Probably not. She had not admitted her mistake to me, and probably never would. But I should know by her manner if something had happened, even if she said nothing.


Friday 25 December

When I woke up this morning, there was a brightness about my chamber, and I could tell at once that it had snowed heavily in the night. On pulling back the curtains, I saw that a blanket of snow lay over everything. The gardens were thick with it, and the meadows beyond, and the drive was covered so effectively that I knew there would be no travelling by carriage today.

I walked out before breakfast, enjoying the briskness of the exercise and the crispness of the air, then returned to a hot meal before setting off for church. I did not expect to find the Hartfield party there, but one or two hardy souls had braved the walk. Graham was there, with his sister.

Mr. Longridge was there, also. He told me that he had looked in on the Bateses on his way, and had found them both well. They had had a good fire, he told me, and the smell of cooking had been coming from the kitchen.

"Miss Bates would have come to church - I offered her my arm - but she would not leave her mother. A wonderful woman, Mr. Knightley," he said. "Always thinking of others, and never of herself. And always interested in the world around her. My wife was another such woman. I was busy with business, but I never minded, because my wife always brought the world to me. I knew what our friends were doing, because she told me. And now that I sit by myself, my business days being behind me, I like to hear a woman’s voice telling me all the news again."

I thought how kind he was, and I was pleased he had entered into our ways already. It was very good of him to look in on Miss Bates, and to say how agreeable he found her chatter.

Miss Nash was there, and I took the opportunity of asking her how Harriet did.

"Very poorly, thank you for asking," she said. "The poor girl has a shocking cold and a sore throat. She has kept to her bed since returning from Hartfield, and will not be out of it for several days."

The service began, and I thought Elton looked subdued, though it could have been my imagination, for afterwards, Miss Nash said she thought the service had been particularly good, and Mr. Longridge declared it the best service he had been to for a long time. He left me with the intention of calling on the Bateses on his way home, so that he could tell them all about it.

I walked to Hartfield, and found the family indoors. Mr. Woodhouse had recovered from his shock of the night before, and was sitting by the fire with Isabella, the baby on his knee. Little Emma was looking placid and contented.

Her namesake, my Emma, was playing with the other children. She looked up as I entered the room, but she could not meet my eye.

So! Elton had spoken, I thought, but I did not plague her by mentioning it.

Mr. Woodhouse was shocked that I had walked over to Hartfield in all the snow, and he was even more alarmed when I said that I had been to church. Isabella asked about the service, but Emma made no enquiries. Instead, she became absorbed in Henry’s blocks, and did not look up until the conversation had moved on to other things.

John was cheerful, having worked off his ill-humour yesterday evening, and was enjoying his children. Despite Mr. Woodhouse’s protests, he ordered Henry and John wrapped up warmly, then he and I took them out into the garden. They delighted in walking through the snow, trying to step in our footsteps.

When we returned to the house, we exchanged presents, and I enjoyed seeing Emma’s face when she unwrapped the gloves I had bought her. I rejoiced in her present to me, a pen-wiper, which was to replace the one she made for me ten years ago.

"It is much better made than the last one," I remarked.

She smiled, and said she hoped so.

Her spirits improved as she watched the children unwrapping their presents, and then she encouraged them to sing for me. They had already sung for the others. To begin with, the children stood mute before us, Henry and John looking bashful, Bella giggling and George trying to do what his brothers and sister did. Isabella gave them encouragement, and Henry began to sing. The others, emboldened, joined in with:

Rejoice our Saviour he was born

On Christmas day in the morning

Or so I took the words to be, for they came out with a lisp and a stutter that was perfectly charming. Their efforts were heartily praised, and each was rewarded with an orange.

After dinner, when the children were in bed, Emma suggested we play at bullet pudding. John declared that he was too old for such a game, but when the mound of flour was brought in, with the bullet set on top of it, he joined in with as much enthusiasm as anyone. Isabella was the first to let it fall, and when she had retrieved it with her teeth, her face was covered completely in flour. She looked such a strange sight that we all burst out laughing, and Isabella had to wipe her face quickly for fear of the flour choking her if she started to laugh, too.

John was next to let it fall, by cutting the flour too finely, and when he emerged with the bullet held triumphantly between his teeth, his face was worse than his wife’s had been. Emma was the next to let the bullet fall, and Mr. Woodhouse worried about her until she had restored the bullet to its place at the top of the shrinking pyramid and wiped her face clean. I, too, came in for my share of flour, and ended up with a great deal on my coat as well as my face.

Our evening did not end there. Emma played the pianoforte and we sang carols, and then Isabella played and Emma and I had an impromptu dance. It ended only when she declared her sister must have her share of the fun, and she sat down at the pianoforte herself.

So ended a very enjoyable Christmas Day. Mr. Woodhouse entreated me to stay the night, rather than face the walk home, but I would not be persuaded.

As I walked home through the freezing night, I felt I had never liked a day more in my life.


Saturday 26 December

Another snowy day. I walked over to Hartfield and spent it with my family. A cheerful sight met my eyes as I arrived. John was in the grounds with John and Henry. The boys were wrapped up warmly and were running about.

We went into the house together. The smell of spices lingered on the air, and the fires sent it round the house.

Emma seemed in better spirits, and before long we were playing hunt-the-slipper with the children.

Isabella was as pleased as could be, playing with her children, and John joined in.

He is a lucky man to have five such fine sons and daughters. I thought again of my hope to marry, and I was sorry that I had not managed to find a suitable wife.

I passed the day most agreeably, regardless. I spent the time with the children, and when they were in bed, the adults played charades.

Mr. Woodhouse entreated me to stay the night, as he did yesterday, for he feared something might happen to me on the walk home, but I would not give in. I returned to the Abbey. There is nothing better than a crisp walk through the snow on a moonlit night at the end of a happy day.


Sunday 27 December

I went to church this morning, but I was not surprised to find that Emma and her father had not ventured out, for the snow was still lying thickly on the ground. There was some good to come out of the weather, however, for it would delay John and Isabella’s departure. I said as much to Emma when I walked over to Hartfield after church.

"To be sure, that is a happy thought," she said.

We took the older children out into the snow without, however, letting her father know.

"Papa worries so," she said. "It is better not to draw attention to our absence. He will be happy sitting by the fire."

After a while, Isabella brought Bella and George out to join us. She had been torn between maternal solicitousness, not wishing the children to get their feet wet, and a desire to please her younger children, who had begged to be allowed to join us, Bella with words, and George by walking over to the window and looking longingly at the snow.

"You must be thinking of marrying soon, Emma," said Isabella.

"I shall never marry," said Emma firmly. "What could marriage offer me that I do not already have?

I could not have a better house, or a higher place in the neighbourhood, or more agreeable company, and no one could ever love me more than Papa."

"But they would love you in a different way," said Isabella, "and you would have your children."

"I do not need any children, when I can play with yours."

Isabella was torn between an urge to see her sister with a family, and a belief that Emma’s children could not be any dearer than her own.

"I only wish you did not have to leave us so soon," said Emma.

"I do not know how we will return to London in all this snow," said Isabella.

"We must do it if we can," said John, joining us. "I have to be in London on the twenty-eighth."

"Business will not continue in this weather, surely?" I said.

"It will if it is at all possible."

We returned to the house, where we drank mulled wine, much to the concern of Mr. Woodhouse, who thought it bad for our constitutions, and tried to encourage us to take a bowl of gruel. I was almost in a mood to humour him, so well at ease did I feel with my world.

Almost!


Monday 28 December

John and Isabella were to have departed for London today, but the roads were still impassable, so they remained.