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
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.
“We had longer riddles in my day,” said Mr. Woodhouse. “There was one in particular that I can never quite remember in full. ‘Kitty, a fair but frozen maid’—”
“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
