Blurb>Mrs Churchill is to blame for Frank's non appearence and something must be done. Luckily, there is a campful of gypsies and they know how to curse. Unfortunately Emma never learnt the importance of precise wording.

Posted on 2010-10-31

This was impossible, thought Emma as she saw Miss Taylor's – no, Mrs Weston's – face attempt to school itself into a bland expression.

Emma could see through it, and no doubt so could the rest of the ladies. Mrs Weston felt slighted, and who could blame her? Her newly acquired step-son had not yet visited her.

It was unpardonably rude. However, Emma did not blame Mr Frank Churchill. She blamed his aunt, who upon stealing away a chubby little child on the death of his mother obviously felt her guilt and could not bear him to see what he had missed if not for her grabby ways.

Mr Knightley would call her thoughts uncharitable. He would undoubtedly say that becoming the heir to his aunt was a great honour and that a young man who had reached adulthood should be aware of his duty and responsibility.

Of course Mr Knightley had never felt the confines and constraints of a loving family – not that she presumed Mrs Churchill to be a loving aunt, but the principle was almost the same with capricious and crotchety relations. He had never understood how it might be near impossible to act against their will, even if thousands of pounds were not at stake. It was most uncharitable of Mr Knightley to mention such a thing. Emma had never heard him be quite so caustic. But perhaps she had been talking about Mr Churchill just a little too much.

Although that surely was quite understandable, he was a natural object of interest having been removed from them for so long. Any young man with connections to Highbury was of interest to its residents. Any young lady too – if the many inquiries she heard for Miss Fairfax's tiresome letters were an indication.

George Knightley, who had been amongst the world, could not possibly understand how the merest pebble could send exciting ripples across a small pond.

But it was all for nothing. They were not to meet Mr Frank Churchill, because his aunt would not let him come.

"Are you not disappointed, Harriet?" said Emma as they walked back from the Westons'.

"Disappointed? Oh no. I quite found the book … "

"No, Harriet, about Mr Churchill."

Harriet tipped her head to one side and smiled, "Oh yes, poor Mrs Weston, and Mr Weston."

Emma pursed her lips. Was that all that Harriet could say to the insult? "I see you do not harbour such strong feelings against Mrs Churchill as I do."

"Mrs Churchill?"

"His Aunt! It must be she who prevents him from coming, because any son of dear Mr Weston could not be so rude without justification, and a miserly hypochondriac aunt who threatens him with pennilessness I count as extreme justification. If only he were rid of her!"

Harriet blinked, "If Mrs Churchill died?"

Emma stopped, "Yes, exactly if Mrs Churchill died. Yes. If Mrs Churchill died."

"Well that can hardly be arranged," said Harriet before being distracted by wildflowers.

It could of course be easily arranged, but Emma shook that idea out of her head.

"Oh!" cried Harriet, running back onto the path.

"What is it, Harriet?"

"I just saw those gypsies," said Harriet, looking fearfully over her shoulder. Emma could now see the gypsy encampment, small wisps of smoke curling through the trees.

Emma took Harriet's hand and led her firmly along the path. Harriet should learn that it was not she who was an interloper. But Harriet did not walk along with her head held high; instead she muttered things about gypsy curses, which Emma found ridiculous. But she could not help herself turning back and looking at the encampment.

Emma put her hairbrush down on her dresser. She'd not been able to sleep, so she had thought sitting and brushing her hair might lull herself into a suitably sleepy state. It hadn't, it had just allowed her longer to think about the fact that Mrs Weston, dear kind Mrs Weston, was probably restlessly turning in her bed, worrying about why her new son had not come to visit, wondering about how the village would be gossiping about the lack of respect it showed her, after all Miss Taylor had only been a governess.

And Mr Weston! He was probably unable to sleep for the shame.

All because an old woman could not understand the world did not revolve about her. Emma could not understand how a woman could be so blind and selfish.

She was about to attempt to sleep once more when she noticed a bobbing light off in the distance. Wiping the moisture off the window, Emma could see that it was coming from the common woods. The lights did not seem to bob any closer so it wasn't poachers after their chickens, so it was most likely the gypsies.

Emma closed the curtains with a tug and finally prepared herself for bed, except she found herself suddenly grasping her thick coat and shuffling into the slippers that Papa always bade her to wear instead of catching cold by daring to allow her bare feet to touch the wooden floor.

It was easy to slip out of the house. Keeping the candle lit in the open air proved more of a challenge, but one that Emma conquered with ease.

"Halt!"

She wasn't sure what she had been expecting but probably not a gun pointed at her face, by a dishevelled gypsy. However it was not for long because, another man unfolded himself from by the fire and knocked the gun away.

"That's his" a nod of the head towards Hartfield, "daughter, don't be pointing a gun at her." He then addressed himself to Emma, "We aren't on your land, Miss, we mean no harm. You shouldn't be here."

Emma stiffened. Who was this man, this no doubt common criminal, to tell her what to do? She was Miss Emma Woodhouse of Hartfield, Highbury, Sussex, Garden of England.

"I understand you have a fortune teller?"

Emma didn't want a fortune teller, she wanted a witch. But she'd hardly come right out and say that.

The gypsy laughed, and his compatriots joined in, but Emma kept her countenance. Woodhouses had been here for generations; they were not to be trifled with by some unkempt gypsies in undershirts. Shirts that barely covered them, clearly there were no seamstresses amongst the gypsy women.

The man jerked his head and one of the women stood up, and swayed over to them. Emma could tell she was trying to fluster Emma and her proper sensibilities. Emma did not even allow a flush to creep up her neck.

"I am not to be swindled, Mr …?"

"Gawain, you can call me Gawain."

"Mr Gawain …"

"Just Gawain."

Emma blinked, feeling part of the conversation slipping away from her, "Mr Gawain, " she repeated, perhaps unnecessarily thinking perhaps there were reasons young ladies were warned away from gypsy camps, "I wish to have my fortune told properly."

"And if we don't oblige you, you will call the magistrate?"

Emma smiled, "I am glad we understand one another. I merely want my fortune told."

Another jerk of the head and the man who had originally pointed a gun at her walked towards one of the caravans muttering. She could not understand his words but she understood his tone.

Several cold and silent minutes passed before the man returned and whispered something to Mr Gawain – clearly their leader and thus responsible for the rash of egg thieving in Highbury.

"My grandmother will see you now, Miss Woodhouse."

The caravan was small and cramped and the fortune teller clearly did not sleep alone, being surrounded by possible granddaughters and other sundry children. They were cleared out, and Emma was left with the old woman and Gawain.

"You may leave us, Mr Gawain."

"My grandmother does not speak your tongue, Miss Woodhouse, you will need a translator."

"You," Emma spotted the last of the young girls descending the steps and called her back, "Do you speak the King's English?"

She nodded.

"She is very shy; I am a much abler translator."

"I have no doubt you are, Mr Gawain, but I do not require your services." Emma was pointed in her glances at the door. It was imperative that she show this Gypsy King his place in the world. Part of her also felt some shame in the idea of his hearing her planned discussion with the fortune teller, which was foolish.

The caravan door was shut behind Mr Gawain, and Emma let out a sigh of relief.

"Now I presume that you also do curses?" said Emma, holding up her reticule as the young translator jumped with surprise.

It took some time, translating was quite tedious and reminded Emma why she had never wished to take a serious course of study in learning any more languages that strictly necessary. Although perhaps this was a reason that she should devote more time to her studies. Mr Knightley would certainly say so.

However, finally the fortune teller understood that Emma wished Mrs Churchill gone, in whatever way the universe chose. She seemed bemused but accepted Emma's reticule full of guineas.

Emma could not understand the chants or what the candles or cards had to do with it, but the younger woman assured her that her grandmother had laid the curse as Emma had requested. Of course the likelihood that it would work was very slim, but Emma felt lighter stepping out of the carriage, as though the universe was starting to align. She didn't speak to Mr Gawain as she left the gypsy camp, pulling her coat around her, but she felt him watch her.

When she awoke in the morning, Emma felt strangely refreshed. It took her a moment to realise why and then she laughed at herself, scaring her maid. How silly that she would think a gypsy curse could actually work.

Though she felt unsettled at breakfast as though the world was askew, at first she put it down to not sleeping her usual hours, but after a quiet morning spent in the parlour stitching she felt no more refreshed.

It was only after nuncheon did she realise no one had come near her all day, except the servants, not even her father. How extremely odd.

The man pulled down his hat. It was tweed and badly misshapen, but he loved it, as he loved his tramps across the countryside. His wife objected, particularly in this 'heathen' world. She did not even think the countryside could be called the countryside.

But she understood he needed to keep some of the homeland with him, just like she'd needed to bring all her plate and cutlery. So as long as he brought his gun she wouldn't say a word.

It lay crooked over his arm. He'd never had to use it before though. The dangers of this land were exaggerated with a frequency that he'd find charming if he did not have to reassure every newcomer the minute their boat docked. But he felt safer with it, reassured by its trusted name. There were no finer guns in his opinion.

Today however he heard a growling, looking over his shoulder he did a double take and then turned slowly. A real tiger! Standing on the path, tail swishing the dirt.

He watched the majestic creature carefully. It would be a real shame if he killed his noble beast if all it wished to do was continue upon its way. The tiger snarled and seemed to be squaring himself off for a fight, so the man clicked his gun closed and took aim.

He squeezed the trigger just as the tiger leapt, but nothing happened. He could not understand it: he'd not needed the gun on any of his walks before but it was not as if he had never used it, and it had never failed him before! These were his last thoughts before the tiger was upon him.

The man refused to tug at his collar, if he was going to be executed as a spy he refused to show any fear.

"You do not understand me, I am a relation of the Prime Minister of Great Britain and this is my wife." Two lies. But two imperative white lies. He was not a coward but he did not see the use in either his or Odette's death. Of course they were unlikely to be freed and thus would sit out the war in some god awful place or another, but after the war they could be useful. They would win, of course; he had no doubts about that.

"We understand you very well; you are spies, and this is war."

He felt cold all of a sudden; he was sure that evoking that name would have granted them some measure of clemency but it did not look like that was the case.

"Don't worry, it's got a much better design now," said the commander to the younger man. The driver was shaking, and the commander wondered how young they were sending them now. He hoped none of them had lied about their age and signed up for adventure. Surely five long years had taught them at home that this was nothing but a long bloody slog.

"Yeah, "added the gunner. "More armour. More gun," he added with a wink.

"But I heard that in the Dieppe Raid in…"

"How old were you then? Two?" laughed the radio operator. "This is a completely different tank. Relax. This will be easy."

"Well as easy as a taking back the continent could ever be, " said the commander.

"Sir!" cried the driver. "It won't go."

"Excuse me?"

"It's stopped, we're sitting ducks!"

"We still have our guns, these things have taken ten direct hits or more," said the gunner as he swiveled the gun and fired. Nothing happened.

It had never done that before. Now they really were sitting ducks.

"I, sir, am the Earl of Marlborough, I demand you to tell me what I have done to deserve this imprisonment!"

There was no answer, just the clanging of the door.

Of course, he had a fair idea why he was there. He had always enjoyed playing both sides; it seemed the best way to achieve his ambitions. However he'd been careful never to cross that line into treason. But of course treason was a word of some breadth, and the Queen could pick and choose as she willed. That was the benefit of being a Queen, particularly one who had jockeyed herself to power.

The door opened again, a liveried man, placed a tray on the floor before departing, the lackey unwisely hissed "Jacobite" at him. The Earl decided he would remember this man, for when he was released. He was in no doubt that at some point he would be.

Though until then he might as well see what food the Crown provided its prisoners with. The Earl cut himself on the rough cup and swore. He wrapped his handkerchief around it and went on with pushing items around the tray trying to find something edible.

Under the handkerchief, the wound festered.

The women sat upright on the wooden benches, holding the parasols over their heads. The stand had a roof but it was better to be safe with a parasol for further protection from the sun. No man would marry a young lady if she had sat in the sun too long and developed wrinkles.

Then men stood and waved their papers in the air. They were allowed to show their excitement at the horses racing around the track. The ladies had to be decorous.

The stands were a little rackety and you had to perch carefully, but this was not to be surprised at, they had been there quite a long time.
Just at that moment a horse unexpectedly broke away from the group. The horse must have lost a shoe or something. It was all unfortunate for those who had bet on it, but that was racing.

Except the horse did not slow, it careened into the stands, sending people running, and knocking over lanterns.

With a giant whoosh the whole wooden structure went up.

The gardens were quiet and the views perfection. He could not think of a finer county, or a finer country. Who would not fight on the beaches, in the fields and on the streets for such a view, for such a peace?

And well may it come to that, he thought swinging his cane out in front of him as he took in the peace.

Of course, he might never see action – not, of course, military action he'd seen enough of that - he meant political action. In fact it seemed unlikely.

He was of course modest in regarding his abilities, but it was not immodest to say that there were few who had the capacity to lead Britain in the dark hours that seemed to be looming. Never before would Britain need to rely on the resourcefulness of so few.

He was so entranced in his careful placement of his thoughts that he did not notice the buzzing. He had inadvertently stumbled upon a wild hive, and the bees were not pleased. He fended them off as best as he could. He would never, never, never give up.

However the bees outnumbered him, and no one heard his shouts.

Emma was tired of her own company so she went out in the garden to see if her father was taking his normal stroll around the rose bushes. Instead she found the gypsy man – Gawain – lurking about in the hedge.

"This is private property, and you are trespassing," she said, wondering why her voice betrayed her alarm.

"It is better that I trespass, than things remain as they are."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Last night when you came into the … "

"Stop right there." said Emma firmly. "I do not think you understand the folly of your present position. I am Miss Emma Woodhouse and you are … "

"Trying to talk to you about the gypsy curse?"

"Oh." said Emma.

"I am assure you, madam, that I would not think of one such as yourself in such a manner."

"Very proper," approved Emma. All men should realise their proper station.

"Because, my dear Miss Woodhouse, you would make an appalling helpmate..." Emma tried not to feel slighted, but of course she would be an unacceptable gypsy, "for any man."

That was the last straw and Emma turned to alert the gardener to the intruder, but Gawain firmly grasped her wrist and pulled her into the hedge. When she opened her mouth to scream he blocked it with his hand. "Now listen to me, Miss Woodhouse, I told you last night that you had better have had me as a translator, because my young cousin and my grandmother are not quite so sure they cast the right curse. It may have become muddled. So you need to come and request it to be removed."

Emma pried his fingers away from her mouth. "I do not believe in curses, my folly of last night withstanding, so tell your young cousin and grandmother not to worry, no harm will come of my nonsense."

"Even if the curse was far more general than expected?"

Emma blinked, "My dear, what importance could the Churchill family hold?"

"Name, you did not say family, you said name."

Emma snorted, "It is one and the same, surely, now release me."

Emma forgot about Mrs Churchill - well that was impossible considering the events that followed in the next couple of months - but she certainly forgot about the silly gypsy curse.

How foolish she had been. The gypsy leader was still skulking around Highbury and Emma rather suspected he was attempting to pass a message to her when the gypsy children frightened Harriet. It made Emma more determined to stymie such attempts. She was a Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield. He was a Gawain of goodness knew where.

She did think of it, however, when the news of Mrs Churchill's death reached Highbury. She smiled, and then had to hide the inappropriate reaction. Of course Mrs Churchill's death was entirely natural, her little adventure had only cost her a couple of guineas and the acquisition a gypsy follower, but Emma could not help be amused.