

A young man of good birth, charm, and mystery was not an everyday arrival in Highbury. Even Emma, who did not intend to fall in love and believed herself immune to romantic accidents, found the idea interesting.

Mrs. Weston watched her with a knowing smile.

“You will like him, I think.”

Emma lifted an eyebrow. “That sounds as if you have already decided I must.”

“No. Only that you may.”

“And if I do not?”

“Then Highbury will be disappointed.”

Emma laughed. “Highbury is too easily entertained.”

But later, when she was alone, she found herself wondering about Frank Churchill.

What sort of man delayed visiting his father for so long?

Was he truly prevented by duty to his aunt, as everyone said, or merely comfortable where he was?

Was he charming because he was kind, or charming because he knew charm could excuse selfishness?

Emma did not know.

And this time, she reminded herself, not knowing was allowed.

When Frank Churchill finally arrived, the news spread through Highbury before the afternoon was over.

He had come to Randalls.

He had walked with Mr. Weston.

He had asked after Hartfield.

He had spoken warmly of Mrs. Weston.

He had looked exactly as handsome as promised.

By evening, half the village had formed an opinion of him from a distance.

Emma did not see him that day.

She told herself she was not eager.

The next morning, Mr. and Mrs. Weston brought him to Hartfield.

Emma heard the carriage, then voices in the hall. She rose with composed interest, not excitement, and prepared to meet the man Highbury had spent years imagining.

Frank Churchill entered with confidence, but not arrogance.

That was Emma’s first impression.

He was tall, fair, and very handsome, with bright eyes and a smile that seemed to arrive before his words. His manner was open, easy, and warm. He bowed to Mr. Woodhouse with perfect respect, greeted Emma with admiration that felt polished but not oppressive, and turned to Mrs. Weston with such affectionate attention that Emma liked him almost immediately.

“I have heard of Hartfield all my life,” he said. “But I see now that my imagination was lazy.”

Emma smiled. “That is a dangerous compliment, Mr. Churchill. It accuses both your imagination and our furniture.”

He laughed. “Then let me correct it. My imagination was unequal to the warmth of the place.”

Mr. Woodhouse looked pleased. “Warmth is very important.”

“I entirely agree, sir.”

“Many young men do not.”

“Then many young men are fools.”

Mr. Woodhouse brightened at once. “A very sensible answer.”

Emma had to hide a smile.

Frank Churchill had passed the first test: he knew how to please her father.

The visit went beautifully. Frank spoke with liveliness, but not too loudly. He admired Hartfield without seeming false. He listened to Mrs. Weston with genuine affection. He thanked Mr. Woodhouse for advice about health as if he had received wisdom from a physician.

Emma watched closely.

She had promised herself caution, but observation was not interference.

Observation was harmless.

Mostly.

Frank Churchill’s charm was undeniable. He seemed to understand the mood of a room within minutes. If Mr. Woodhouse grew anxious, Frank became calm. If Mrs. Weston smiled, he grew warmer. If Emma teased, he answered with equal quickness.

“Highbury must seem very quiet after the places you are used to,” Emma said.

“Quiet is not the same as dull.”

“That depends on the company.”

“Then I am fortunate in my first morning.”

Emma accepted the compliment with ease. Unlike Mr. Elton’s attention, Frank’s did not feel heavy. It moved lightly, like sunlight on water. It warmed without trapping.

When the Westons left, Mr. Woodhouse declared Frank Churchill a very agreeable young man.

“He did not speak too fast,” he said.

“A rare virtue,” Emma replied.

“And he respected the danger of cold air.”

“Even rarer.”

“I like him.”

Emma looked toward the window as the carriage disappeared. “So do I.”

She said it simply, but she felt Mrs. Weston’s hopes hovering around the words.

Everyone, Emma knew, had at some point imagined that she and Frank Churchill might suit. It was natural. He was Mr. Weston’s son. Mrs. Weston loved them both. Frank was of good standing, lively temper, and pleasing manners. Emma was Emma Woodhouse.

But imagining a match was not the same as desiring one.

Emma had no intention of marrying.

She had told herself this many times. Marriage might suit other women. For her, Hartfield was enough. Her father needed her. Her position pleased her. Her independence was comfortable. She had fortune, respect, and freedom.

Why trade command for compromise?

Still, Frank Churchill was interesting.

And interest, Emma thought, was harmless.

Over the next few days, Frank appeared often in Highbury society. He visited the village, called at Randalls, came again to Hartfield, and made himself liked almost everywhere. Mr. Weston glowed with pride. Mrs. Weston looked happier than Emma had ever seen her. Even Mr. Woodhouse, cautious by nature, allowed that Frank was not a reckless young man.

Harriet saw him once and was immediately impressed.

“He is very handsome,” she said.

Emma smiled. “Yes, he is.”

“And speaks so easily.”

“That is sometimes a gift and sometimes a warning.”

Harriet looked confused. “A warning?”

Emma laughed softly. “Never mind. I am trying to become wise, and it does not suit me yet.”

Harriet smiled, though sadness still lived behind her eyes.

Emma noticed that Frank Churchill did not awaken in Harriet any serious romantic interest. That was a relief. Harriet had suffered enough from imagined hopes. Emma would not encourage another attachment unless she had far better reason.

She meant that sincerely.

She almost believed it completely.

Mr. Knightley, however, was not as pleased with Frank Churchill as everyone else.

When Emma praised Frank’s manners one evening, Mr. Knightley listened with an expression that suggested patience under strain.

“You do not like him,” Emma said.

“I do not know him.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It is the only fair one.”

“But you have decided something.”

“I have observed something.”

Emma sighed. “Observation again. How alarming.”

Mr. Knightley looked toward the fire. “A man who can visit now could likely have visited before.”

Emma understood at once. “You think he neglected his father.”

“I think Mr. Weston has deserved more attention than he has received.”

“Perhaps Frank’s aunt truly prevented him.”

“Perhaps.”

“You say that as if perhaps means no.”

“With me, it sometimes does.”

Emma smiled despite herself. “You are determined to be severe.”

“No. Only unwilling to reward charm before character is proven.”

The phrase stayed with her.

Charm before character.

It was very Mr. Knightley. Solid. Moral. Slightly annoying.

“You sound jealous,” Emma said lightly.

Mr. Knightley looked at her. “Of Frank Churchill?”

“Of everyone liking him.”

“I am not jealous of easy manners.”

“No. You prefer difficult ones.”

His mouth twitched. “They are more reliable.”

Emma laughed.

For a moment, the old ease returned between them.

Then Mr. Knightley said, “Be careful, Emma.”

She groaned. “Again?”

“Again.”

“Must every conversation end with that warning?”

“Only the ones in which you sound ready to admire too quickly.”

Emma lifted her chin. “I am not in danger.”

“You rarely think you are.”

That was so true she disliked it.

Still, she was not in love with Frank Churchill.

She was certain of that.

Or nearly certain.

No, entirely certain.

The uncertainty lay only in whether she enjoyed his company too much. But enjoyment was not love. She enjoyed music, conversation, fine weather, and winning arguments with Mr. Knightley. No one expected her to marry those.

Frank Churchill soon gave Highbury another subject to discuss.

He announced, with great enthusiasm, that he wished to see the Crown Inn’s assembly room revived for a ball.

A ball.

The word moved through the village like music.

Harriet looked brighter than she had in weeks. Mrs. Weston was delighted. Mr. Weston was delighted because everyone else was. Even Mr. Woodhouse, though horrified by dancing, crowds, late hours, and open doors, admitted that young people liked such things.

Emma found herself amused by Frank’s energy.

He spoke of music, space, candles, arrangements, and invitations as if the happiness of all Highbury depended on the matter.

“You take this very seriously,” she said when they walked with Mrs. Weston near Randalls.

“A ball is serious.”

“Is it?”

“Of course. It reveals character.”

Emma laughed. “Now you sound like Mr. Knightley.”

“Then I must apologize at once.”

“He would say dancing reveals discipline, duty, and moral worth.”

“And what would you say?”

Emma looked ahead at the pale winter road. “That dancing reveals whether people are graceful when watched.”

Frank smiled. “Then I hope to be watched kindly.”

“That depends how well you dance.”

“Then you must judge me yourself.”

The invitation was light, but Emma felt Mrs. Weston’s hopeful silence beside them.

She answered with equal lightness. “If the ball happens, perhaps I shall.”

Frank bowed playfully. “Then the ball must happen.”

It did not happen immediately.

Highbury’s hopes rose, then paused, then rose again as practical difficulties appeared. The room at the Crown needed inspection. Musicians had to be considered. Mr. Woodhouse objected to drafts. Mrs. Weston worried about weather. Mr. Knightley questioned whether Frank would remain long enough to see the plan completed.

That last doubt proved inconvenient.

A letter arrived from Frank’s aunt, calling him back.

The visit was ending.

Mr. Weston tried to hide his disappointment and failed. Mrs. Weston bore it better, though Emma saw the sadness in her eyes. Frank himself expressed regret with such warmth that nearly everyone forgave him at once.

Mr. Knightley did not.

“Convenient,” he said when Emma mentioned the letter.

“You think illness and family duty are convenient?”

“I think Frank Churchill’s duties appear whenever permanence is required.”

“That is harsh.”

“Perhaps.”

“You dislike him more than he deserves.”

“And you like him more than he has earned.”

Emma looked at him sharply. “Why does that trouble you?”

Mr. Knightley was silent for a moment.

Then he said, “Because I know how easily admiration can mislead.”

The words reminded her of Harriet, and Emma’s irritation faded.

“I am not misled,” she said more quietly.

“I hope not.”

Frank came to Hartfield to say goodbye.

He was all regret and charm.

“I leave Highbury with great reluctance,” he said.

Mr. Woodhouse sighed. “Travel again. Very unfortunate.”

“Indeed, sir. I feel the danger more now that you have taught me to respect it.”

Mr. Woodhouse looked deeply satisfied.

Emma smiled. “You have made a conquest of my father.”

“Then my visit has not been wasted.”

“Only that?”

Frank’s eyes met hers. “Not only that.”

The words were soft enough that Mr. Woodhouse did not notice.

Emma did.

She also noticed that they pleased her.

That was not dangerous, she told herself. A compliment could please without conquering. Frank Churchill was agreeable. She enjoyed agreeable people.

When he left, the room seemed quieter.

Emma did not feel heartbroken. That was important. She missed his liveliness, but not painfully. She wondered when he would return, but not desperately. She thought of him with pleasure, but not longing.

Therefore, she concluded, she was safe.

Harriet, meanwhile, slowly improved.

Mr. Elton remained in Bath, and distance helped where reason could not. Harriet still sighed when his name appeared in conversation, but less often. She began to speak again of ordinary things: walks, music, gowns, Mrs. Goddard’s girls.

Emma was grateful.

One afternoon, while they sat together, Harriet said quietly, “Do you think Mr. Elton will marry someone in Bath?”

Emma looked up.

“It is possible.”

Harriet nodded. “I think I should like him to.”

Emma was surprised. “Would you?”

“Then it would be finished.”

The simplicity of that touched Emma deeply.

“My dear Harriet.”

Harriet smiled sadly. “I am tired of hoping.”

Emma reached for her hand. “Then we shall not hope in that direction any longer.”

“No.”

A silence passed between them.

Then Harriet said, almost shyly, “Do you think I was wrong to refuse Mr. Martin?”

Emma’s hand stilled.

There it was.

The question she had avoided in her own mind.

She could have answered as before. She could have said Harriet had acted wisely, that Robert Martin was not enough, that better things waited.

But Mr. Knightley’s words returned.

Be kinder by being less certain.

Emma chose her answer carefully.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that we must not judge your whole future from one painful month.”

Harriet looked at her. “But was it wrong?”

Emma swallowed.

“I do not know.”

The admission felt strange on her tongue.

Harriet did not seem disappointed. If anything, she looked relieved.

“I do not know either,” she whispered.

Emma held her hand tightly.

For the first time, their friendship felt less like teacher and pupil, more like two young women sitting together in uncertainty.

It was humbling.

It was also, somehow, gentler.

Days later, news arrived that Mr. Elton was returning from Bath.

And he was not returning alone.

He was engaged.

The news struck Highbury like a dropped plate.

Mr. Elton engaged to a Miss Augusta Hawkins of Bath—well-dressed, well-connected enough, and said to possess a respectable fortune. The speed of it astonished everyone. He had left Highbury wounded in pride and returned with a bride nearly secured.

Emma’s first feeling was relief.

Her second was dread for Harriet.

When Harriet heard, she went very pale.

“So soon?” she said.

Emma took her hand. “Yes.”

Harriet looked down. “Then he could not have cared very deeply for anyone here.”

There was wisdom in the pain.

Emma nodded. “No. I do not think he could.”

Harriet breathed slowly. “That helps.”

“Does it?”

“A little. It makes him seem less worth grieving over.”

Emma felt a rush of affection for her. “That is exactly how he should seem.”

The engagement became the chief subject of Highbury. Everyone wanted to know who Miss Hawkins was, what she looked like, how much money she had, what manners she possessed, and whether Mr. Elton had acted from love, pride, or convenience.

Emma suspected pride and convenience had done most of the work.

Mr. Knightley suspected the same, though he said little.

When he came to Hartfield after the news, he found Emma unusually quiet.

“You have heard,” he said.

“Yes.”

“And Harriet?”

“Hurt, but steadier than I expected.”

“Good.”

Emma looked at him. “You are thinking that this proves your opinion of Mr. Elton.”

“It does.”

“You may say it.”

“I prefer not to.”

“How noble.”

“How cautious.”

Emma smiled faintly.

Then she said, “Harriet asked whether refusing Robert Martin was wrong.”

Mr. Knightley’s expression changed. “And what did you say?”

“That I did not know.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

“That was well done.”

The praise was quiet, but Emma felt it deeply.

“Do not look so surprised,” he added.

“I am not used to your approval.”

“You might receive more if you earned it more often.”

“There you are again.”

They both smiled.

For a moment, Emma felt peace.

Not triumph. Not certainty. Peace.

It did not last long.

Highbury soon prepared for the arrival of Mrs. Elton.

Before she came, opinions formed wildly. Some imagined her elegant. Some imagined her proud. Some hoped she would be lively. Others feared she would be too lively. Mr. Woodhouse hoped only that she would not bring strange food habits into the neighborhood.

Emma, remembering Mr. Elton’s vanity, expected very little.

She was not disappointed.

Mrs. Elton arrived with confidence enough for three women.

She was fashionable, talkative, self-important, and determined to establish her place immediately. She spoke of Bath, friends, carriages, dresses, music, and her brother-in-law’s estate with such relentless satisfaction that even polite listeners grew tired.

When she first visited Hartfield, Emma received her with perfect manners.

Mrs. Elton received Hartfield as if she were inspecting a property she might improve.

“A charming place,” she said. “Very charming indeed. Quite comfortable. Not large, of course, but comfortable.”

Emma smiled. “We have always found it so.”

“And you must come to me often, Miss Woodhouse. We shall be great friends, I am sure. I always know at once when I shall like someone.”

Emma thought this unlikely to be true.

Mrs. Elton continued, “And poor dear Mr. E has told me so much of Highbury. Such a sweet little society. One must bring it forward, you know. A little energy is everything.”

Mr. E.

Emma nearly lost her composure.

Harriet, sitting nearby, looked down at her hands.

Emma’s dislike became immediate and complete.

Mrs. Elton’s visit lasted less than an hour and felt much longer. She praised, advised, interrupted, and arranged future intimacy without invitation. By the time she left, Mr. Woodhouse was exhausted, Harriet was quiet, and Emma felt she had endured a social storm.

“Well,” Emma said after the door closed, “that was Mrs. Elton.”

Mr. Woodhouse looked troubled. “She speaks very fast.”

“Yes.”

“Too fast for health.”

“Very likely.”

Harriet said softly, “She seems very pleased with him.”

Emma turned to her, careful. “Then she is welcome to him.”

Harriet smiled a little.

That small smile felt like victory.

Not the kind Emma once enjoyed—no grand arrangement, no clever design, no triumph over Mr. Knightley. This was quieter. A friend hurting less than before. A heart beginning to release what had wounded it.

That evening, Emma stood alone by the window at Hartfield.

Highbury lay under a pale sky. So much had changed since Mrs. Weston’s wedding. Harriet had been raised, hurt, and steadied. Mr. Elton had revealed himself. Frank Churchill had come and gone like a bright wind. Mr. Knightley had scolded, warned, forgiven, and praised.

And Emma herself?

She was not sure.

She had wanted to manage everyone else’s heart.

Now she was beginning to understand that hearts resisted management.

They moved in secret.

They misunderstood.

They healed slowly.

They chose strangely.

And sometimes, perhaps most dangerously, they changed before their owners noticed.

Behind her, a servant entered with a letter.

“For you, Miss Woodhouse.”

Emma took it.

The handwriting was Mrs. Weston’s.

She broke the seal and read quickly.

Frank Churchill might return sooner than expected.

Emma stood very still.

A smile touched her lips before she could stop it.

Then, just as quickly, she remembered Mr. Knightley’s warning.

Charm before character.

The letter trembled slightly in her hand.

Highbury, she realized, was not finished with surprises.

And neither was her own heart.