Posted on Sunday, 16 February 2003,

Emma Knightley and her dear friend Harriet Martin sat together in Harriet's best parlour, and enjoyed a quiet morning tea together. While it is true that some years ago, a Miss Woodhouse had declared she could never visit Mrs. Martin, she was Miss Woodhouse no more, and delighted to spend time with her friend.

Harriet, who had matured -- even in ten years -- from a pretty girl to a beautiful woman, smiled with pleasure at Emma's approval of her new draperies. Her eldest sister-in-law, Elizabeth, had sent the fine linen fabric to her from Ireland, where she and her new husband lived. Although silk was more traditional, Harriet had felt that it wouldn't do for a house like theirs, and rather preferred the stability and luster of the beautiful linen. And how it fluttered quietly when the windows were open!

In truth, it was hard to determine which of these two women was most happily married, for had they not found their true hearts' desires, each?

But this, dear readers, is not a tale of the happily-marrieds. They will likely be shocked, as you will, by the following tale. How I hate to disturb domestic tranquility, but truth must be told, and told before Miss Bates gets the chance. We turn our attention now to the sickroom of a certain Mr. E, who, if unlucky in his choice of wife, had at least managed to avoid being carried about in her pocket.

Most of us would expect that Augusta Elton would stay true to form, dominating poor Mr. Perry, harassing the parlour maids who tended the sickroom fire, drowning her caro with medicines, admonitions, and singing (for was she not musical?). Instead, Mrs. Elton had joined her dear sister Mrs. Suckling in Bath, to restore her own health, which, admittedly, was not affected by her husband's illness, but she felt it to be a sensible, cautionary method. She recovered herself beautifully by attending several assemblies per week, flaunting her new kelly-green silk dress, plaid shawls, and step shoes, for she had taken a sudden fancy to what she imagined to be the "Scottish fashion."

Mr. E enjoyed this time, sick as he was, for it removed her from the house, restoring an element of peace and reason. He saw the folly that was his marriage, and had truly learned to cope with it as best he could, but he regretted his past entirely. His botched proposal to Mrs. Knightley ("Mercenary man!" He chided himself.), his cruelty to Mrs. Martin (Poor innocent--how he had then vented his embarrassment upon her), his hasty marriage to Augusta, and his own inability to stand up to her, except on the prospect of "improving" his standing in the Church. How angry she had been with him the past few years when he refused to entangle himself in the fight -- for fight it was -- to be next in line to succeed the Bishop of their district. If she were despicable before these events, she was worse now, and at least his illness had caused her to withdraw and leave him in peace to order his spiritual affairs. Had he been a good reverend? Had he set a proper example for the souls he had care of? Why had church attendance dropped so heavily in the past ten years? "Augusta," he whispered to himself, then stopped short. Why, it was he, and he alone, who must carry the blame. Though she did intrude on his habits of charity to the local poor, though she did often cross his own lines out and recopy his sermons with her own comments inserted, causing him much embarrassment, and though she did tend to cause strife rather than comfort and friendliness among Highbury, he could have put a stop to it all.

Later that night, his dear friend from Oxford, Mr. Tilney arrived, to cheer him, to offer the last rites, and to steady his friend through his last hours. Around 5:00 a.m., Mr. Elton, who was now allowed the compliment of his entire name, passed on with a sigh of relief.

Augusta received an express stating that her husband had died, and tried to make herself cry, for were not tears becoming on such an event? In truth, she was angry that he'd never sought to improve his station, angry at the implied contempt in his eyes when she tried to enlist him in her latest projects to torment Mrs. Knightley and Mrs. Martin, angry that he had forbidden to her visit, unannounced, the new Mr. and Mrs. Churchill upon their return from the continent. How he'd restricted her! Why, she was born to be a free spirit: sociable, charming, educated, and sensible as she was. No, she could not cry, unless it were for those lost years spent by his side. How she hated the name "Elton," and wished to change it.

She squeezed a few angry tears from her eyes, only seconds before Mrs. Suckling knocked and entered her room.

"Why, my dear Augusta, the express carried news, did it not?" Always quick to soothe her youngest sister, who she sometimes suspected of not having all her wits, and who she hoped to marry off again soon, so as not to have her around to tease her excellent cook and housekeeper, drive her own husband to his library, and confuse the children by her misattribution of quotes and lines of poetry, Emily Suckling steadied herself for the outburst of emotion.

Yet none came. "My dear Emily, I am done crying now. I imagine I hear a harp playing for my beloved Mr. E," she paused as her sister shivered, "And doth not music always soothe the savage breast? Dear Emily, I hope you're not next to take ill. Truly, if you shiver, you must sit by the fire. For what would become of your children, should you die? Why, dear Mr. Suckling would have to remarry!" A covetous gleam came into her eyes, and Emily drew her breath in sharply at the implication. Yes, indeed, her sister had gone mad. And would be packed off to their aunt in Wales immediately.

And packed off she was, decided Augusta with a dissatisfied grunt. Her aunt had no carriage, and it was settled that one of the local farmers would pick her up in his cart and take her the rest of the distance from the stagecoach to her aunt's. Along the way, bumped and jostled as she was, she began to feel a little sick from the ride. The cart continued on the horrid road, which became rougher as they went. The lone figure of a man appeared at the crest of the hill ahead, and Augusta strove to make out whether he was a farmer, a gypsy, or something else equally nasty. They came to the hill, and the farmer was unlucky enough to run right over a large rock as they came down it again. Augusta flew out of the cart and landed on the unfortunate man. He broke the fall generally, but she was knocked unconscious by the act.

The young man, a Mr. Adam Cuerden, immediately tried to dislodge this apparition in green silk (for Augusta could not bear to properly mourn her husband, if going to a neighborhood where nobody would know her anyway). She came to almost immediately, and stared up at him, eyes growing wilder by the minute. The farmer, who had been attending to his wheels and his horse, had only just joined them to see how she was doing (for who would not put a horse before Augusta, in points of concern?). He was greeted by a loud shriek.

"Unhand me! Oh, I am ruined! My reputation -- before even entering the neighborhood properly -- oh heavens! What am I to do?" Neither of the gentlemen quite understood her, but gave each other a look that communicated their mutual thoughts of her madness. She continued, and her meaning became all-too-clear, "What would my family do? Say? Oh my! To be so handled, and I, a lady! Poor widow to a clergyman, forced to travel unescorted by my unreasonable relatives! How dare you touch me like that! You must marry me to preserve my reputation, sir!" She paused for effect. Mr. Cuerden's eyes widened in horror. She looked to the farmer, "Tell him. Tell him! Farmer Smith, you saw it all!"

"I saw . . . " he started.

"Exactly! You are witness to this. Take us immediately to your good reverend, and let us announce the banns."

Mr. Cuerden gulped what he thought would be his last breath as a free man, and then realized sadly that that breath had been taken minutes ago. What was this scheming green thing about? But he had no choice, that he knew. 'Til death do us part, he whispered sadly to himself.

They made their way into the village, the cart's wheels luckily unmolested by the road, Augusta's head held high, her arms wrapped around Mr. Cuerden's tightly, and she prattled on to him about the time to come "when they were married." The sun set somewhat quickly, and the last orange glow could be seen beyond the branches of the trees. The fields seemed to kill off their own crops, and the sheep looked sickly in the glow. The town, unnaturally still, seemed an appropriate welcome for the newly engaged couple.

"Well, my dear Harriet, though this is a shockingly bad example for a clergyman's widow to set, I suppose there's some good to come of it."

"Yes, Emma?" Asked Harriet, who offered a plate of delicately sugared cookies to her friend.

"I won't have to throw another party for her ever again!"