Jump to new as of January 9, 2000
Chapter 1
"I have made a list." Emma declared as she entered the sunlit room.
"Have you?" Miss Taylor asked while studiously hiding her smile behind a small book.
"Yes, and I believe it is my finest yet."
"I have no doubt Emma for your penmanship has surely improved upon your diligent exercise of list writing but may I ask what happened to the last one?"
"It wasn't good enough. It failed to encompass all the activities I need to achieve before spring arrives."
"Of course, I imagine gardening is somewhere in that fine list?"
"Oh yes! Miss Taylor, we must go into town and fetch some ribbons. I wish to make a new bonnet."
"Ribbon? Emma, the weather is turning darker by the moment. It will surely rain within the hour."
"Please Miss Taylor, the weather is so warm for this time of year I desire a walk badly."
"We must hurry then." The seventeen-year-old girl leapt from her seat and gave a affectionate kiss on her governess' cheek. Miss Taylor heard the swift feet run down the hall and went to her own room to fetch a jacket. It was unseasonably warm and Anne did desire a walk but was reluctant to do so as the sky was filled with clouds since late morning. She waited for her charge in the front hall and the young girl came down the stairs complete with basket in her arm. Anne realized ribbons were not the only thing Emma wanted to acquire during the afternoon foray into Highbury.
"I am heartily sorry Miss Taylor." Emma whispered meekly as the two tried to make their way down Broadway Lane in the midst of a rainstorm. Realizing they were going to be soaked the two cringed under a large doorway hoping the rain would lighten. Anne gave a firm squeeze on the girl's soaking hands and a brave smile to accompany the gentle act of forgiveness.
"Do not fret yourself Emma, let's make our way to Mr. Bush's shop for your ribbons and wait out the rain in there."
"That is a fine idea, better than mine." Emma replied still berating herself for dragging her beloved Miss Taylor into this miserable weather.
"Miss Taylor, Miss Woodhouse, why are you out in this rain? Has your carriage been made unavailable?" The two women turned around and saw the congenial and concerned face of Mr. Weston.
"It's my fault." Emma confessed. "I wanted to..."
"We've decided to take a walk today and unfortunately the weather has turned against us."
Mr. Weston caught the truth behind the two separate explanations and smiled. He humored both women, the child because of her guilt, the older lady for her gallant effort in trying to protect Emma. "Wait here for a moment." He said and dashed out into the rain. It wasn't long before the gentleman returned with two umbrellas for the ladies.
"They are from Farmer Mitchell. Please use them as you see fit, he has no need for them today."
"Thank you Mr. Weston." Miss Taylor replied and took the gracious presents and soon the two made their way down the lane and towards Hartfield. Emma glanced back and caught the savior's gaze upon their retreating forms. A small smile formed on her lips but Miss Taylor did not notice her charge's amusement.
Mr. Weston studied Miss Taylor and wondered what her age to be. She possessed a pleasing countenance not to mention a songlike voice. Suddenly realizing he was standing in the rain he dashed down the other end of the street towards Farmer Mitchell in order to conclude his business.
"He held a rank of Captain I believe." Emma chimed as the two women warmed themselves by the fire.
"Did he? He was an officer?"
"Oh yes. He is a native of this parts, his family is well regarded by Highbury. He owns a small house..."
"Yes Emma that much even I am aware of. Why your sudden fascination with the gentleman?"
Emma was blessed with quick wit if not tact. "He travels to London quite often for business and Mr. Knightley has made certain acquaintance with Mr. Weston. They hunted together just last fall and Mr. Knightley spoke highly of him." The truth was Mr. Knightley spoke all of two sentences on the subject of his new hunting partner.
"He has fine shooting arm. Small wonder since he belonged to the militia."
However, the above was enough for Emma to recommend the near stranger to her governess. "That was very kind of him to retrieve the umbrellas for us."
"Indeed. Emma, shall we continue with your studies?" The girl's face looked disappointed but only for a while.
"Yes Miss Taylor and if I do all the readings could we go into town again tomorrow? We have to return the umbrellas."
"I am sure one of the servants could return the umbrellas for us Emma." Miss Taylor replied knowing Emma offered only to avoid her studies for the next day. Emma knew when she needed to retreat and didn't continue the conversation.
"Why are you dripping water on the rug, Emma?" The outrageous comment made both women turn to the speaker.
"Because I am wet Mr. Knightley." Emma replied archly and turned her back on the visitor.
"I gather that, is this a new form of exercise Miss Taylor?"
"No," She replied laughing. "We took a stroll into Highbury and were caught in the rain."
"But Mr. Weston fetched umbrellas for us and we were saved!" Knightley gave an elegant shrug at the outcry and took his usual place.
"Good thing you met the gentleman. How's he doing? The last I heard he was in London."
"He looked fine and quite fit. How was Isabella, is she in health?"
"Very, London suits her well I am glad to say."
"And John?"
"Lively and opinionated as ever."
"I desire a more detailed report Mr. Knightley but then you being who you are I sincerely doubt that to be possible."
"Exactly and that is why I've made both write long and elaborate letters about Brunswick Square." He said revealing two thick messages from the respective siblings. Emma cried out in delight and quickly relieved her neighbor of the much-desired presents. Miss Taylor relinquished any and all hope of continuing the studies as Emma tore open the first missive from her beloved sister Isabella.
Mr. Weston lit the candles surrounding his desk and tore open the envelope addressed to him. The handwriting told him the sender was his beloved son Frank. He read the four pages more than twice trying to understand the life his son led without his father. The boy was happy and doing well in spite of a harsh fever he caught early January. Mr. Weston was so afraid it would turn for the worse he was thinking of visiting Enscombe.
Dear Father,I am doing well. My cough no longer bothers me and the doctor has informed me last Thursday my chest has cleared. Though I am still weak I feel my strength return every day. With little luck I will be able to visit you when you make your way to London some time in April. Please write to me so I can see you and tell you personally how well my studies are progressing...
Your affectionate son,
Frank Churchill
Mr. Weston flinched when he read 'Churchill' but didn't hold it against his son. It didn't surprise him that his son decided to take his mother's maiden name. After all it was the Churchill family who raised his son while Mr. Weston tried to recuperate his fortune and his life after his wife's death. Besides Frank was his uncle's only heir and the sum he was to receive was handsome indeed. Frank didn't need his father and the only tie he had to Mr. Weston was filial love and there was not one single moment when Mr. Weston wasn't grateful for his son's affection towards his absent parent.
Chapter 2
Early spring had come before Emma found a plausible excuse to invite Mr. Weston for a social occasion. The warm weather allowed the Woodhouses to have supper in their gardens. Miss Taylor had outdone herself in creating a welcoming ambiance so when the guests arrived praises flowed freely and generously. Emma smiled behind her composed exposure as Miss Taylor blushed from the kind words given as payment for her efforts.
"She is looking exceptionally well is she not?" Emma spoke to her father knowing her voice carried itself to another pair of ears standing behind the gentleman.
"Who Miss Taylor? Why she looks absolutely exhausted. Look at the dark..."
"Father!" Emma interrupted aghast with the direction the conversation took due to him. "She looks positively radiant!"
"Oh my dear, that glow is due to the fever she's..."
"Father, I believe Mr. Knightley just came into the room. Please, welcome him."
Emma took a slight glance behind her to catch Mr. Weston laughing softly into his fist. Frustration welled up within but she willed herself to gracefully leave her position in order to hide in the parlor until her temper was well within her grasp again.
The guests took their proper place with the Bates at the other end of the table, as far away from Emma as possible. The hostess knew what charity was, but she has yet to practice it freely as a woman in her social standing allowed her.
Emma caught a whisper of conversation from a young gentleman visiting Highbury and decided to participate in that particular vein of conversation as London fashion was one of her favorite topics.
"Oh yes, they are lovely aren't they?" Emma stated, "My sister lives in London and she had written a letter telling me about them."
"Yes, they certainly are. Marvelous workmanship to be had if one knows whom to hire." The gentleman replied.
"My dear, what are you talking about?" Mr. Woodhouse finally asked his curiosity risen to life.
"Saddles." Mr. Harris answered, "They are all the rage in London and beyond. There are certain artisans who can craft marvelous patterns on the leather. I consider them work of art, worthy of being displayed in a collection."
"What kind of saddles are these?" Mr. Knightley questioned the young guest. Emma saw the look of disapproval on his face and came to Mr. Harris' rescue.
"The kind you put on horses Mr. Knightley, in order to ride. I believe unless you have one there is great danger of being dethroned from the galloping animal." He graced her answer with a forbidding look.
"As pretty as they may be I hardly doubt they are worthy of being exhibited next to a work by Da Vinci. What is the cost of making one of these contraptions?"
Mr. Harris leaned his head towards his neighbor and whispered the sum.
"That is an inexcusable amount," Mr. Knightley declared somberly. "All to please society!"
"Oh but the very best society Mr. Knightley!" Emma cried out "No young gentleman or lady can be seen riding without them this season!"
"And it will continue to be so for at least this coming summer." Mr. Harris added to bolster Emma's defense of himself.
"Riding, in the summer heat?" Mr. Knightley asked, "And they do this voluntarily, but why?"
"Riding is a good form of exercise..." Mr. Harris replied not understanding Mr. Knightley odd behavior and question.
"In London?" Knightley said clearing his point with the two words. Neither the young gentleman nor the gracious hostess could find a suitable reply so the topic turned elsewhere.
However, their simple conversation planted a seed within Mr. Weston's patriarchal chest. He knew the Churchills could afford his son anything he chose but still would they in spite of their social connections make such a gift at the opportune time? He believed not though his judgment may have been swayed by his hope he could not but be convinced that he would outmaneuver the family and present the saddle as a gift when he would make his annual visit to London and see Frank.
Emma was vexed to see Mr. Weston withdraw himself from the conversation around him. It bothered the hostess even more to see him ignore Miss Taylor sitting across from him, a situation she managed to contrive in hopes of bringing them together. Her governess also did not seem to appreciate all the trouble her charge had committed on her behalf as she was involved in a conversation with an elderly woman sitting to her right. And this to Emma's dismay was how the supper progressed.
London
Mr. Weston decided to ride to London as soon as it was possible for him to do so. He was able to seek out one of the houses noted for its craft thanks to Emma's diligence in discovering its address in the crowded capital. The eager father was well aware that to have the saddle prepared in time for his visit the order needed to be placed as soon as possible.
"May I help you?" A cultured voice rose from behind him. Mr. Weston turned around and nearly bumped into the proprietor who was examining the stranger from the back.
"Oh yes, I wish to make a purchase of a saddle you..."
"I am sorry sir, but we make riding gear for gentlemen only."
The tone, the single word and all their implications could not be denied. Mr. Weston felt unwanted flush creep up from his furious heart towards his face. He came to the sudden realization that in his haste to visit the shop before it closed he did not change from his riding suit. Due to his days in the militia he was dressed simply, for the benefit of comfort and not style. If Mr. Weston had a choice he would have left the establishment and sought out business elsewhere but this shop was the only one he knew and he was suffering for time.
"I can assure you the person for whom the saddle is for is certainly a gentleman and so am I."
The demeanor and the cold anger emanating from the stranger told the proprietor he made a terrible mistake, one that might cost him dear. Though the man in front of him was dressed more appropriately as someone in a servile position his bearing and the sudden change into a more martial stance told a different tale altogether.
"My mistake, sir, it will not happen again. What is it that you require?"
"Something like this," Mr. Weston graciously replied by unfolding a large piece of paper. "This is the design that I wish to be tooled into the body of the saddle, part of it is my insignia, the rest is my own embellishment. I tried to keep it simple because there are time constraints, six weeks to be exact."
"I do not foresee any problem. We have had more trying orders before. May I ask whom this is for? And of what age?"
"My son, he's a young man not yet twenty. He was taken down with a fever but is recovering well. However, he needs plenty of exercise to strenghten his constitution."
The reply answered the question with more efficiency than Mr. Weston suspected. The owner's gaze softened a little as he now understood the urgency behind the father's purchase. Must be the only child, the mother probably passed away some time ago. He thought as he stared at the remarkably unremarkable man in front of him.
"The color of the leather?" The owner asked his behavior even more elegant and supportive than previously. "We have much to choose from. And with the right colors it can flatter the rider, not unlike a uniform."
Mr. Weston smiled a little remembering how his red and brass attracted many attentions from very eligible young ladies. "He is fair, like his mother and fortunately takes after her in looks. She was a very handsome woman."
Was, I surmised correctly, the owner thought. "Then may I suggest a deep color, such as these?"
The business transaction in total took over an hour but Mr. Weston felt it flee from him like a deer in a hunt. The present was costly, so much that he would have to economize his personal spending for the rest of the season yet he regretted not one pence. The owner assured him the work would be a grand thing to behold and Mr. Weston doubted it not.
The proprietor watched the contented man walk away from the front doorstep, his gait more relaxed, a satisfied customer indeed!
"Jonathan, get to work on this immediately." He ordered the middle apprentice handing him the specifics. The younger man took one glance at the figures and that was enough for him to voice discontent.
"Sir, we've got numerous orders to fill. I can tell you now we won't be able to meet..."
"Be a good lad and make this one your first."
"But Count..."
"This one is from someone who ranks higher than Count Maurier."
"Oh, really? Who?" The young man asked his curiosity peaked.
"A father, it's a present from him to his only child. The poor man nearly lost his son."
Jonathan stilled himself and took another, longer look at the small sheet of paper in his hand. "I think I could manage it." He studied the emblem to be designed into the flap and gave a single nod before disappearing into the back. The master was right of course, most of the orders came from fancy ladies and gents who didn't give a toss what they were riding on as long as it was what the fashion dictated. Must be a fine son indeed who deserves such a gift, Jonathan thought before cutting the leather.
Mr. Weston's common sense made the burden of economy easy to bear and no one was wiser for it. He returned to London six weeks later and to his great delight found the saddle waiting for him.
"Marvelous." He admitted surprised to see how well his order turned out. He tested the strength of the leather and found it to be satisfactory, even for him.
"I hope your son enjoys his present. The weather has warmed a great deal and I hear the more intrepid riders have already laid claim to the parks." Mr. Weston's smile only grew wider.
"Frank will definitely be in that lot if I know him." Jonathan took a glance from the backroom and was proud to see his work admired so openly. Most of the clients only afforded a glance before ordering their servants to take the purchase and leave the establishment. It was a happy father that left the store and a happier owner staying behind.
"Glad to see the gentleman like it so. Not like lady from this morning." Jonathan quietly said.
"Oh no, definitely not like the Churchills." The proprietor commented darkly. The elderly lady made her request over two months ago for a saddle to be given as a surprise present to her son. It was a spectacular order, nothing was spared in its creation and was the costliest work the shop had ever produced. Jonathan and two others labored diligently over it and all they got for thanks was a look of slight distaste. It still irked him to remember the cold glance of pride and unbridled sense of superiority when he admitted he was the creator behind the masterful work.
"Are you?" Was all she said and then turned her back to him in order to pay for the purchase and leave the shop before she was soiled by his presence. Jonathan returned to his work, better not think of such unpleasant business.
"Father!" Frank cried out and gave the man a fierce embrace. The older man did not even bother to reply and returned the show of affection.
"Glad to see you have recovered so nicely." Mr. Weston said examining his only child. "Are you really well? As you said in your letters? Or are you trying to spare..."
"I am well father, what is that?" Frank asked looking at the large package sitting next to his father's chair.
"A present."
"Good L-rd, it is positively huge." Frank cried out as his father gave him the mysterious gift.
"Well, open it." Frank dutifully obeyed.
"Father..." He whispered as he stared at the saddle, "How did you know?"
"Emma Woodhouse, a very fashionable young lady we have in Highbury told me riding has become all the rage here in London. Her sister lives in Brunswick Square."
"Very fashionable indeed." Frank said his eyes lit with delight. "Tell me about you though, and Highbury. The more I hear of it, the more I wish to see it!"
"As you command my son." Mr. Weston said stumbling over the word son as his heart nearly burst with fatherly pride. Frank was becoming more and more like his mother, tall, fair and blessed with eyes that could rival the Indian sky. When he reached manhood he would be a prime example of the species known as English gentleman, of that Mr. Weston had no doubt.
It was after dark when Frank returned to the Churchill townhouse. He asked the servant to place the gift in the stables but not next to his horse. His aunt would have too many questions if she saw the present from his father and Frank was in no mood to talk at great length with the capricious woman. He remembered the military insignia on the saddle and smiled a little. His father as much as Frank loved him could be so tiresome!