Carrie Bebris - The Intrigue at Highbury

The sooner dinner began and Edgar Churchill consumed food to offset the wine, the better.

Emma went to tell them that the formal procession to the dining room would commence presently. As the newest bride and guest of honor, Jane Churchill would enjoy the privilege of leading the way. When Mrs. Knightley reached the trio, however, she found their thoughts far from the imminent meal. Edgar was bitterly vocalizing his discomfort.

“Too hot — intolerably hot…” He tugged at his cravat as if it choked him. “Ridiculous to have a fire in a room with so many people. Idiotic notion — What, we are all invited to dinner only to be cooked ourselves?”

“The room is close, sir,” said Frank, “but hardly intolerable.”

“Do not presume to tell me what is intolerable.”

“I am sure we will go in to dinner momentarily,” said Jane. “Look, here is Mrs. Knightley now, probably come to inform us so.”

“Indeed, yes,” Emma said. “I anticipate the butler’s cue at any—”

“Why can we not go in now? For what are we kept waiting in this inferno?” He downed another half glass. “Nobody tells me anything! A gentleman has a right to know certain matters.”

Frank put his hand on Edgar’s arm in an attempt to placate him. “Sir, a little patience—”

“Patience? I am out of patience! I spent it all; I have no more. And what did it buy?” He stared at Frank’s hand on his arm, then raised his gaze to his face. “Deceit — that is what it bought me. A gentleman ought not be surprised by news of his son.”

“I am deeply sorry, sir. I should have told you of my engagement. It was wrong of me to conceal it. Were it not for trepidation over how Jane would be received by my aunt—”

“She was so proud, too proud!” His rant was starting to draw the notice of others.

Emma’s perfect evening was rapidly coming undone. Surely Edgar Churchill was not intoxicated before dinner even began? At least, she comforted herself, her scheme for Miss Bates was unaffected by Mr. Churchill’s behavior. The spinster was even now smiling broadly as she conversed with Mr. Nodd. From this range, Emma could not hear the subject of their discourse — a good sign, she decided, for it suggested that Miss Bates’s chatter was restrained at present, if only in volume.

The butler’s welcome news that dinner was at last ready to be served brought Emma immense relief. She paired her guests in order of precedence, attributing to hunger the less than blissful expression that momentarily flashed across Mr. Nodd’s countenance as Miss Bates took his arm. Edgar, however, caused her greater distress: he refused to take his place in the promenade. He provided no reason, merely obstinance, despite Frank and Jane’s repeated efforts to mollify him.

Emma and Mr. Knightley sent the other guests ahead, hoping that once the drawing room emptied, Mr. Churchill would become more complacent. But his agitation only increased.

“Gone! Shut me out! Shut me out, they did! Who decided? Who decided he should go?” He fairly impaled Emma with an angry glare. “You!”

Emma had witnessed the effects of too much wine before, but never to such a degree. She was too stunned to respond, and was grateful that her husband had also stayed behind to help manage Mr. Churchill.

Mr. Knightley interposed himself between Emma and their agitated guest. “Mr. Churchill, perhaps you had better—”

Mr. Churchill ignored Mr. Knightley altogether, seeming to look right through him as he continued to address Emma. “Always directing everybody around you. Manipulating us all. How could you live with yourself?” He laughed hysterically. “Apparently, you could not.”

“Mr. Churchill!” Guest or no, Mr. Knightley had done with politeness. “If you cannot act with civility, I shall be forced to have a servant conduct you back to Randalls. Perhaps a proper night’s rest will enable you to regain command of yourself.”

Edgar Churchill at last raised his gaze to Mr. Knightley’s stern countenance. “You do not know what it is to mourn.” He looked then at Emma. “And neither do you, Agnes.”

Oh, dear. Edgar Churchill was farther gone than she had realized. His pupils were wide, his face all confusion.

“I am not Mrs. Churchill,” Emma said gently.

“Are you not?” He looked about the room. “Where is she? Where did she go?” His voice cracked. “She was just here…”

He was still discomposed, but no longer belligerent. Emma pitied him. Mr. Knightley’s glower softened.

“Mr. Churchill, if you are feeling indisposed, allow me to call for your carriage.”

His unfocused gaze continued to sweep the room. “Where is Frank? Where is my son? I want my son.”

Emma and Mr. Knightley exchanged glances. “It would be cruel to send him back to an unfamiliar house alone,” she said. “And even if we did, I think he needs to eat something before he leaves.”

“Do you believe him collected enough to join the other guests?”

“He is placed near Frank Churchill at the dining table. That should comfort him.”

It was settled. Mr. Knightley took Mr. Churchill’s wineglass from him and set it on a nearby table, then he and Emma escorted Frank’s uncle to the dining room. He moved slowly, his fit of temper apparently having depleted his energy. The continual thrumming of his left hand, however, bespoke a spirit not yet at ease.

When they entered the dining room, the rest of the party was — mercifully — so immersed in conversation that their entrance was scarcely noticed. Frank, however, had been watching the door. He observed his uncle’s demeanor and immediately came to them. “Are you well, sir?”

Mr. Churchill attempted to speak, but his voice broke. He tried to force out words but hoarseness had overtaken him. Perhaps it was just as well — he could not cause a further scene.

“Come.” Frank led him to his chair. “We have been missing you.”

Emma was glad that Mr. Perry happened to be placed across the table from Edgar Churchill. The apothecary was used to dealing with people in all manner of conditions and temperaments, and himself possessed a soothing demeanor. His conversation would help further steady the senior Mr. Churchill.

When all were seated, Emma’s gaze took in the whole assembly. The guests of honor, Frank and Jane Churchill, exhibited the proper degree of newlywed felicity. Their friends shared their joy; their families — particularly Miss Bates — fairly radiated it. Miss Bates, in fact, seated (by no accident) between Mr. Nodd and Mr. Wynnken, and across from Major Barnes-Lincoln, wore a look of such happiness that in the candlelight she looked almost pretty, and Emma harbored hopes that the demands of chewing and swallowing would by necessity check the flow of her conversation enough to allow the gentlemen around her to participate in it.

Mrs. Knightley met her husband’s gaze and smiled. Their first dinner party, in both its official and tacit objectives, looked to be a success after all.

That was the last peaceful moment of the night.

Though Edgar Churchill had the courtesy to tolerate the soup course, somewhere between the fish and the pheasant the company nearly bore witness to a return of his bisque.

The heaving gentleman was hastily removed from the dining room to an empty bedchamber, where Mr. Perry attended him. Frank rose to accompany them, but upon being assured of Mr. Perry’s having the situation well in hand, was persuaded to remain in the dining room with all of the people assembled there for his benefit. Emma and Mr. Knightley, their sense of obligation equally divided between their duty to one ill guest and responsibility to dozens of others, settled it between them that Mr. Knightley, more familiar with the Donwell household, would accompany the apothecary and his patient to oversee any provisions required to make Mr. Churchill more comfortable.