ordeal of an evening spent at the Eltons’ mercy,” he said as he led her down to Hartfield’s dining room. “Or did Mrs. Elton injure your vanity by depriving you of the opportunity to decline her invitation?”
Under other conditions, her husband’s suggestion might have struck too close to the mark, but tonight more than her vanity was in jeopardy. Since receiving the spiteful charade, Emma feared that Mrs. Elton had somehow divined Emma’s ambitions of a match between Thomas Dixon and Miss Bates, and that the vicar’s wife had contrived tonight’s dinner party entirely to sabotage the scheme. It had not escaped Emma’s notice that the Bates ladies were also uninvited. She loathed to contemplate what mischief that vulgar little woman attempted even now, with the unsuspecting Thomas Dixon under her roof, and Emma unable to intervene.
“Nonsense,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “The Eltons’ guest list holds no interest for me.”
The Eltons’ dinner party, however, held great interest for Mr. Woodhouse, who could not seem to stop talking about it throughout their own meal. Every lull in conversation, he filled with speculation over whether poor Miss Fairfax or poor Miss Taylor that were, presently suffered the same menu of roast pork that had been inflicted upon him the one time he had supped at Mrs. Elton’s table. His apprehensions continued after their own party finished their dinner and withdrew to the drawing room. Though of the opinion that merely dining at the vicarage was disagreeable to one’s digestion, Emma forbore voicing it. Instead, she reminded her father that Mrs. Weston — capable, sensible Mrs. Weston — was among the company, and would doubtless act to preserve her new daughter’s well-being if necessary.
“Mr. Thomas Dixon, too,” Mrs. Darcy ventured. “He seems a most attentive friend to Mrs. Churchill.”
“Yes, Papa — Mr. Dixon is quite solicitous regarding Mrs. Churchill. He…”
Her words trailed off as a jumble of unpleasant thoughts entered her mind. Thomas Dixon was clearly on familiar terms with Jane Churchill, an intimacy that a twelvemonth ago might have inspired speculation on Emma’s part. After all, before Emma ever met the Dixons, she
Emma blushed to recall her previous error, now compounded by the inclusion of Thomas Dixon in her wild conjecture. The gentleman was old enough to be Jane’s uncle.
Just as Mr. Knightley was old enough to be hers.
No! Surely there had never been anything but platonic regard between Jane Fairfax and Thomas Dixon. And if there had been something more, it had ended with Jane’s marriage. Emma would not demean her own intellect with such ignoble speculation again.
“He what, my dear?” Her father’s voice drew her back to the conversation. “You were speaking of Mr. Dixon.”
“He is a good man,” she declared. “No one ought ever think otherwise.”
Mrs. Darcy looked at her oddly. “Of course he is. I did not mean to suggest—”
“Heavens, Papa — look at the hour! I have been neglectful. It is well past your customary time to retire.”
“So it is. But I have not yet had my basin of gruel. Mrs. Darcy, perhaps you will join me? Nothing is so wholesome as gruel for keeping the headache away, and no one prepares it better than Serle — very thin. Emma, order up a basin for Mrs. Darcy.”
Emma rescued her guest with the gentle suggestion that, the evening spent, perhaps her father would prefer to take his gruel in his chamber.
“You are perfectly right, Emma. I shall do just that. It is not healthy to sit up until all hours. Promise me you will retire soon yourself. You, as well, Mrs. Darcy — nothing brings on the headache more quickly than staying up too late.”
As Mr. Knightley helped Emma escort her father upstairs, Mr. Woodhouse opined anew upon the evils of roast pork and the goodness of gruel, interspersing his culinary lecture with convictions of Hartfield’s being the best possible place for Mrs. Darcy to recover her health. If, somewhere between the staircase and his chamber, he finally found another subject of discourse, Emma could not have said. She but half attended, her concentration given over to a subject of greater import.
Arranging Thomas Dixon’s future happiness with Miss Bates.
Left with her husband while their hosts saw Mr. Woodhouse settled, Elizabeth pondered how her words about Mr. Dixon could have been construed by Mrs. Knightley as anything but complimentary. She had said nothing derogatory, only praised his attentiveness to Jane Churchill.
“You are pensive this evening.”
Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, who sat in a nearby chair, and realized he had been studying her. She shook off her abstraction. “I was thinking about another man.”
“That is exceedingly unfortunate. I had hoped to avoid calling anybody out during this trip.”
“You might forbear yet. Though the gentleman in question has proven himself most solicitous, he has provided no cause demanding a contest of honor on my account.”
“Then Mr. Woodhouse must be the object of your reverie, for nobody has been more solicitous towards you than he. Confess — you regret having declined his offer of gruel.”
“Indeed, I was wishing I had encouraged him to order a basin for you.”
“Then allow me to lift that burden from your conscience. I do not feel deprived, I assure you.”
“Are you quite certain? At Mr. Woodhouse’s order, his indispensible Serle could prepare it extra thin for you.”
An appalled look was his only reply.
Elizabeth laughed. Gruel was fine nourishment for infants and invalids, but elsewise her enthusiasm for it ran closer to Darcy’s than to Mr. Woodhouse’s.
A set of children’s alphabets on the table beside her caught her gaze. She had first noticed it this afternoon; Emma had explained that the Knightleys’ nephews and nieces often played with the box of letters while staying at Hartfield, and it had not yet been put away following their recent visit. She now removed a handful of tiles from the box.
“Actually, it was Thomas Dixon who preoccupied me.” She wished she could arrange her thoughts as easily as one could sort alphabet tiles into words. But they, too, defied order: there was not a vowel among the random few she had chosen.
“Mr. Dixon has been particularly attentive towards you?”
She did not need to look at her husband to know he frowned. She could hear the displeasure in his voice. “No, towards Jane Churchill.”
“Towards Mrs. Frank Churchill?”
Now she did look up. Darcy appeared to be pondering something. “Inappropriately attentive?” he asked.
“No.” She withdrew another tile from the box. “Well…” Elizabeth considered anew the conversations she had witnessed, the degree of accord between the married Mrs. Churchill and the bachelor Mr. Dixon: the pat on Jane’s hand in Miss Bates’s apartment; the freedom with which Thomas Dixon spent Jane’s money — Frank’s money, in point of fact, and he only having just come into it himself.
“It is difficult for me to say, based on such limited acquaintance with either of them,” she finally stated, “but I do think he is on unusually familiar terms with her.”
“How does she conduct herself with him?”
“Jane Churchill possesses a reserved nature. Her manner towards everybody, including Thomas Dixon, is restrained. She does not, however, appear averse to the liberties he takes.” She looked at the tile in her hand.
Darcy was silent a moment. “Earlier today, Frank mentioned that his wife was already spending his inheritance, and that Thomas Dixon was helping her do it. Apparently, they have purchased new furnishings for her aunt and grandmother’s apartment?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Mr. Dixon insisted that the Bates ladies need to completely refurbish their rooms. In truth, they do, but even the most casual visitor can see that the pair lacks the means to institute even minor changes. So Jane Churchill authorized the expenditure. The news came as quite a surprise to Frank, especially since he heard it not from his wife, but from Thomas Dixon.”
