Posted on 2008-10-31

Thomas Palmer, Esq., unlocked a drawer of his desk and drew out a sheet of paper to review.

...In conclusion, sir, everyone has a natural weakness, an Achilles' heel, if you will. It is simply a matter of discovering and exploiting it to best advantage. In such a case, your headache will carry out most of the elimination process himself...

Satisfied, he signed the missive "Reg. R. Mortiss" and sent it off by common post to northern Surrey.

It was snowing in Highbury. Not the light, fluffy flakes that called children outside to create snow angels and catch flakes on their tongues, but a heavy, driving snow that seemed quite serious in its attempt to bury the entire village. Most of the residents had chosen to close their drapes and simply await the inevitable snow shoveling on the morrow. Emma Knightley, nee Woodhouse, who was hosting her sister's family at Hartfield, thought the sight stark but beautiful.

Her father was far less sanguine.

The first flakes had caused Mr. Henry Woodhouse to send his valet hurrying to fetch his warmest wraps, and to commission the kitchen to brew up Mr. Perry's cold medicine in order to dose liberally, not only himself, but the entire family. His less than grateful grandchildren had protested vociferously. Baby George even hit his grandfather on the nose as he flailed in an attempt to avoid the dosing spoon. Nevertheless, each and every member of the Woodhouse-Knightley family had received a liberal serving-spoon of the cod-liver oil based concoction, and a vat of it stood in readiness on the side table, should Mr. Woodhouse detect the slightest hint of a sniffle in any of his unlucky victims beloved relatives.

The Knightley children, thoroughly bored with their grandfather’s incessant queries about whether they felt the onset of sore throats and fevers, finally retreated to the nursery to dragoon their nursemaids into a boisterous game of hide and seek. More than once, their fathers mentioned the idea of just checking on them for a moment, but a glare from each of Mr. Woodhouse’s daughters conveyed that the men were not to retreat from the scene of their father-in-law’s distress, so each time, the Mr. Knightley in question would sigh, and do his best to suppress his eye roll of irritation.

And then the wind picked up. Faint sighs became a moan, and then a series of roars (steam locomotives being so new as to be almost unheard of, the family had nothing with which to compare the powerful onslaughts of air).

Mr. Woodhouse’s tightly-clutched mug of medicinal tea dropped to the floor and shattered. “Emma! Isabella!”

His daughters moved to surround him, clucking comfortingly. “It’s only wind, Papa, and Hartfield is so very snug,” Emma consoled, motioning for her husband to close the window curtains.

“The fire – do you not think the fire is dying?”

“Not at all, Papa,” Isabella replied. “It is very warm, is it not, John?”

Mr. John Knightley, glancing wistfully toward the hall once again, replied shortly, “Roasting.”

By rights, Isabella’s glare should have pinned him to the wall like an oversized insect.

His brother’s reply was considerably more diplomatic, and he quickly tucked his moist handkerchief out of sight before it could be spotted and the moisture mistaken for something other than sweat. “I feel quite certain that no one has any reason to feel chilled, sir.”

Nevertheless, Mr. Woodhouse requested that the servants add more wood to the blaze in the fireplace. The room, which had been roughly the temperature of a July day, began to achieve a heat normally seen in steam baths. Mr. Knightley and Mr. John Knightley both discreetly tugged at their cravats, wishing they could be so bold as to discard them entirely, along with their coats and waistcoats. Alas, even this did not satisfy our good patriarch.

“Perry... should not Perry be sent for? I feel a chill coming on.”

“I do not think it is possible,” his son-in-law contradicted gently. “The weather is far too wild to send out any of the servants, and Perry would not be so foolish as to leave his home during such a storm.”

Mr. Woodhouse’s lips trembled. “No Perry?”

Emma shook her head. “No, Papa. You can send for him as soon as the roads are cleared.”

“Indeed,” the other gentleman agreed, “we should all rub along tolerably well until tomorrow or the day after, even without Perry’s wisdom to aid us.”

“T-t-tomorrow?” There was no mistaking the horror in Mr. Woodhouse’s voice. “I shall die of pneumonia ere then!”

“Oh, Papa!” Isabella looked ready to dissolve in tears.

“Now, father dear,” Emma soothed, “I’ll just have the servants fetch you another blanket, wrap it around your legs, and you shall see how very comfortable you feel.”

“A blanket?” Cried that worthy, starting up in his seat with a rather wild look in his eyes. “Just the thing! But just one will not do!”

“Papa…” began his daughters, but by then it was too late. With an energy that could only be described as manic, Mr. Woodhouse had rung the bell to summon the servants, desiring them to bring as many blankets as they could carry. Within minutes, only his head could be seen from amid the layers of cloth.

“Papa,” Emma reiterated. “Papa, do you not think you are warm enough now?”

He stared blankly at her. “Warm? In such a terrible storm, and without Perry? Who could be warm? I need more blankets!”

“More, sir?” Asked a hapless footman. “But, sir, you will smother!”

“You ignoramus” –everyone started at the epithet coming from the normally mild mannered, if fretful, hypochondriac – “I would not have asked for more if I were in danger of smothering! And bring more wood for the fire! It is freezing in here.”

Another large armload of wood increased the fire to such a degree that both Mr. Knightleys were forced to abandon good manners, and beat a hasty retreat to the library, where they opened every window in an attempt to mitigate the heat blasting from the drawing room. Emma and Isabella struggled valiantly to keep their perspiration to a ladylike glow, but soon they, too, had to withdraw or risk collapsing from the excessive warmth. As Emma reluctantly left the drawing room, she caught a final glimpse (so to speak) of her parent, now indistinguishable under a veritable mountain of cloth, and heard the cry, “More blankets!” Soon, even the servants had fled.

The next morning, the servants excavated the pile and found Mr. Woodhouse, smothered, but undoubtedly well insulated.

In his private study, Mr. Palmer opened an envelope and extracted from therein a note and a clipping of a death notice. The death notice decried the tragic accident which had led to the death of one of Highbury’s most prominent citizens, Mr. Henry Woodhouse of Hartfield. The note surrounded a bank draft, which told him immediately that the accident was nothing of the sort.

…thank you for your excellent advice. It was helpful, as you can see. My wife and her sister are, quite naturally, deeply dismayed at present, but I am certain they will soon begin to appreciate the advantages my brother and I have already perceived in the new state of affairs. Much obliged, your obed’t servant,…