Section I, Next Section
Posted on Friday, 10 January 2003
Taking a tentative sip of her champagne, Emma surveyed the scene in front of her. Soft, elegant orchestral music floated through the ballroom, beckoning every couple, young and old alike, to the dance floor. The chandeliers above caught every facet of flickering light, gleaming as they carelessly tossed bands of color and light across the room. Red silk swags accented the tall windows without hindering the spectacular view of the night stars and the white marble floor shone so clear that Emma could nearly see her own reflection.
Emma smiled wistfully, taking a deeper drink of her champagne. The English sure knew how to throw a good party. And an even better wedding. Emma's smile broadened as she caught a glimpse of the happy couple; her newly married best friend, Rebecca Taylor. Or, as Rebecca should properly be called after this evening's ceremony in Donwell Abby, Mrs. Weston. Emma laughed with the rest of the wedding guests as she watched Robert Weston spin Rebecca around before sweeping her off her feet (literally) and into his arms.
"Miss Woodhouse," a warm, elderly voice called from behind her. "You look lovely, dear. And so grown up."
Emma turned to see Mrs. Lydia Bates, sixty-five years old and a mutual friend of both Westons and Emma's grandfather, Lucien Woodhouse. Emma gave Mrs. Bates a smile, full of mandatory brightness.
"Hello, Mrs. Bates," Emma greeted her warmly. "It's so good to see you."
"You as well, dear. That's a lovely dress Rebecca picked out for you and the other bridesmaids," Mrs. Bates assured her. "That shade of lavender is so flattering on all three of you girls. Though I dare say any nicer of a gown and you would have outshone the bride herself with all that golden hair of yours."
Emma blushed and smiled. She always felt uneasy when people commented on her looks, unsure of what to say in reply. Indeed she was one of those very rare people who were both naturally beautiful and truly lacking in vanity.
"Thank you," was all she could manage. "Though I'd tend to disagree."
"Oh, you're a sweetheart," Mrs. Bates patted her arm condescendingly. "But how's your grandfather doing?"
"Better on the whole. He wasn't feeling well this past week, so he had to decline his invitation to the wedding."
Emma didn't think it proper to add that with a hypochondriac for a grandfather, he wasn't feeling well most nights, despite his truly excellent health.
"Are you finding that you miss your father and the States?"
Emma shook her head definitively.
"No, not really." She assured her. "I've lived here for almost four years now. And I visited Highbury as a child every summer with my mother."
"Before she passed away, yes. Yes, so sad," Mrs. Bates paused reflectively for what she deemed the proper time when dealing with such matters. After the prescribed moment, Mrs. Bates continued, unfazed. "Your father's an American, correct? You still have your delightful Southern accent. Where in the States did you grow up, dear?"
Emma restrained herself from making a face. If there was one thing English people always, always, always commented on as soon as Emma opened her mouth, it was her Southern accent, acquired by living in Savannah for the first seventeen years of her life (despite summers spent in England). Even though Emma had been living full time in England now for the last three years, the Southern accent had stuck.
"Savannah, Georgia. It wasn't much of an adjustment living in England though. I think it must be my mother's English blood. And it helped that my two best friends are English. They're both here, too."
"Who's that dear? Rebecca, of course, but who else?"
"George Knightly."
Ah, that caught her attention. Mrs. Bates's eyes widened in surprise and she gave Emma a knowing smile.
"Oh, Mr. Knightly. Yes, I know his family very well. Such a handsome young man. And bright, too. He's getting his doctorate at Kingston University, and only twenty five years old."
"Twenty-six this past July," Emma corrected her gently, taking another sip of her champagne.
"How long have you two been dating?"
Emma nearly choked on her champagne before looking up at the elderly woman.
"Me and George?" she laughed. "Oh, we're not dating. Nothing of the sort. George is engaged to that young woman over there. Celia Edwards. That woman there, see? Long red curls."
"Oh, yes. She's quite striking, isn't she? Celia Edwards...Yes, I do believe I've heard that name. Her father is probably Carl Edwards, owner of Edwards and Alhard Oil Refineries. Yes she looks like she comes from money. She suits him." The elderly lady's eyes narrowed and she nodded decidedly. "He needs someone of good standing to help him manage his late father's fortune and estate." Mrs. Bates could be blunt when it suited her. Mrs. Bates looked back at Emma. "Do you have a boyfriend or a fiancé, dear? I imagine someone as beautiful as yourself wouldn't have trouble in such areas."
"Not at the moment. Honestly, Mrs. Bates, most students in law school don't have time for such things."
"Oh," Mrs. Bates looked entirely disappointed. "Well, what a shame."
Emma looked over at the ornate gold-gilded clock on the wall.
"Mrs. Bates, I should be returning to my grandfather. Have a wonderful time enjoying the wedding, and I'll be sure to tell my grandpa you said hello. It was lovely to see you again."
"Such a sweet girl. Every time I see you, you get lovelier. Makes me think of my youth. Of course I never had that golden hair of yours. But, good luck in school and call me when you get a boyfriend!"
With a brilliant smile and a tip of her glass, Emma was gone, into the crowd of guests. Maneuvering her way out of the ballroom, Emma handed her empty glass to a waiter before ducking into the coat checkroom to grab her black velvet wrap.
"Going somewhere, Emma?" a calm, masculine voice questioned her from behind.
Emma stopped short, immediately knowing the owner of that voice. She turned around, a smile on her face (this time genuine).
"George," she said with warmth in her voice, shutting her eyes in exhaustion. Opening them once more, she walked towards him, doing her best to arrange her wrap neatly and effectively around her bare shoulders. Seeing Emma struggling with the material, George reached over her and pulled the silken lavender fabric more firmly over her shoulders.
"Thank you," she said sincerely, looking up at him.
He shrugged casually, resting his hands on her shoulders.
"What's wrong, Emma?" he questioned her, gray eyes assessing her evenly, his concern thinly veiled.
"I'm fine," she insisted, matching him look for look with her sky blue gaze.
His brow furrowed.
"I'm fine. It's really nothing," she insisted defiantly. George gaze remained steady.
"To the Emma Woodhouse I know," he began, his British accent evident with every syllable. "'Nothing' is always something. And generally something of significance."
She tried staring him down, but finding it impossible to beat those cool gray eyes of his, she stuck out her tongue in defeat. "Oh, I don't know. It's everything, I suppose."
He let his arms slide from her shoulders and motioned her to the brocade sofa in the hallway.
"I don't suppose Brandon has anything to do with this?" he speculated, his voice remaining carefully neutral.
"You mean the fact that he and I broke up? No. We had fun in our time together...a lot of fun," Emma laughed softly, momentarily lost in memory. For all Brandon Vaughn's faults, he'd been a fantastic kisser. Oblivious to George's suddenly cold expression, she continued. "My relationship with him was mainly physical, though. We had a great time, Brandon and I, but the more we knew of one another, the more we realized it would never work. He and I were infatuated with one another for a time; we weren't really in love. Once we realized that, there wasn't much to be said. He suggested the breakup in June and I agreed."
He nodded slowly as if fully expecting that answer.
"Than what is it?"
She sighed laboriously before beginning,
"I'm happy for Robert and Rebecca. Very happy," she gave him a sidelong glance. "You know I got them together."
George looked at her with incredulity.
"You don't believe me," she laughed at him. "I did though."
"No, you didn't," he assured her firmly.
"Yes, I did. I said to you three years ago in McCarran's Pub, "Wouldn't Robert be absolutely perfect for Rebecca?" And you gave me your usual, tolerant look of "whatever you say, Emma," like the one you're giving me right now, in fact," she grinned at him winningly. "And than they met at my Christmas party, hit it off fantastically, and have been inseparable since."
"Yes, but he asked her to dinner," He pointed out. "They're adult enough to manage their own affairs. Interference would have just hindered them from truly getting to know one another."
Emma gave him a look of uncomprehending impatience.
"Well, regardless. They're absolutely perfect for one another."
"I'll grant you that. But that's not the issue here," he reminded her.
Emma hesitated.
"It's stupid, George, I know."
"Continue anyway," George said, watching her evenly.
Emma paused to give him an exasperated look, fully understanding his comment.
"Only you could get away with a remark like that." She retorted dryly.
"Yes. I'm the only one that would ever say it, either."
Emma smirked at him.
"All through my undergrad years at Kingston University, it was our little group. You, Rebecca and Robert, Hannah, James, Brandon and me. And now everyone's graduated, or nearly so. Hannah's moved to France to work for Le Figaro, James will work for his father in Harrington and Brandon's going to be an engineer for some tech. company in London. You'll be receiving your doctorate degree at the end of this year, and than you'll marry Celia. And I'll be starting law school," she sighed. "It didn't really hit me until now. It just feel's like everything's changing."
He watched her, his expression unchanged.
"It is changing, Emma. You can't be selfish. Rebecca and Robert and Celia and I will all be living nearby, at least for this upcoming year. And you should be happy with your accomplishments. You've already received your bachelor's degree and you'll be at Kingston now as a graduate student. Kingston Law."
Emma smiled at him, appreciating his effort, despite the innate scold within his speech. It was so like him to do that, try and make her feel better while scolding her all the while.
"Ah, yes. Law school awaits. But after this year, you'll be finished with your education forever and will probably want to go teach at...Oxford or something. And you'll be married. Speaking of which, isn't there a certain red haired young woman waiting for you somewhere around here, Mr. Knightly? Where is that delicate damsel to sigh your name and call, "oh Knightly, Knightly, without you I cannot so much as raise my salad fork," she teased him.
Knightly cool eyes gave her a look to freeze a forest fire.
"I'm just kidding George," she laughed at him. "You know I just do that to get a reaction from you," she paused, watching him. He wasn't in a particularly good mood, either. From the set of his mouth, he didn't look in the mood for her teasing. She switched topics. "I see you've ditched your usual Manchester United sweatshirt for an evening. Did Celia have to peel it off you?"
"I haven't seen you all summer. I'm happy to see you in something other than a sweat suit and those enormous glasses you sport during exams last spring."
Emma's eyes widened in outrage but she smiled broadly, getting up from the sofa.
"You're an idiot sometimes," was all she could manage.
"Yes, that's true," he replied casually, the corners of his mouth hinting at a smile.
"Thanks, though, for listening," she said to him, readjusting her wrap. "Call me tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow afternoon. Try answering your phone once and awhile," George suggested, wryly, stretching as he stood. He held out a hand to Emma, helping her stand. Emma tried curtsying but it turned out to be more of a bob up and down. George burst out laughing.
"Not exactly Ginger Rogers, are you?" he squeezed her hand.
"Not exactly," she replied. "It's my father's American blood in me. I feel entirely like a Southerner when I do that."
"George!" a sharp, feminine voice interrupted them, accompanied by the quick clip of high-heeled shoes. Both Emma and George turned. A beautiful red haired woman, in a striking gold gown that Emma (fashion conscious, despite George's teasing) pegged as from Chanel's fall collection, stood watching them critically. "Where have you been?" she demanded to him her accent revealing her proper Yorkshire upbringing. "With her?" Celia's tone was flat and cold. Disapproval was written on every inch of her face.
Emma bristled at Celia's tone, eyes narrowing dangerously. George, sensing that Emma was about to say something scathing and (knowing Emma as he did) probably unpardonable, put a restraining arm gently on her shoulder.
Never one to cower to anyone (least of all his own fiancée), George responded to Celia himself in an even tone,
"I thought you could do without me for a half an hour, while I had a conversation with an old friend."
He walked up to Celia and smoothing out a lock of her red curls before putting one hand under her chin before leaning down and whispering in her ear. Celia Edwards, despite her previous demeanor, melted under his touch.
Emma watched the scene coolly. She turned to go, leaving the couple to their privacy.
"Night, Emma," George called after her, slipping his arm around Celia. "Get home safely."
"Night, George," she responded, not even bothering to turn around as she walked out of the Estate and into the warm, August air.
"Afternoon, Emma. How's my Southern Belle?" A warm masculine voice startled her out of her reverie.
"Elton Fitzgerald!" she greeted the tall Irishman fondly. "My, Lord, I haven't seen you since you got back from Ireland. How are you doing?"
She readjusted her satchel before reaching up to give him a hug of greeting.
"Not bad, Emme, not bad," he responded good-humouredly, running his hands through his red hair, blue eyes twinkling. He swung his arm around her companionably as she walked from the classroom.
"I've missed that Irish brogue of yours. You had a nice break?" she asked him.
"Very nice," he answered.
"Getting into plenty of trouble, no doubt."
He grinned devilishly at her.
"Always," he responded. "Though not enough. Lacking you by my side..."
"Smooth, Elton. Thanks," she teased him, holding the door for him to exit the building.
"Thank you, lady," he gave her a courtly nod. "So lass, I hear you and Brandon are no longer an item, much to the joy of all currently single men at Kingston Law... True?"
"Yes," she answered evenly. "But I'd rather not talk about it. That's all anyone seems to ask about and I'm not thinking about anything of the sort right now. What about your romantic entanglements?"
He gave her a good-natured grimace.
"Nonexistent for the moment," Elton admitted, raking his hand through his red hair. "Fiona dumped me over summer holiday. Quite a b**ch she turned out to be."
"I'm sorry to hear that, Elton," Emma said sympathetically. "If it's any consolation, I never thought she was right for you."
Elton nodded appreciatively.
"None of us are getting any younger, though, are we, girl?" he added, watching her with sudden intensity.
"No, none of us are," Emma agreed, ignorant of his suddenly keen gaze. "I'll be twenty-one this November."
Elton's jaw dropped and he gave a whooping laugh.
"You're only now turning twenty one? And you're in law school and have your bachelor's degree?" he exclaimed. "Blarney! You're nothing but a spring lass! I would have pegged you for nigh less than 24."
Emma laughed at his shock.
"It's hard for most people to believe. I was skipped ahead a year in high school, and I took some night courses at a local college back home junior and senior year. I graduated high school at seventeen, entered Kingston as a sophomore and finished my undergrad studies in three years. So I have my bachelor's degree already. It's shocking, I know. Just turning 21 and attending Kingston Law School," she grinned at him. "Surprise."
"Well my stars," was all Elton could manage. "Don't I feel like an old a**? I'll be twenty five this year."
"Yes, I know," she nodded, eyes twinkling. "I'll try not to make you feel like too much of an old man. I should go, Elton. I'm meeting a friend for lunch."
"Yes," Elton answered, nodding and started walking towards the parking lot. "I'll just go order myself a walker and have myself fitted for dentures."
Emma laughed.
"Goodbye, Elton," she called to him before nearing a building entitled McAlister Hall.
"Goodbye, lass," was his response, his thick Irish accent distinctive over the crowd of English voices.
Still chuckling, Emma ducked into the building. She stopped at a room numbered 244 before turning the handle and slipping inside.
George Knightly, unaware of her presence, was rapidly scribbling an assignment on the board at the base of the lecture hall.
As a graduate student getting his doctorate in English, he was qualified to teach some lower level English courses. The benefits were twofold: it gave good teaching experience and it paid. Not much, as he wasn't really a professor and the University was notoriously cheap. But it was something. Not that he needs the money, Emma mused. She knew that the fortune he'd inherited after his parents' death gave him the option never work another day in his life. But Emma also knew him well enough to know he could never be happy 'retiring' at the age of 26.
"And because I know you all will have plenty of time between now and Wednesday," George said to the class. "I'm expecting a summary of Aristotle's: The Poetics on my desk by 12:00 on said date. And I want footnotes. Text support and footnotes."
He underlined the last two words before turning to the class.
A hint of a smile crossed his lips when he saw Emma standing in the back of the room before his gaze shifted to his students.
"If you have any intelligent questions come see me. Don't waste my time and I won't waste yours. My office hours are listed on the syllabus. Welcome to Kingston University."
Emma smirked. That last comment about "intelligent questions" and not wasting his time, that was typical of him. She watched the crowd of frazzled freshmen push their way out of the auditorium, and moved to avoid the stampede before weaving her way down to George's desk.
"Emma," George greeted her, not looking at her as he searched through a stack of papers. Emma had to grin.
"You know what that just reminded me of?" she said to him, dropping her satchel on a desk.
"Haven't a clue," he replied, only half listening. She walked over to him, eyes sparkling.
"It reminded me of a scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Or maybe it's the one about the Ark and the Covenant..." Emma paused, her brow furrowing, momentarily disconcerted before continuing. "Anyway, it's one of the two. In the movie, Indiana Jones is teaching---prattling on about archeology or something---"
"Do I prattle?"
"Yes, sometimes," she said absently. "But that's not my point, George. In the movie, Indiana Jones is going on and on and is completely oblivious to the flock of young female students starring wide eyed and wondering at him. Do you have any idea how many cow-eyed looks I caught going your direction from the young freshmen ladies out there?" her blue eyes flashed up at him wickedly. "That's you, George. You're Indie!"
The corners of George's mouth twitched upwards, hinting at a smile.
"After all these years, your American ways must be wearing off on me."
"Fear not, Knightly," Emma assured him. "I don't think I'll ever think of you as anything but an Englishman."
"Good to know," George said before looking past her. "Is there something I can help you with, Miss?"
Emma turned to see a student of George's a slightly awkward looking girl with a mass of brown curls and wearing a plaid jumpsuit. The poor girl looked absolutely terrified at speaking with George.
Emma looked back at George, amused. She tilted her head, trying to view him as a stranger would.
She had to admit, he was extremely attractive.
Emma shook her head at her own assessment. Who was she kidding? At twenty-six years old, George Knightly was incredibly good-looking. She'd seen many a young woman's jaw drop when catching a first view of him. In addition to that, though, there was something in his handsome, English features that managed to convey his innate intelligence. Just as there was something in those cool, gray eyes that revealed his sharp, decisive nature.
And yet there was more to him than that. Emma knew Knightly well enough to know he had an unusual mix of interests. While his knowledge of the English language was obvious, he was also very physically active and there was an unexpected edge of daring to his personality. He'd as eagerly go play soccer on a beautiful spring morning (with his lean, fast body, he was a natural at it), as he would go mountain climbing in Italy if the opportunity presented itself.
And yet, Emma mused, part of him seemingly embraced the academic life. She supposed his brilliance was such that he couldn't do otherwise.
Suddenly realizing that an entire conversation had been going on without her, Emma brought herself back to the present, listening to what George and the student were saying.
"What I really need is housing," the girl was saying. She was an American, from the north or perhaps the Midwest, judging from her accent. "Until than I can't hook up my computer and printer. I'm practically living out of a suitcase."
"Can you pay rent?" Emma demanded suddenly. The girl looked over to her, startled.
"Well, yes, but I haven't been able to find an apartment," she began timidly.
Emma looked from the young girl to George, the solution seeming obvious.
"One of my roommates just got married and moved out of the place I'm renting."
"Rebecca Weston," George said absently, packing up his things.
"Right," Emma nodded. "My other roommate and I have been looking for someone to pick up the third end of the lease. It's a three-bedroom apartment with a kitchen, a bathroom and living room. It's not a huge place, but the rent's not bad. You could move in whenever it suited, Yvette wouldn't care. We'd just have to get the paperwork drawn up by the landlord. It's a monthly lease and you'd have to put the first month's rent down in advance. But it's not a bad place to live and Yvette and I both study constantly, so mostly you'll barely realize there are other people living there." Emma paused, smiling cheerfully before saying, "What's your name again?"
"Harriet Smith," said the girl, stunned that her problem had been solved in a matter of minutes. "Well God bless you!"
George looked from Emma to Harriet.
"Miss Smith," he said casually. "May I present Emma Woodhouse, my official problem solver."
"Nothing," he answered, taking a sip of coffee from a mug. "I'm correcting an essay I wrote for Shakespeare and Modern Society."
Watching him, Emma's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"Two problems with that response, Mr. Knightly. First, what could you possibly be correcting two weeks into the semester? And second, I know you; you're always thinking three or four things at once. Probably five."
George smiled, his eyes remaining on his work.
"For your information, Miss Woodhouse," he answered. "This essay is due this Friday. As far as what I'm thinking, you're right. I'm still marveling at you offering housing to my wayward student, Miss Harriet Smith."
Emma nodded, smoothing out her tartan skirt and tightening the laces of her shoes before standing.
"Well, the poor girl had nowhere to go," Emma explained. "And Yvette and I dearly needed someone to pick up Rebecca's end of the lease. We're poor grad. school students, now, both of us."
"That's right. I'd forgotten Yvette's already started medical school."
Emma nodded.
"She's barely aware of the outside world," Emma assured him.
George laughed.
"And you are?" he demanded.
"Yes," she replied defensively, her blue eyes going wide. "I have a social life."
"No," he corrected, looking at her full on. "You used to have a social life. Now you just go around trying to give other people social lives," he laughed at her, seeing her indignation. "But that wasn't my point. My point was, don't you think that Harriet Smith is perhaps too young to be renting an apartment with two graduate students. She's still a girl, you and Yvette are grown women."
Emma shrugged and dropped the apple core in his wastebasket before sitting next to him on a stool at his kitchen counter.
"Well, she had nowhere else to go. Plus, she's from the States. It was my duty as a fellow American."
"Emma," he began, standing up and stretching, his muscles cramped from working too long. "Despite that Georgian accent of yours, strong as it ever was, even after living here for so long, I try not to think of you as an American."
Emma laughed at him.
"George Knightly, you're one of my best friends in the world. Are you saying that if I still consider myself an American, you'd hold no love for me in your heart? You'd cast me off forever from your circle of associates?" she teased him.
George paused, running his hands through his dark hair.
"Emma," he began. He stopped short, however, as the phone rang. Looking strangely relieved to avoid giving her an answer, he picked up the receiver.
"Hello?" he said.
"I mean, I know you think Americans are dreadful as a whole," Emma began, ignoring the fact that he was on the phone. "But Savannah is truly a lovely place. You don't know; you've never been there."
"Shh," George placing his hand firmly over her mouth in an effort to silence her. She glared at him crossly. Moving his hand away when he was sure she'd been momentarily silenced, he continued with his phone conversation. "No, not you Rob. Emma's here, she's being distracting," George listened to the other end of the receiver before laughing loudly, his gray eyes flashing to Emma. "Yes, that's true, Robert...I've been victim to that before..." he admitted.
Emma could swear she saw a blush grace his cheeks (unusual for George. He rarely blushed at anything). Emma's curiosity peaked; she gestured to him, demanding to know what he was talking about.
George paused, glancing at her before turning back towards the living room.
"Oh, really?" he said finally, clearing his throat. "That's brilliant Rob. Yes, well, happy to hear it. Surely...you can count on me...what's that? Oh sure, Celia too, if I can drag her, which I can. I have my methods," he smiled devilishly. "...Yes, I'll tell Emma. No doubt she'll be there. Your and Rebecca's townhouse? Fantastic. Great, old chap. Till then."
He hung up the phone.
"Well?" Emma demanded, expectant.
"Frank Churchill, Robert's cousin who's transferred to Kingston for the year finally arrived. He's staying with Robert and Rebecca until he gets his own place. They're having a welcoming party for him Saturday night."
"Are you all right, Yve?" Emma asked.
Yvette Lorraine nodded slowly, rubbing green eyes and sighing.
"I'm fine," Yvette responded finally, her French accent barely detectable. "I had an exhausting exam in Modern Genetics this morning. Three full hours of 'fun'. I hate Saturday morning exams."
Emma nodded, appreciating the grievance. She'd suffered through more than a few Saturday morning exams in her lifetime and looked to have more now that she was in Law School.
"Well, if you want to relax tonight, Rebecca and Robert are having a welcoming party for Rob's cousin, Frank. It should be fun. You're welcome to come."
Yvette shook her head.
"I cannot," she admitted. "Ian is driving down from Cambridge this afternoon. We're going to dinner in London. It's our anniversary."
Emma smiled wistfully.
"How many years is it, now?" Emma asked.
"Six," Yvette confirmed.
"Any chance that the dashing Ian Henry, will be getting close to asking you as his Mrs. Henry?" Emma said.
"Mon Dieu, I certainly hope so. It's about time," Yvette responded, standing up. "Speaking of which, what time is it?"
Emma looked at her watch.
"Later than I thought," Emma responded. "Going on 5:20. Where's Harriet? I thought she was coming to help us with these boxes. They're hers after all."
Yvette's eyes widened and gave a panicked moan of despair.
"5:20! Ian is coming at 6:00! Oh, I look dreadful. How will I get ready in half an hour?"
Speaking rapidly in French, Yvette headed for the bathroom.
Knowing that there was little she could do to calm her friend, and feeling thirsty from moving all those boxes, Emma headed for the kitchen in search of something to drink.
Harriet sat on the couch, unpacking videos and CDs and placing them next to Emma's small, rather pathetic looking television with its broken antennae.
"Do you want something to drink, Harriet?" she called into the living room.
"No, thank you," was Harriet's meek response.
"Harriet," Emma said suddenly, taking a bottle of water from the refrigerator. "I know you don't know many people in Kingston. Feel like coming to a party tonight? Some of my old friends will be there. It should be fun."
Harriet looked up, surprised to be invited.
"Well sure," she said finally. Unpacking the remainder of the box, Harriet continued, "Though I did meet a nice boy my first day here, and we've talked every day on my way to class since. I was hoping he would call me tonight."
Emma took a sip of her water, walking into the living room.
"Really?" she said, putting the drink down and smiling to the younger girl. "Tell me all about him. I probably won't know him, though, if he's an undergrad."
Harriet hesitated.
"Well, he's not exactly an undergraduate student," she began.
Now Emma was surprised.
"He's a grad student? I'm impressed, Harriet."
Harriet shook her head.
"No he's not that old," Harriet said.
Emma nearly burst out laughing. Now she and her friends were officially termed "old" by a freshman. Wonderful.
"He's not really a student here," Harriet continued quietly. "He works at the University, though. He's one of the groundskeepers. His name is Martin."
"Martin Christopher?" Emma asked, incredulous, putting down her drink. Martin Christopher had worked for the grounds keeping department at Kingston for the last two years. Emma would guess his age to be twenty-four, no older; he was a short young man and though decent looking enough, Emma didn't think he was anything to swoon over.
"Yes. He's just so sweet to me," Harriet reflected; she paused, noticing Emma's expression. "You don't like him?"
Emma paused, trying to be diplomatic.
"It's not that," she began. "It's just, there are so many educated men here at Kingston..." Emma paused trying to be delicate while getting her point across. "It's just, Harriet, that marrying a man with a college education assures financial stability, to a degree anyway. I know you probably aren't thinking to marry Martin just yet, but dating can always lead to marriage, especially in college."
She watched Harriet, seeing if she was getting her point across. She didn't think she was. Harriet looked puzzled.
"What I mean is, Harriet, I wouldn't settle too soon for Martin. He's a nice fellow, but there are so many young men on campus who I'm sure would like to date you, and you want to keep your options open."
"You really think so?" Harriet asked. "It's just, Martin is so kind to me. He picked me a rose from the bush outside Carvel Hall just yesterday. He said I was prettier than any rose he could ever hope to find in all the garden."
"I definitely think there are plenty of men on campus who would date you," Emma insisted. "In fact, I know of a man who would be just perfect for you. He'll be at the party tonight. Elton Fitzgerald. A friend of mine. He just broke up with Fiona Longfellow and is looking for someone new. You and he would be perfect together."
"Really?" Harriet asked, there was a cautious skepticism of her voice, but it was laced with hope. "What does he look like?"
Emma grinned.
"Oh, he's mid height I suppose, though definitely taller than you, with red hair and bright green eyes. Very charming," she informed Harriet. "He's on his second year at Kingston Law, so he's a older than you, but I'm sure he won't mind you're so young. You're seem very mature for a 19-year-old."
"Very charming?" Harriet repeated.
Emma had to smile: wouldn't it be fantastic of Elton and Harriet hit it off and ended up getting married, just like Robert and Rebecca Weston? That would bring her total of happy matches made to two, but who knew how many more she could make by the end of the year? She should start charging for this...
Emma was interrupted from her musings, however, by Yvette's scream down the hall.
"Emma!" Yvette cried, her French accent in full force. "Help!" Yvette came into the living room in a long pink bathroom, her hair in a white towel. In her right hand was a long and elegant black gown. In her left was a stylish little red dress, not overly short or low cut. Emma guessed the cut of the dress to be just right to flatter Yvette's small frame.
"What dress will make Ian really go 'wow,'" Yvette pleaded. "The black or the red? I don't want him to take his eyes off me tonight."
Emma folded her arms and tilted her head to the side, thinking.
"How comfortable would you be in that black dress?"
"Fairly comfortable," Yvette assured her. "Bought in Paris. The red dress was bought in London at Harrah's."
"The black gown has beautiful fabric. I'm sure it's absolutely lovely. Still," Emma mused, squinting. "I'm sure he sees plenty of black going to Cambridge. Black is understated, elegant, but red draws every eye in the room, most especially his. Plus, wearing red will help him see that you can be something other than a scientist for an evening."
Yvette nodded.
"Good point," she admitted, looking relieved at having it put so simply. "I'll go with the red. Thanks Emma. Good advice."
Emma shrugged, grinning.
"That's why I'm the future lawyer and you're the scientist."
Yvette smiled.
"True," Yvette nodded before rushing back to the bathroom.
Emma turned back to Harriet.
"So, you want to come meet Elton tonight?"
Harriet nodded eagerly.
Hearing a buzz from the call box, Emma ran over to it.
"Hello?" she said, pressing the button next to the box.
"Emma?" a masculine voice asked tentatively. Emma smiled.
"Hi, Ian," she greeted him warmly. "Come on up, Yvette will be ready for you in a few minutes."
Walking through the living room and into the hallway, Emma called,
"Yve, Ian's on his way up!"
Yvette emerged from the bathroom wearing the red dress. Her makeup had been done to perfection. Her hair was perfectly coiffed and fell down her back in waves.
"I'd still feel more comfortable in jeans and a lab coat..." Yvette laughed nervously. "Will he approve?"
"Let me put it this way Yvette," Emma responded with a grin to her friend. "I fully expect to see a diamond on that left ring finger of yours when you return tomorrow."
Yvette looked nervous and agitated and giddy all at once. She jumped slightly when a knock was heard at the door.
"I'll get it," Yvette said quickly, walking calmly to the door and grabbing her purse. Emma and Harriet followed in quick pursuit, eager to see Ian Henry's reaction.
Ian Henry was a tall young man, good looking in his own way, his blond hair perfectly cut (as always) for his Irish features. He held himself with the natural confidence that came from being a brilliant engineering student at Cambridge. This evening he wore a tuxedo and held a bouquet of red and white roses.
In the three years Emma had known Ian (whenever he came to visit Yvette) she'd never seen him anything but composed. The look on his face now, though, was priceless. He looked darn close to dropping that bouquet.
Pretending like she hadn't noticed, Yvette greeted him, took the roses and handed them to Emma.
"Could you put these in water?" Yvette asked Emma, looking as though she was trying very hard herself to remain cool and collected.
"Sure," Emma nodded, squeezing Yvette's hand reassuringly. "Have a good evening, you two."
"Goodnight, Emma, Harriet," Yvette called. Ian ushered her out the door, a big grin on his face.
Entirely pleased with herself, Emma shut the door behind them and turned to Harriet.
"I told Rebecca I'd be there by 6:30," she instructed Harriet, checking her watch. "Can you get ready to go quickly?"
Harriet nodded cautiously.
"Good," Emma said before reassuring the hesitant girl with a bright smile, "Harriet, my friends are really very nice people. Tonight you're going to have a wonderful time."
"Emme, can you grab that colander from that shelf above the oven? I need that salad washed off before it's served," Rebecca Weston called to Emma while examining the consistency of her three-bean soup. Emma, doing her best to help Rebecca put the finishing touches on the night's meal, tried to maneuver her way through the Weston's small, cramped kitchen.
Nearly plowing into Robert Weston (who knelt down to check on the casserole in the oven), Emma stood on her tiptoes to reach the colander.
"Here, let me get that," a hand reached past hers, easily reaching the colander.
Emma turned to see Frank Churchill standing next to her with the colander-in-question. He smiled at her, a friendly, open smile that revealed a perfect set of shining white teeth. A nice smile, she decided definitively.
Thanking him, Emma accepted the colander with a faint blush. Moving between Robert and Rebecca, Emma went to wash the salad.
"Frank," Rebecca Weston admonished him. "What are you doing in the kitchen? You're the guest of honor for the night. Go into the living room, get yourself a drink and relax."
"Yes, you're new here. Trust me, once she gets to know you, she'll have no compunctions at using you as forced labor," Emma interjected, shaking water off the lettuce leaves in the sink.
"Don't listen to her. Go, Frank," Rebecca insisted, shooing him from the kitchen area with her hand towel.
"All right, I get it. The lady of the house has spoken. I will humbly accept her decree," Frank nodded to Rebecca, and pressed his hand to his chest, his voice laced with humor.
"He learned that rule quickly," Robert Weston commented to Emma with a grin.
"Yes, he must have good instincts for survival," Emma agreed with him, grinning as well.
Flashing another brilliant smile in Emma's direction, Frank nodded and headed for the living room.
A knowing look passed between Robert and Rebecca. They both looked at Emma, entirely pleased.
"What?" Emma questioned innocently as she began breaking the lettuce apart and putting it into the salad bowl.
"Did you see that?" Rebecca Weston said to her husband.
"I believe I did, Mrs. Weston," Robert responded.
Emma looked at them, shaking her head in amusement.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she insisted. "Either of you. Meanwhile, I'm taking this into the dining room."
She held up the salad and made her way into the dinning room. Placing the bowl in between the cooked asparagus and the potatoes, she peaked into the living room to check on Harriet and Elton.
She'd introduced Elton to Harriet Smith the moment she arrived at the Weston's townhouse. Than she gave Elton explicit instructions that it was his duty to keep Harriet entertained while she helped Rob and Rebecca cook. Everything looked to be going well. Elton had barely left her side since, and Emma had heard Harriet's funny little laugh echo into the kitchen, accompanied by Elton's loud, distinctively Irish chuckle.
Emma positioned the candles on the dinning room table, thinking happily that Elton and Harriet were truly an excellent match. Elton Fitzgerald was a kind and friendly person, and Emma wanted to see him happy. In particular, she wanted to see him with someone other than his usual fair of women, such as the self-involved Fiona Longfellow. Harriet could be just the thing for him.
Striking a match, she looked up to see George Knightly enter the dinning room carrying a bottle of red wine.
"Good to see you're making yourself useful," he greeted her with a grin.
"Trying to," she responded lightly, lighting the candles. She blew out the match before it could singe her fingers. "Did you and Celia bring that?" she gestured to the bottle of wine, waving her hand above the table to clear the air of smoke.
George nodded, looking for a corkscrew to open the bottle. Emma, in search of more forks for the table, found the corkscrew and a nearby drawer and handed it to Knightly.
"Ah, there you are."
Both turned to see Frank Churchill standing in the entryway.
"Is this a private party, or can anybody join?" Frank questioned, his blue eyes (almost a mirror in shading to Emma's) looking from Emma to Knightly and back again.
"Come on in Frank," Emma greeted him warmly. "Have you met my friend, George Knightly?"
"No, not yet," Frank shook his head. "It's good to meet you George. Especially someone in such good company with the fair Miss Woodhouse," his eyes assessed Emma appreciatively before turning to George. "I've heard all about Emma from Rebecca and Robert."
Emma blushed, smiling back at Frank.
"Good things, I hope."
Frank grinned winningly.
"Most definitely," he assured her with a wink.
A loud "pop" interrupted the moment, making Emma jump slightly.
Emma turned sharply to see George placing the cork from the wine bottle onto the table. He was watching Frank, disapproval shading his eyes. Emma's mouth thinned in annoyance at him and she turned back to Frank.
"I hear you come to us after a sojourn in Paris, France. Are you adjusting to living here?" Emma asked him.
Frank nodded, his eyes lighting up as Robert walked into the room carrying a steaming casserole.
"Rebecca's an absolute peach to live with," Frank assured her. "And I can put up living with Robert for that. Right Rob?"
Robert laughed.
"Smart man. That's absolutely true," Robert nodded good-humoredly. "Is everyone ready to eat?"
"I'll go get Harriet and Elton," Emma assured him, barely managing to avoid crashing into Celia as she entered the dining room.
"Emma," Celia greeted her coolly.
Celia looked stately and dignified as always. Emma had to bite her tongue to keep from laughing. Sporting a pressed white Calvin Kline shirt and a blue silk skirt, her red hair twisted into a French bun, Celia looked more suited for a dinner date with Tony Blair than a casual meal of casserole and three-bean soup.
"George, I was wondering where you got off to," Celia began, brushing off Emma's presence and instead turning her full attention to George. "I'm bored by myself in there, not to mention half starved, and practically parched. Pour me a glass of wine?"
Frank, a look of derision on his face, put an arm on Emma's shoulder and pushed her gently out of the dining room.
"She's pleasant," Frank quipped sarcastically to Emma, distaste written all over his handsome, good natured face.
"Tell me about it," Emma agreed.
They entered the living room and delivered the message to Harriet and Elton that dinner had been served. Helping Harriet stand, Elton thanked Emma before winking and following Harriet in to the dinning room.
Frank put a restraining arm on Emma's shoulder before she could follow them.
"Just for curiosity's sake, before we go back into the Lion's Den...Why in the world does George put up that woman? I hear they're engaged," Frank whispered to Emma.
"You'd have to ask George," she admitted. "But you're right, they are engaged."
Frank paused reflectively before speaking.
"Thank goodness..." Frank hesitated before amending his statement. "Thank goodness not all fiancées are like that."
Emma looked at him, suddenly curious.
"What?" he asked innocently.
"You looked awfully far off just now."
Frank just shrugged and gave her a faint smile.
"Just missing...Paris," he admitted, putting a companionable hand on her shoulder. "Now, let's go eat. I, for one, am eager to taste the products of your salad making skills."
"---And so, listen to this," Frank said, his eyes a bright, mischievous blue. "The next day, not one but four French gendarmes show up on my doorstep and I'm left pleading with them, saying, "No, Messieurs, I had no clue she was the daughter of the Estonian ambassador to France or that she had stolen that motorcycle," Frank looked around the kitchen at the completion of his story, seeing everyone in absolute hysterics (Everyone but for Celia. She sat in queen-like fashion on the Weston's kitchen stool, looking faintly disapproving and intent on examining her newly painted nails).
"You think that's bad?" Elton interjected, still chuckling at Frank's story. "You should hear about this one weekend I spent in Greece--"
"Uh, oh," Emma interrupted, taking a breath to calm her laughter and wiping her eyes. "Here it comes. You'll want to cover your ears, Harriet."
Harriet just continued laughing, shaking her head. Grinning at her young friend and happy to see that she was enjoying herself, Emma bent to put some dishes in the dishwasher. When she stood, she felt a hand on her elbow. Emma nearly jumped to see Celia standing beside her.
"Emma may I speak with you?"
Surprised both that Celia would be wishing to talk with her and at the civility of her tone, Emma nodded. Excusing them both from the kitchen, she followed Celia outside onto the Weston's townhouse portico.
The fall air was just cool enough to be refreshing without giving Emma a true chill. Taking a seat on the Weston's porch swing, Emma watched Celia stand on the far opposite end of the porch, her eyes narrowing.
Emma squirmed under the critical gaze, unsure exactly what the point of Celia's request was.
"Emma," Celia began civilly. "I know you've known George for a very long time. Since childhood."
"I was six when we first met and he was eleven," Emma admitted before shaking her head in confusion and demanding coolly, "Why are you asking me this?"
Celia took a deep breath, looking out at the evening sky before turning back to Emma.
"Why are you still friends, you and he?" Celia questioned finally, her eyes narrowing on Emma.
Emma hesitated. She didn't feel like talking about this with Celia. She didn't really like Celia and certainly wouldn't willingly volunteer information about the complexities of her friendship with George Knightly. Still, he will be marrying her, Emma thought guiltily. I ought to make an effort.
"George and I have always been close," Emma began. "We'd see each other every summer, when I'd visit my mother. My parents divorced when I was five. My father is a wealthy trial attorney, so he won custody easily." Emma shrugged her shoulders, her voice distant. "Still, I was allowed to stay in England with my mother every summer. She lived with my grandfather in Highbury, caring for him, and when I was there, that's where I lived, too. My mother and grandfather were dear friends of George's parents, and we'd go visit the Mr. and Mrs. Knightly every Sunday.
"Of course, I was just a child than, so mainly I just pestered George. It wasn't till I was about twelve or so that we really started getting along, though I still loved bothering him, bantering back and forth, trying to win every argument," she shook her head ruefully. "But by that time he was nearly grown, seventeen. I thought we'd drift apart the older he got. So did my mother, I'm sure...I mean...she died the following winter...so," Emma paused, her voice suddenly unsteady. Taking a deep breath, she continued. "Cancer...it came on so suddenly...she never really had a chance," Emma paused again, suddenly recalling that dreadful period with all its miserable intensity. She desperately wanted George to come outside so she'd have an excuse to stop talking; but he didn't and the words just flowed from her memory like water from a sieve.
"George was there at the funeral, of course. When it was over, he came up to me and promised...he said that he'd be there for me if I needed it," Emma stopped herself there. She didn't think it wise to give Celia a full account of that particular event. It had been an acutely personal experience between her and George and it was something she'd never talk about in detail to anyone but him.
Emma hesitated to continue, feeling as though she'd already said far too much.
"Anyway," she shrugged, finally meeting Celia's keen gaze. "We kept in contact."
Celia's expression was pinched. If anything she looked even more displeased than she had an hour ago. Her fingers were on her engagement ring, twisting it back and forth compulsively while she thought.
"Emma," Celia said finally, looking over to Emma. "Apparently you and George have shared a lot in past years. You've known each other for a very long time and you feel close to him. Now that I know a bit about your past, I can somewhat understand why George seems to hold some sort of...attachment to your friendship," she said the words begrudgingly, with obvious distaste in her mouth. "I just want to make one thing very clear so that it gets through that pretty blond head of yours, and I'm speaking honestly here," the words she spoke next were very sharp and very frank. "I don't really care about your childhood melodrama or any other excuses you have to finagle your way into George Knightley's life. What I care about is my fiancé. And once he and I are married, I don't want you coming near him." Celia's eyes narrowed. "I am very much my father's daughter and I don't do well with competition."
Competition? Emma repeated mentally, too stunned and bewildered to speak. didn't know which emotion was suddenly more powerful: the urge to burst into tears at such callous disregard to her mother's death, or the sudden instinct to throttle Celia's pampered little throat.
She could do none of the above, however, as George Knightly chose that very moment to open the door and step out onto the portico...
...Celia spotted him at the same moment Emma did. An abrupt transformation took place over Celia's features. A mask of sweetness fell over her face and she turned to him with a pleased smile.
George, however, would have none of it. He watched Celia evenly, looking as though he were forcibly summoning every gentlemanly instinct in his body to keep himself from yelling at her. He pulled out his car keys from his pocket without so much of a word and handed them to her.
Celia stared at him, puzzled.
"George, I don't understand----"
"Go inside, Celia," he instructed her, being sure to make eye contact. "Make our excuses to Robert and Rebecca for leaving early. It doesn't matter what you tell them as long as it's civil. I'll meet you in the car," his tone was calm, collected and would brook no argument.
Celia opened her mouth to make a protest, but after taking one look at her fiancé's expression, thought better of it (she wasn't a total nitwit, after all) and did as instructed.
Watching her exit, George rubbed his temples and ran his hand through his hair. His eyes shifted quickly over to Emma.
Having George present calmed Emma's anger substantially. Wiping her eyes, she got a good look at him. She noted that beneath that behind that calm exterior of his, a cool fire was burning in his eyes. Emma had to marvel at both his composure and his restraint.
"How much of that did you hear?" she asked him quietly.
"Enough," was all he could reply. He couldn't hide his grimace. Looking for something to focus his gaze on other than Emma, George began absently searched for constellations in the night sky. He continued, "Celia and I have some serious matters to discuss. But not here..."
Emma fiddled with the zipper on her jacket as he spoke; she looked up at him after a moment.
"Mr. Knightly, I've known you for fifteen years." she smiled weakly to him, admiration in her voice. "One thing has always stood true in those fifteen years; you truly are a true gentleman, George Knightly," she paused, shrugging absently. "Celia doesn't understand that..."
He gave her a quick glance, too quick to read, before looking back up at the sky.
"You did nothing to deserve treatment like that, Emma," he said quietly.
"She did nothing to deserve you, George." Emma replied frankly and with casual dismissal. Their eyes locked for an instant before the door swung open. Celia barged between them, struggling to put on her cashmere coat.
Seeing Celia struggling, George moved to properly adjust the sleeve. Ignoring his aid, Celia brushed past him. With annoyance on every inch of her face, Celia trotted down to George's BMW Z3 Roadster and opened the car door before plopping herself inside and slamming the door decisively.
Watching the little performance, Emma had to bite her tongue to keep from saying something unkind. She looked over to George.
"Good luck, Knightly," was all she could think to say.
"Goodbye, Emma," he replied, placing a quick hand on Emma's shoulder before turning and walking to his car.
Hearing the hum of the car engine as George started the ignition, Emma smiled. She knew he loved that car. George might be brilliant and a University man but (like most men) nothing could make him smile quite like the sound of a well oiled motor or the sheen of a newly waxed convertible. Something else Celia would never understand about him.
Reflecting on how colossally different George and Celia truly were, Emma was startled out of her momentary reverie by the sound of the door opening behind her.
"Ah, here you are," Frank Churchill held the door open for her. His bright blue eyes graced George's car with interest. "Where's he going?"
"He's breaking up with Celia," Emma said succinctly, thanking him for holding the door as she stepped back into the Weston's' townhouse.
"Oh," was all Frank could manage, the surprise evident on his face. Frank gave a short nod of approval to the outgoing car before adding a brief blessing of, "Very, good, than. Carry on."
Grinning to himself and seeing that Emma was safely inside, Frank Churchill shut the door behind them.
Emma Woodhouse gave a slow sigh, stretching as she looked around the library. Pausing to throw a suspicious glance at the flickering desk lamp, Emma Woodhouse turned to chapter eight in her text book. Only a hundred more pages to read. Emma sighed again. At this rate, Understanding International Maritime Law would most definitely never make it to her top-ten list of books. In fact, at this rate Emma would consider it quite good natural sedative. Sick of studying, she ran her hands through her hair and checked her watch. 1:15 AM. The library closed at 2: 00.
And the ink in her pen was beginning to dry up. Not to mention that her head was aching terribly and had been for the last hour.
Plus the fact that Harriet Smith, when they'd arrived back from the Weston's party, could do nothing but go on and on about how wonderful she thought Elton Fitzgerald was. And how handsome. And tall, and charming, and polite, etc, etc, etc. Hence why Emma had elected to make her escape to the library and get some studying done (though she was more than pleased as to how well Elton and Harriet were getting along).
Emma looked at her book in disgust. Feeling entirely too tired to think coherently about maritime law; she began flipping through her notes from last class.
"I thought I'd find you here."
Not bothering to look up from her notes, Emma couldn't help but smile.
"Yes," Emma responded lightly to him. "And I'm extremely busy and extremely important, Mr. Knightly. Dare you interrupt me?"
She grinned up at him, eyes dancing.
"Is that a challenge?" he asked.
"Maybe. It depends."
"On what?"
She paused.
"On whether the librarians are going to kick up out. That one over there is giving us a dirty look."
George turned and looked to the librarian at the desk (who was indeed giving them a dark, disapproving look). He had to laugh.
"Come on," he motioned to Emma. "Get your stuff together. I'll drive you back to your apartment."
"Thank you, Mr. Knightly," she nodded to him, throwing her books and papers in her satchel and putting on her coat. She followed him out to his car, the cool air stinging her cheeks. The temperature had dropped quite a bit within the last two hours.
"So," she began, settling herself in and buckling her seatbelt as George started his car. "How'd you know where I was?"
George paused, smirking.
"I could say I just knew," he began.
"But that would be lying," she interjected with a grin.
"Right," he agreed. "But admitting that I called your apartment and talked with Harriet isn't half as interesting."
"Also true," she agreed, her smile widening. "So...you and Celia..."
"Finished," he said. The humor in his voice had vanished.
"Finished?"
"Absolutely," he admitted. "Look in the glove compartment."
Emma opened it up and saw Celia's diamond engagement ring sitting on the top of a stack of maps.
"George," she began, not sure exactly what to say.
George's hands gripped the wheel more tightly.
"We talked," he said. "Discussed a lot of different things. I told Celia some things that needed saying, and she told me some things that she'd been thinking for awhile now. It was best to end it. For both of us. I told her she could keep the ring, but she insisted on giving it back. Goodness knows her father could by her a cartload of diamonds if he wanted to...I'm selling it back to the jeweler tomorrow..."
His voice trailed off as he turned down the street to her apartment building.
"To be honest," Emma admitted in a detached voice as she examined the ring, "I've never liked diamonds."
"Really?" he said absently.
"Yes," she said. "My mother never liked them either. Maybe that has something to do with it. They just seem so lifeless to me...Did Celia pick this out?"
"She did indeed," George admitted as he pulled up to her apartment building. "You can just leave it in the glove compartment, Emme."
Doing as told, she placed the ring inside the glove compartment and snapped it shut before moving to exit the car. As her hand reached the door, however, she turned back to him.
"You know," she began slowly, grinning mischievously at him. "Who needs sleep? You've had quite an evening. We could always go somewhere..."
"What's open?" he asked.
"London."
Now he couldn't help but laughing.
"London's open?" He repeated.
"Things in London are open..." she amended.
"Goodnight Emma," he said firmly. "Get some sleep."
"Goodnight, George."
Getting out of his car, Emma shouldered her satchel and took her keys from her coat pocked. She turned and watched George Knightley's car disappear down the block. Opening the front door, Emma decided she felt a mix of emotions concerning George and Celia's breakup. She felt sadness for George, and a bit of guilt...but strongest (and most surprising) of her emotions was her genuine sense of relief...