Beginning, Section II, Next Section
Emma watched the oven clock in her kitchen transition from 7:59 to 8:00 AM with a mild sense of dread. She'd been up since quarter-past-five, reviewing for a ten o'clock exam, and she still didn't feel entirely prepared. Emma pushed her textbooks away for the moment. Getting up from the counter, she made her way to the refrigerator in search of orange juice.
Balancing the orange juice in one hand and a glass in the other, Emma carefully deposited both items on the kitchen counter. She picked up the juice in preparation to pour it, only to be interrupted by the clear ring of the cordless phone. Emma reached over and grabbed the phone, wondering who would be calling so early in the morning (early for her friends; that is).
"Hello?" said a masculine voice.
"Hello?" Emma answered.
"Emma?"
"Yes," she responded tentatively. "Who is this?"
"It's Elton Fitzgerald," the voice replied.
"Oh. Hello, Elton. Or good morning, I suppose..."
"I didn't wake you up, did I?" he sounded hesitant.
"No; it's okay, Elton. I've been up for awhile now," she assured him, smiling to herself. Cradling the phone on her shoulder in hopes of having her hands free, she made her way over to the counter once more and picked up the orange juice and cup.
"Harriet, on the other hand," Emma added, grinning devilishly, "Is still fast asleep. She doesn't wake up till past nine. I can tell her you called. Or, I can wake her up for you, if you want..."
"Harriet?" he repeated, sounding surprised and momentarily confused. "Oh, right. Harriet. Yeah, she's a good kid."
There was a pause.
"So, Elton," she began, trying to prompt him. "What exactly do you think of Harriet? Impressions, I mean," Emma waited attentively, hoping for a detailed confession from him.
"Harriet?" he repeated, thrown off for a moment. "She certainly seems nice enough. I mean, she laughs a lot..." his voice trailed off.
Not exactly the profession of love she'd been expecting from him...
"Right," Emma agreed, impatience creeping into her voice. Why couldn't Elton Fitzgerald just vocalize his feelings? At this rate, it'd be another two months before he ever asked poor Harriet out. "Anything else?"
"Her curly hair reminds me a lot of my Aunt Ida's, actually. Aunt Ida has just a bit of red in her hair, but in the right light it shines like the sun. Than again, my Aunt Ida has the temper to match, too," Elton added, searching blindly for something to say to Emma.
Emma smiled when she heard him say that. So he liked Harriet's hair, did he? She'd be sure to tell Harriet to wear it down whenever Elton finally asked her on a date...
"So was there something you wanted to talk about, Elton? Other than Harriet, I mean," Emma teased him.
"Right," Elton continued, oblivious to Emma's slight, teasing jab. "Yeah, there was. About that test..."
"What can I help you with?"
"Is it only up to chapter fourteen, or does it include it?"
"It includes chapter fourteen," Emma confirmed. "Anything else?"
"Yeah, one more thing," Elton paused awkwardly. "I wanted to thank you for studying with me last weekend...and I was thinking...have you ever been to the symphony?"
"The symphony?" she repeated blankly. "Yes, I've been to see the London Symphony Orchestra with my grandfather, and to the Kennedy Center with my father."
"Well," Elton continued. "The guy who rents my flat with me has two tickets that he doesn't want. Would you like to go? They're for Saturday night."
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Emma spilled a good portion of orange juice on the counter and all over her white sleeves.
"Oh, no," she exclaimed, setting down the orange juice and surveying the mess.
"What's that?"
"Sorry, Elton. I spilled something," Emma admitted, laughing at herself.
"What are you doing, Emma?" he asked.
"Discovering I can't multi-task," she responded, amused at herself and searching for a towel to clean up the mess.
"Oh," was all he could think to respond.
"Um, Elton," Emma said finally, wiping the spilled orange juice with the nearest dishtowel. "It's very nice of you to thank me for our study session with tickets to the symphony, but I'm staying with my grandfather that weekend. I haven't been able to see much of him this semester and I told him I'd come for a visit that Friday and stay till Sunday. Why don't you take Harriet with you? I'm sure she'd love to go, and you two could spend some time together."
There was a long pause on his end of the phone.
"Um," he finally managed. "That's all right, Emma. Thanks for the suggestion, but to be frank, I don't really like classical music; I just thought...well, I thought I'd help Joseph out by using his tickets, but if you can't go, that's fine. I'll just see you in class today..."
"Sounds good, Elton," she assured him. "Good luck studying."
"Right," was the extent of his response.
"Goodbye, Elton" she said, before hearing the phone 'click' on the other end. With a puzzled shake of her head, she shook her head. That was nice of him to thank her for the study session with a trip to the symphony, but why wouldn't he want to take Harriet?
Still puzzling over the conversation, Emma heard the door open.
"How was your run?" she called to Yvette. Before heading to lab, Yvette always started her morning with a mile run. Emma had a feeling that Yvette looked to be one of those doctors that actually practiced what she preached.
"Great. The weather's beautiful this morning," Yvette called to her before heading back to her room.
When Yvette emerged, she'd changed from her sweat suit into jeans and a green sweater and her hair was pulled up in a bun.
"How late were you up talking to Mr. Ian Henry last night, Yve?" Emma asked as Yvette entered the kitchen.
"Past midnight," Yvette admitted with a smile.
Yvette and Ian Henry had been officially engaged for a month now. It was obvious that the newness and excitement of it had yet to wear off on either party. Yvette and Ian spent talking on the phone, nearly every night.
"His parents want to rent a country club for the reception," Yvette said.
"So did you and he finally decide on the date of the wedding?" Emma asked.
"April 22nd. You'll still be able to be one of my bridesmaids, won't you?"
Emma smiled brightly and handing Yvette a glass of orange juice.
"Absolutely," she assured Yvette. "What color do you want the dress to be? I'm up for anything but orange."
Yvette laughed and pretended to look crestfallen.
"But Ian and I were hoping for a theme of 'burnished pumpkin.'"
Emma laughed as she pulled a box of cereal from the cabinet.
"Wonderful," was all Emma could manage. "Oh, by the way, how did your organic chemistry lab go yesterday? I know you were worried about it."
"It was fine. Long," Yvette answered absentmindedly. She paused, thinking back on the class. Suddenly her eyes lit up with a partially forgotten memory. "Oh, there was one thing. I was talking with Anita Bates in the middle of lab yesterday---"
Emma nodded. Anita Bates, granddaughter of Lydia Bates and slated to be another one of Yvette's bridesmaids. One could hardly meet a kinder, friendlier person on campus than Anita Bates, though the young woman was known for her love of idle chatter (and that mainly included gossip).
"Why didn't you tell me about George?" Yvette demanded.
Emma stared at her blankly for a moment before responding.
"George Knightly? What about him?"
Yvette rolled her eyes.
"He and Celia. I hear they're broken up at Rob and Rebecca's party. The party was one month ago. Why didn't you mention it? It's been a whole month now, and I've been uninformed."
Emma shrugged.
"It slipped my mind," she said innocently.
Yvette laughed and grinned.
"It slipped your mind," Yvette repeated. "What's your opinion on it?"
"Their breakup?" Emma questioned, her eyebrows raised.
"Right."
Yvette watched her evenly.
"He's one of my best friends. If he didn't feel it was right, than we should all be relieved that they broke it up before either of them did something irreversible," Emma began diplomatically. "He's certainly free to make his own decisions, but I don't know if he would have been truly happy with her. They were so different."
Yvette paused, nodding.
"That's true," Yvette relented. "I mean, we all thought she was horrible...it probably is for the best, but he must have seen something in her to begin with. George Knightly isn't the type to go throwing his heart around."
She stopped again, looking squarely at Emma.
"Emma," Yvette began hesitantly. "Did you ever stop to think of...I mean he is single now. Who knows how long that could last? You know how women practically throw themselves at him. Have you ever thought that sometime in the future..." she paused, looking for just the right words and noting Emma's look of incomprehension. "That one day you might...or that he might want..."Yvette paused again, glancing over to Emma shaking her head. "Do you have any idea where I'm going with this Emma?"
Emma laughed, genuine bewilderment in her voice.
"Not a clue," she admitted truthfully.
"I thought not," Yvette said. "You missed my point entirely."
"There was a point in there somewhere?" Emma's blue eyes sparkled.
Now it was Yvette's turn to laugh.
"Somewhere it there, yes," Yvette confirmed, pulling on her coat, grabbing a muffin and shouldering her backpack. "Never mind. I should go; I want to get to lab early today. Good luck on your exam this morning."
With a cheerful tug on the end of Emma's braid, Yvette was out the door and on her way to lab.
As Yvette exited, Emma heard a shuffle down the hall. Emma looked to see Harriet Smith shuffle into the kitchen, still wearing pajamas and a bathrobe. The girl looked bleary eyed and her hair was twice its normal volume and headed in every direction.
"Good morning, Harriet," Emma greeted her brightly, sliding a glass of juice over to the girl. "Nice to see you up. There's yogurt and bagels in the fridge; I bought them yesterday. Feel free to have some. I'm off to class. Oh, and before I go, guess what?"
Harriet gave her a dull look and rubbed her eyes.
"I was speaking with Elton Fitzgerald this morning. He compared you to someone he knows whose hair 'shines like the sun.' I thought I should tell you."
That woke her up. Harriet blinked twice before smiling, her cheeks coloring a bit.
"Have a good morning, Harriet."
With that, Emma exited the apartment, a grin on her face.
That grin only widened as she walked to the University. Nearing the steps of Garrett Hall, Emma spotted a familiar face across campus. Recognizing her, the figure gave a wave and jogged across the grassy median to meet her.
"Mr. Churchill," she called to him. "You're up early."
"And on such a beautiful morning," he responded, nodding. "It's rather warm outside for November in England."
He looks good this morning, Emma mused as he approached her. Frank was wearing a pair of khaki pants, a white linen shirt and a worn, leather jacket. Not every man could carry such a look off, Emma noted, but Frank Churchill had just the right amount of casual confidence and charm to make it look great.
"What are you doing up so early?" she asked him as he neared.
Frank shrugged casually.
"Checking a few things over with the administrative office," he admitted. "They certainly don't make it easy to transfer here the year I plan to graduate."
"No, I imagine not," Emma nodded sympathetically.
"Hey, Emma, why don't you have lunch with me today? We can go into town; you could show me a good restaurant or café or something. I'm in desperate need of a friendly face and you're the only person I know here. Besides the obvious people, of course---"
"Rebecca and Rob."
"Right," he confirmed. "And I know your friend, George. But he strikes me as a bit frosty, really."
Emma laughed and shook her head.
"He just has to get to know you first," she assured him. "But sure, Frank, I'd love to have lunch with you. Meet me here at noon?"
"Brilliant. If you can show me a restaurant here that can cook true and edible food, Emma Woodhouse, you'll be my saving grace. I think Parisian chefs have corrupted me forever."
Emma laughed.
"Why do I get the feeling that you were already corrupted, Frank Churchill?" Emma answered with a smile.
"Well, that's true," Frank responded lightly and grinned. "Noon, than?"
"Right," she nodded.
With a wink and a wave goodbye, Frank Churchill turned and was gone.
Blushing as she watched his departure, Emma entered the building still smiling, suddenly not a bit worried about her exam.
For the first Sunday morning in quite some time, Lucien Woodhouse considered himself a genuinely happy man. The rheumatism that often plagued his shoulder had eased for the morning, his sinuses had cleared since the night before, even his circulation seemed better than usual.
No doubt, in Mr. Woodhouse's mind, all of these anomalies were directly related to the presence of his golden-haired granddaughter, Emma.
"You are my breath of fresh air, granddaughter," Lucien commented as they exited the chapel of Donwell Abbey. "Fresh air, indeed. Of course, with Emma, one doesn't the risk of catching pneumonia," Mr. Woodhouse coughed a bit before continuing. "That's why I never hold stock in opening windows. Indeed, one can certainly never be too careful with strange air, isn't that right, George?"
George Knightly held the door for Lucien and nodded dutifully before giving Emma a wink.
George had met them at the steps of the church that morning, sporting a dark blue shirt, khakis and a wistful smile. Emma's grandfather, always happy to see the son of John and Marianne Knightly, had warmly declared George to be "still a bright young man, with his father's level head on his shoulders," and urged him into the church.
His visits to Donwell Abbey were usually fairly occasional, usually restricted to holidays (Christmas and Easter) and one particular day in mid November. The same day, every year, in fact. The anniversary of his parents' death. Attentive to the memories surfacing in George's mind, Emma was sure to sit near that she could brush his hand in the midst of the service if need be; she of all people knew what he was feeling. After all, Donwell Abbey had been the location of her mother's funeral as well, eight years ago.
Now that the service was over, George and Emma were gingerly helping the elderly Englishman descend the worn Abbey steps.
"Thank you, George, and dear Emma," Lucien thanked them, leaning heavily on his polished cane as they guided him down the last step.
"Lucien? And Emma? Emma Woodhouse?" an all-too familiar voice rang in Emma's ears. The trio turned to see Lydia Bates, old friend of Lucien Woodhouse and grandmother of a fellow Kingston University student, Anita Bates. Mrs. Bates was hailing them down enthusiastically and headed rapidly in their direction.
"Oh," she exclaimed, exhaling as she approached the trio. "I was afraid that I would miss you all."
Emma restrained herself from commenting that in her Sunday dress, Mrs. Bates would certainly be hard to miss. Donning a bright yellow frock and a feather-covered pillbox hat, Mrs. Bates (to put it bluntly) looked like a canary.
"Good morning Mrs. Bates," Emma was the first to greet the elderly woman as she descended the Abbey steps.
"Good morning, Miss Woodhouse, Mr. Woodhouse," she paused when getting to George, "and good morning, Mr. Knightly. I haven't seen you at Donwell Abbey in quite some time."
"Unfortunately, I don't get by this way often, Mrs. Bates," George admitted, taking Mrs. Bates' hand and helping her down the last of the steps.
"Well, not without good cause, I'm sure," Mrs. Bates commented, eying George intently. "But you're looking well, Mr. Knightly, though it's been some time since I've spoken with you. Still handsome as ever, I see. I was terribly sorry to hear that you ended your engagement to that young woman, the Edwards girl. Of course that was some time ago, now," she sighed slightly. "Well, such things come and go with the young and handsome."
Emma shot George a sympathetic glance. No surprise Mrs. Bates knew of George and Celia's breakup. The Bates family, wonderful people though they were, were known for their proclivity for idle chatter---especially considering others romantic affairs.
"Well, you know George," Mrs. Bates continued, "My granddaughter, Anita, is currently unattached. Anita could do well to have dinner with such a fine young man."
George nodded politely, amused, before responding,
"Anita Bates is a lovely young woman, Mrs. Bates. She takes after you in many respects."
"Oh, but even I, in my youth, couldn't have competed with our young Emma, here," Mrs. Bates admitted. "Emma, dear, I do believe you've inherited the best of both your parents. And the best of your grandparents, at that," she looked over to Lucien. "It all started when your grandfather here married that American woman, right Lucien? How long did you and Julia live in the States?"
Lucien paused and leaned on his cane.
"After Julia and I were married," he began reflectively, "she was set on moving back to her parents home in Georgia. I agreed to lock up Highbury for the time being and we moved to the U.S. the following spring. Then Emma's father was born, I bought Julia a house in Atlanta, and we lived there till Andrew was ready to enter a University. I told Julia that we'd lived in her native country for twenty years, now it was time for twenty years in mine."
"Grandpa tried to convince dad to move with them to England," Emma interjected. She'd heard this story many a time. "Couldn't convince him, though. Born and raised in there, my father is an American through and through."
"Yes," Lucien added, thinking of both his deceased wife and of their strong minded son. "Such the pity that he never much cared for England. I blame that on Julia. He takes after her. Though it is ironic he married an Englishwoman, after all of that."
Ignoring Lucien's suddenly nostalgic expression, Lydia Bates jumped into the conversation.
"You always did favor your mother, Emma. She was quite the beauty. Have you found yourself a boyfriend, yet?"
"Not yet, Mrs. Bates," Emma admitted. She paused, looking up at the cool, cloudless sky which shone soft, temperate blue. "It's so lovely outside, today. George and I were thinking of taking a walk around the block. Would you like to join us Mrs. Bates? Grandfather?"
"Walking with all that pollen and leaf mould in the grass, Emma?" Lucien Woodhouse questioned, sniffing the air with an air of suspicion.
"That's all right, Grandfather," Emma assured him. "We'll be fine. You and Mrs. Bates can stay here and talk. George and I will be back."
Emma knew she had to act before Mrs. Bates could respond. Taking George by the elbow, she waved to the elderly pair, and motioned George to follow her.
The buildings on either side of Donwell Abbey were mainly residential homes, large homes mainly built in the late 1800s. It was a well-to-do area, very well cared for , mainly the residency of doctors and business executives.
Both Emma and Knightly waited until they were assured to be out of Mrs. Bates's hearing range before beginning a conversation.
"Subtle, Emma," George commented at her plan of 'escape'. His gray eyes were alight with amusement as they headed down the sidewalk.
"It worked, at least," Emma said plainly, shrugging. She sighing a bit before tilting her head up to soak in the sunlight. "My grandfather was certainly in a good mood this morning."
"Probably because the pastor's sermon was so short," he guessed, absently taking in the scenery before something caught his eyes. He paused a moment to admire a sports car parked on the opposite side of the street: a brightly waxed, red Ferrari.
Emma laughed at him.
"What are you thinking, Mr. Knightly?"
George paused and Emma readied herself for a rant about the benefits of the old model Ferraris in contrast to the newer builds.
"Your birthday is next Wednesday," George said suddenly as they came to the edge of the block and turned down the adjacent street.
Emma was thrown off for a moment and looked at him, mildly surprised. She shouldn't have been, though. He'd never forgotten her birthday once all the years they'd known each other.
"That's right, it is," she said before smiling slightly. "Do you know, I think Rebecca wants us all to go to some club in London this Friday to celebrate. It would be a whole group of us: me, you, Harriet, Yvette and Ian, Rebecca, Rob, Elton, Anita Bates and Frank, of course."
"Frank Churchill?" he questioned passively as they continued their walk.
"Yes, Frank Churchill," she repeated, her tone slightly strained. She paused, eyeing him. "I know you too well, George Knightly. Why don't you like him?"
George hesitated a bit before answering.
"I don't trust him. He's..." George paused. He ran his hands through his dark hair. "He's too...agreeable to everyone."
"Too agreeable?" she repeated blankly. "George," she shook her head. "That's the most ridiculous statement I've heard you make in quite awhile."
Now it was George's turn to laugh.
"Than you have a short memory, Miss Woodhouse," he answered, brushing off the comment. "Come on, let's keep walking."
"You don't trust him," she repeated. "And you didn't give me an answer, Mr. Knightly. Why?"
"I don't trust his intentions," George began, shaking his head stubbornly. "I don't think I've ever caught a glimpse of the real Frank Churchill. His change in demeanor, in tone, it shifts too easy."
"Everyone does that," Emma insisted. "With you he'd talk of literature, with Elton, traditional Irish customs, perhaps, or his travels. With me he---"
"With you, he flirts," George stated. Emma turned to him, her eyebrows arched.
"He does not flirt," she insisted defensively. "He and I have lunch often and he's never anything less than chivalrous. He's my friend, and I don't think you're giving him a fair chance. He's a gentleman, George, like yourself. I thought you would recognize that.."
George Knightly scoffed and his gray eyes flashed. An awkward silence fell between them for a moment. Both were more than a bit unhappy with the argumentative tone the conversation had taken.
By now they had circled the block and could see the coppice of the Abbey coming into view. Mrs. Bates' bright yellow frock shined as brightly as ever in the cool morning sunlight and she waved to them cheerfully.
Emma stopped George mid step, resting her hand on his arm before they reached the hearing range of the elderly pair. Her wide blue eyes looked up at him imploringly. His expression was equally apologetic.
"I'm sorry, George, " she apologized to him. "I don't mean to argue with you, today of all days. You're entitled to your opinions."
"And you certainly don't hesitate to make yours clear," George responded wryly. "I just want you to be careful, Emma."
"I will. You know I always am," she insisted. "You're coming to the club with us on Friday, right?"
George Knightly hesitated, a hint of a smile gracing his handsome face.
"I can't," he admitted. "I hadn't known about Rebecca's plans and I've already agreed to a prior commitment."
"Where are you going?" Emma asked, curious.
There was a long pause.
"An opera," he said reluctantly.
"An opera?" she repeated, her voice full of skepticism. "George, you never go to the opera willingly. Ever." She had to laugh as an old memory flashed in her mind. "Remember that one summer when my grandfather got me two tickets to see La Boheme and I asked you to come along with me? You bought me a glass of wine during intermission, and we sat talked in the lobby for the entire second half of the show. To this day I don't know the ending of La Boheme! You can't stand the opera. All those pretentious rich people asking you about your parents estate..."
He ran his hands through his dark hair, looking more than a bit embarrassed.
"The choice of venue wasn't mine," he admitted.
Emma paused, eyeing him skeptically before a look of comprehension crossed her face.
"You have a date," she exclaimed with a triumphant laugh. "I knew you would never go to the opera voluntarily. Who is she?"
"Lydia Sapporo," he said with a grin. "You probably don't remember her. She and I went to undergrad school together. She called me up the other day and the next thing I know---"
"---you're going to the opera," Emma completed his sentence. She remembered Lydia Sapporo. The summer between Emma's sophomore and junior year of high school, Lydia had followed George around like a lost and wide-eyed puppy dog. Even at age sixteen, Emma had found Lydia Sapporo bothersome. She doubt she'd think much better of her at age twenty-one.She probably heard that George broke up with Celia and jumped at the opportunity to see him, Emma guessed.
By now they had once more reached Donwell Abbey. Emma waved as she and George approached the elderly pair.
"Emma, George," Mrs. Bates greeted them. She pushed her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose, making sure to give Emma a good and proper inspection. "Emma, your grandfather tells me you'll be twenty-one this up coming week. At age twenty-one I was marrying my first husband. If I remember correctly, twenty-one was the age your parents got engaged. It's an exciting year for young ladies such as yourself," Mrs. Bates mused, eyeing Emma kindly. The elderly woman's voice was speculative and full of promise.
Emma laughed lightly, shrugging off the comment. Yet she couldn't quite shake off the feeling that there was something almost prophetic in Mrs. Bates' words.
Posted on Friday, 14 November 2003
The night of Emma's twenty-first birthday proved to be a disastrous one---though Emma had no way of knowing that at the start of the evening.
It had all started out well enough...
The setting of the sun found Emma Woodhouse looked at her reflection in the mirror with a critical gaze. Picking up her brush, she started brushing her hair before pausing and setting the brush down again.
She certainly didn't look any older, but did she feel it? I need a haircut, she thought to herself, and not for the first time that semester. Her hair seemed to be getting more unmanageable as the semester progressed, falling down her back in soft, curling waves. And a shower hadn't helped much---now her hair just swirled around her head like a fluffy, golden halo---appropriate if she were playing a swooning Shakespearean maiden for the evening---not so great for the hip, edgy nightclub her friends were taking her to tonight. She was, of course, completely oblivious as to how many people would commit murder to have hair just like hers...
Reaching over to her stereo, she turned off her blaring CD player, just in time to hear echo of her cell phone ringing throughout her room.
So much for hair at the moment. Emma bounded across her bed to the bookshelf. It was probably her father on the phone, calling to wish her a happy birthday.
She stood at the bookshelf, looking up. Now it was just a matter of reaching the phone, an object which had been absently placed the backpack on the top of her bookshelf. Standing on her tiptoes, Emma reached for the backpack and pulled. Not finding much a result and hearing the phone's insistently merry ring, Emma yanked harder...
...only to see the backpack (and the pile of books beneath it) tumble downward at an alarming speed in the direction of her head.
Emma squeaked, taking a step backwards to avoid the oncoming avalanche. Losing her balance, she tripped on a discarded pair of shoes and fell to the floor with an ungracious thud. The books and the backpack all tumbled down around her. A paperback even managed to hit her smack on the forehead as it fell. Rolling over and rubbing her forehead, Emma glared at the offending book---a rather beaten up copy of Pride and Prejudice.
"Ow,"
With effort, Emma crawled towards her fallen backpack. She reached in and pulled out the cell phone.
With a sigh, she clicked the 'talk' button, mentally preparing herself for what she knew was coming---yet another argument with her father telling her to move back to the States.
She loved her father dearly, just as she knew he loved her, but as both father and daughter were perhaps at times a bit too strong-willed, and a bit too sharp tongued where the other was concerned. Thus any argument between the brilliant lawyer father with his shining law-school daughter (especially the argument of the moment---Emma's living in England), was usually fairly taxing for both parties.
It was for that reason that Emma often preferred her time spent talking to her grandfather...
Rolling onto her back, Emma put the phone to her ear. "Hello?" she answered tentatively. Emma couldn't help but shut her eyes, mentally preparing herself for what she knew was coming: another argument with her father....
"Don't sound so eager when you answer your phone, Emma---you might give a man the wrong impression..." a voice on the phone greeted her dryly.
Definitely not her father.
"Knightly," Emma sat up, her tone completely changed. She gave a sigh of relief. "I thought you were my dad."
There was a humorous pause on George's end of the phone.
"Emma, I can happily inform you that I'm not your father, in case you were confused about the issue--- your father is a tall man, strong-willed, if I remember right, enjoys a good argument, has something of an interest in law, blond hair, blue eyes----nothing at all like his daughter---"
Emma grinned as she stood, pretending to be relieved. "Well, thank goodness that's cleared up," she quipped back. "Oh, and before I forget---while I'm out partying tonight, be sure you have some fun spending your evening at the op-er-a,?" Emma grinned wickedly, waiting to hear his response. George hated the opera, and she knew it---the only reason he was going was because he had a date.
There was a disgruntled pause on his end.
"You're a cruel woman," was his flat response.
"Only cruel to those I care about," she responded sweetly.
"That's small consolation, coming from you." He responded, clearing his throat before adding, "Did you get what I sent you? It should have arrived this morning..."
"The flowers?" Emma asked walking over to her mirror, and picking up a tube of brown eyeliner with her free hand. "Yes, I did. And I wanted to thank you. They're beautiful, George---a wonderful birthday present. I was impressed. You have very good taste, did you know that?"
And she had every right to be impressed. That morning Emma woke to find a delivery boy shivering on the doorstep of her rented flat. The delivery boy had been carrying a huge, beautiful bouquet---orchids mixed with pale pink roses. Along with the flowers had come a message: "Compliments of Mr. George Michael Knightly, for Miss Woodhouse on her twenty-first birthday."
Yvette and Harriet had gawked over the bouquet when she'd brought it in, Harriet looking wistful and Yvette amazed.
"Mon Dieu," Yvette had exclaimed over breakfast, "These are just gorgeous. And they smell just fantastique."
Harriet nodded in wide eyed agreement.
"It was shipped from one of the best florists in London," Yvette pointed out, taking a sip from her coffee.
"It's not like he doesn't have the money, Yve," Emma had answered with a casual shrug.
Yvette set her coffee cup down and put on her glasses to examine the flowers and the note. Both she dissected with a scientist's keen eyes. "Knightly must really feel guilty about not coming to your birthday party..."
Emma could only repeat her shrug. Far be it from her to understand the workings of George Knightly's mind. And all the better if he did feel guilty, as far as she was concerned. In all the years they'd known one another, this was the first time he hadn't been there for her birthday celebration.
At any rate, though, the flowers smelled absolutely divine and were now filling the whole flat with a sweet, exotic aroma.
Digging through her closet for a pair of black heels, Emma related her friends' general reaction to George.
"We all agreed it was a beautiful gift. You should have heard Yvette and Harriet's reaction," Emma continued, "It got Yvette started on this long tirade about how---"
She was interrupted, though, by an urgent pounding on her door.
"Hang on just a minute, Knightly..."
Climbing over her bed with the phone in hand, Emma opened the door. Standing before her was a flustered looking Harriet Smith, pink-cheeked and near tears.
"Oh, Emma!" Harriet's face contorted, "I've been looking and looking for something to wear tonight---something that will really make Elton notice me, but I can't find anything!" the girl took a ragged breath, ringing her hands before continuing, "and he and I have been getting along so well, lately. I was just sure if I could find something---but everything I have is so awful and I know everyone else will look so stylish!!"
Emma rested a comforting hand on young Harriet's shoulder before putting the phone back to her ear.
"Knightly?"
"Yes, Emma?" he responded patiently.
"I have to go. Harriet's on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I guess you can just call me tomorrow morning and tell me how your date was...I mean that's assuming your date's over by tomorrow morning---I don't want to interrupt anything if---"
"Emma," there was suddenly an edge to his tone that told her she was suddenly on dangerous ground.
"George---I gotta go. Harriet needs my help. It's important that she looks her best this evening for Elton..."
"You're not still trying to play matchmaker between Harriet and Elton, are you?" Knightly interjected, his tone denoting exasperation. "Emma, don't be ridiculous. He hasn't the slightest interest in Harriet. Fitzgerald is a grown man, and Harriet's barely out of childhood..."
Emma turned away from Harriet, retreating back into her room to yell at George.
"I'm being ridiculous? She and Elton would be perfect together---why can't you see that? She's old enough to attend university, George," Emma hissed into the phone.
"That hardly denotes maturity," he interrupted her with a scoff. "You're being foolish and blind, Emma, if you think Elton Fitzgerald would ever consider---"
"Goodbye, George," Emma repeated firmly. She'd heard this lecture before, and she didn't need it again---especially not on her birthday. Clicking off her phone decisively, she went back to the door and ushered Harriet into her room.
The dance club in London was just as Robert Weston had promised it to be---very chic, very trendy, and very expensive.
Emma had been having a wonderful time, talking with her friends in the club's rooftop garden, drinking champagne at the bar, and dancing the night away on the lower levels. Her real problems arose after her dance with Frank Churchill...
Frank had rescued her from a more-than-slightly awkward situation with Anita Bates's date, Brian. While Emma had been waiting for a glass of champagne at the dance club's bar, Brian had hailed Emma down.
"Emma!"
As he approached, he engulfed her in a big bear hug, kissing both her cheeks and declared loudly in a slurred voice, "Happy birthday, lovely, lovely Emma..."
"Thank you, Brian," Emma replied, wincing to smell the strong whisky on his breath. He looked drunk. Where had Brian's date gone?
"Emma," Brian continued to gush, his voice slurred, "I've had my eye on your," he wagged his finger in her face, "I've seen you in Dr. Allard's class wearing some wool sweater and a little brown skirt...wow, are you hot..."
He burped.
Correction: Brian was very drunk. Emma looked around desperately, hoping that Anita would show up and put a halt on Brian's behavior.
"Um, thanks Brian, but I'd best be going," Emma said looking for a way to excuse herself, "It's just...I've got to..."
"She's got to dance this next song with me," Frank Churchill interjected smoothly from behind her. "We'll catch up with you later, man," He gracefully slipped himself between them, taking Emma's hand. "It was nice seeing you...Brian, is it? Come on, Emma. Let's hit the dance floor."
More grateful than she could express, Emma put her champagne glass on the bar and followed him as he weaved his way down onto the dance floor.
"Thank you!" she tried to yell over the noise of the crowd.
"What?" he screamed back, smiling at her.
"Thank you!"
He just shrugged.
"Want to make it up to me?"
"How?"
"Dance with me." He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
It was at that point, there and then, that Emma decided Rebecca Weston had been absolutely right---Frank Churchill was very charming. And definitely handsome, Emma thought, following him onto the dance floor. And besides that, he proved to be a great dancer. His movements fluid and smooth and imbued with confidence.
She'd been having a great time dancing with him (and would have happily chosen to dance the night away), until she saw a group of people headed in her direction.
Emma could see the figures as they approached: Harriet Smith, Elton Fitzgerald, Rebecca Weston and Robert were all moving towards her. It looked as though Elton and Rebecca were helping Harriet walk, supporting her on either side.
Frank, it seemed, had not seen their approach. He spun Emma around, singing as he pulled her towards him. He halted mid motion, however, when he caught sight of his approaching cousin, Robert and the limping Harriet. Holding on to Emma's hand, Frank pulled her through the crowd.
"What happened?" Emma demanded, her brow furrowing in concern. Harriet simply whimpered.
"We think Harriet's twisted her ankle," Rebecca Weston explained, looking from her husband to Emma. "She was dancing away and than she just..."
"---tripped," Harriet finished, her lower lip trembling.
"And she doesn't seem to be handling the pain well," Robert injected quietly to Emma.
"She should be taken to a hospital to have a doctor examine the bone," Emma declared. "Someone will just have to drive her there."
She looked pointedly at Elton. This just might work out perfectly---Elton will rescue Harriet, and in the midst of seeing her pain and suffering, he'll come to realize his true love for her and then it'll simply be a matter of time before they---
"I'll take her," Frank supplied amiably, nodding and taking out his keys.
"What!" Emma's head snapped around towards Frank. "No," she shook her head decisively. "No, Elton will---right, Elton?"
Elton gave Emma a puzzled look, as though she'd done something ridiculous, like suggesting he quit school and move to Thailand.
"No." he shook his head. Seeing Emma's brow furrow, he amended himself, "I mean---Elton has the faster car here, and since he volunteered first, I thought I'd let him go ahead..."
"But..." Emma looked from Elton to Harriet.
"It's not a problem for me," Frank shrugged. He motioned for Harriet to lean against him. "I know London pretty well. Come on Harriet."
"But---"
"Robert and I were actually thinking of calling it a night, too," Rebecca admitted, looking from Robert to Emma as Frank and Harriet left. "We know it's not yet midnight, but it's easy to forget how quickly a night of dancing wears on your feet. We hope you don't mind, Emma--"
"No, of course not," Emma shook her head. "It's just that---"
"I'll take Emma back to her flat," Elton interjected quickly. Emma turned around stare at him quizzically.
"Great," Robert nodded in agreement. Emma had come with them in their car on the initial trip into London. "We're planning on dropping Anita and Brian off; that would really help us out by saving us another trip."
"Is that okay, Emma?" Rebecca asked, her gaze falling kindly on her younger friend.
Emma nodded, more than a little confused.
"Yes, of course," she repeated.
"We'll go find Anita and Brian. Happy birthday, my dear," Rebecca moved to hug Emma. Robert followed suit by kissing her on the cheek.
"Goodnight," Emma waved to her friends. She turned to see Elton Fitzgerald standing directly behind her.
He had an oddly triumphant look on his face. Emma frowned.
"My car is in the parking lot," he informed her.
The walk to his car had been a silent one. Emma just couldn't make sense of it all. Why would Elton not jump at the chance to take Harriet to the hospital? Surely he must have known what pain she was in. Why wouldn't he want to be there in her time of need? Why wouldn't he insist on staying by Harriet's side?
Could it be that Emma had been wrong? Could it be possible that Elton hadn't felt for Harriet as she'd presumed he had?
"No," Emma said aloud to herself, shaking her head as they were driving through the streets of London.
Elton glanced over at her before turning his eye back to the traffic. "What?" he asked.
Emma shook her head again.
"I was just thinking of something," she explained. "But it can't be right---it's too ridiculous."
Elton's hand gripped the wheel of the car ever so slightly as they turned the street corner. She saw him switch on his turn signal and move to park.
"What are we doing here, Elton?"
Peering out the window, Emma saw that they were now parked outside a hotel. Confused, she turned back towards Elton to question him...
Only to find that his lips were now being pressed against hers---she could feel his tongue seeking out her mouth and his hands slipping against the black fabric of her dress. Shocked, she pushed him away.
"Elton!" she reprimanded him sharply, her cheeks flushing bright red. "What do you think you're doing?"
"Emma," he began, moving to touch her cheek and breathing heavily. "You don't know how long I've been wanting to do that."
Emma blinked dumbly.
"Come on, Emma," he said with a grin. "You must have known." Reaching past her to open the glove compartment, he pulled out a bottle---it was a bottle of tequila. Uncapping it, he took a long swig. "I mean why in the world would I have suffered all those hours around a whiny freshman bitch like that?" He shook his head. "Besides which, there's the fact that she's ugly as sin..."
"But...but...you liked Harriet---I was so sure that you---" Emma began, shaking her head. This was all terribly wrong. "You called the apartment..."
"To talk to you," he corrected her. "Come on, Emme, you can't be as naïve as all that. Here we are in front of a hotel, in the middle of London...the fates have aligned."
"Elton," Emma began, taking a deep breath. "I think tomorrow you'll see more clearly that you really don't---"
But she was cut off once more by the presence of Elton's lips. This time he had his hand up her skirt, as though he were making a valiant effort to get off her tights.
"Elton!" she shoving him away and stopping his progress in its tracks. "Stop this at once---this...this madness..."
"Oh, come on," he railed at her. "You can't be such as cold as all that! I thought that was how things worked with American women---rich and easy. And I thought that you were both. Why do you think I've spent all this time around you?" He took a swig of his bottle, laughing to himself. "It wasn't because of your mind, I'll tell you that much---"
Like a flash of lightening, Emma's hand was reaching for the car door.
"Oh, come on!" Elton cried as she opened the door. "Emma, love, I promise it'll be good for you too---"
Emma slammed the door in his face, too infuriated for words. Moving out of the hotel parking lot, she opened her purse, her fingers trembling in shock and anger. She walked to the street corner in hopes of hailing down a cab---this was London, after all---surely she could get a cab. It looked like she'd have to take a cab back for the ride back to Kingston. Emma winced to even think about the cab fare she'd have to pay.
Sighing, she turned on her cell phone in hopes of checking her voice messages. Emma exhaled, watching her breath crystallize in the chill, November air. She shielded her eyes, preventing herself from being temporarily blinded by the headlights as the cab pulled up.
"Where would you like to go, Miss?" the driver asked as she climbed into the cab.
Emma told him the city and gave him the directions to her street.
"That's a nice little trip," the driver said.
And expensive, Emma thought to herself.
Punching in the access code to her voice mail, Emma heard the electronic voice say, "You have two messages."
She leaned back in the darkened cab, preparing herself from a birthday greeting from her father. The voice she heard speaking did possess that familiar Southern lilt (which Emma herself possessed, being born and raised in Georgia), but it was not the voice of her father.
"Hello, Emma, darling," the voice said. "This is your Aunt March calling---your Uncle Andrew and I wanted to wish you a happy birthday."
Emma smiled wistfully; March and Andrew weren't truly blood relations of any kind, but they'd been mutual friends of her parents since Emma's birth and thus they'd always been kin as far as Emma was concerned.
"And Emma darlin'," the message continued. "Just to warn you, your father's forgotten your birthday---Andrew reminded him about it this evening over dinner. He told me he'd be sure to call you this weekend, though, for a belated congrats. Happy 21st, my dear."
The next message immediately followed the previous one.
"Good evening, Emma," George Knightly's voice filled her ear. "As it's your birthday, this is the one night I'll allow you some gloating rights; you were right, my night has proven just as boring as you told me it would be. And you know how cautious I am to admit when you're right about things---just don't let it go to your head," he said dryly. Emma bit her lip and the message continued. "Anyway, I just wanted to tell that I wish I could have been there tonight...happy birthday Emma Woodhouse" do I, thought wistfully as the message played. There was a brief but noticeable pause in the course of the message, and George Knightly's voice became somewhat softer as he added, "Goodnight."
Emma turned off her cell phone.
She peered outside, watching the city lights flicker and fade behind the glass. Turning her gaze towards the road, Emma let a single tear slide down her cheek. She wasn't sure why she was crying, exactly---if it was just the whole episode with Elton that had upset her, or the addition of George's message or the fact that her own father (her only living parent) had apparently forgotten her birthday ...
All she knew was that, despite all her efforts to make other people happy, after experiencing the first full day in her 21st year of living, at that very moment, Emma Woodhouse felt very much alone...
Posted on Wednesday, 4 May 2005
Emma turned the page of her text book and tried to ignore the pounding-yet-persistent headache she'd developed after Friday night. She couldn't believe it. But for the hours spent sleeping in her apartment, she'd spent the whole of Saturday and Sunday in the library. Seriously. All of it.
Which wouldn't be odd for any other grad student. But Emma just wasn't very good at working in libraries. She'd done it before---there were times when it just couldn't be avoided. But by and large, if given the opportunity she would always work anywhere else. When she studied, she liked to walk around bare-foot, with a book in one hand and a high-lighter in the other, and drink cranberry juice from the bottle, and listen to cheesy pop music on her headphones. The kind of music that she wouldn't otherwise admit to listening to---not to anyone. Not to even Knightly.
Well, okay, so maybe she would admit listening to awful pop music to George Knightly, if only to argue with him over the general state of today's music industry, and whether Britney Spears' pink miniskirts really reflected the corruption of popular culture, or was it just one person's skanky choice in wardrobe?
And the only reason she couldn't discuss any of that with him right at this very moment was because she was stuck in the library. And by choice, no less.
Emma sighed and shut her book.
Okay, so maybe she was hiding. Knightly would definitely say she was. Probably was saying it, actually, and to all the people she was trying to avoid right now.
She'd deliberately chosen to keep her phone turned off this whole time. She didn't want to talk to her father---who'd forgotten her birthday to begin with, so why give him the chance to apologize? She didn't want to pretend she wasn't hurt about that. And if he called now, she didn't want to forgive him. Maybe it was spiteful, but that was how she felt.
She certainly didn't want to talk to Elton Fitzgerald. Talk about an embarrassing situation. To think! The whole time, he hadn't even been the slightest bit interested in Harriet Smith! The whole issue just gave her a headache.
And she didn't want to talk to George Knightly. The man who hadn't even been able to show up to her 21st birthday party---and because he had a date to an opera, which wasn't a very good excuse, now that she got to thinking it over. A date, he said in his message, that he didn't even enjoy. So was it all worth it? And yes, he had sent her flowers to make up for it---and in advance, even---and yes, he'd called her that night, twice. So maybe he was one of the most considerate men she'd ever met, apart from Frank Churchill. He was probably trying to call her now even...
Emma strummed her fingers on the library desk and tried to risk the temptation to turn her phone back on.
No, she amended mentally, she most certainly did not want to talk to George Knightly. He would be no help. No help whatsoever. He would no-doubt revel in some big-time gloating, due to the fact that he'd been right about Elton and Harriet, and she'd been wrong this whole time. Damn it. She hated admitting when he was right and she was wrong.
Matters were not helped by the fact that her conversation with Harriet concerning Elton Fitgerald kept replaying in her mind with painful clarity.
The look on poor Harriet's face was hard to forget...
Emma had tried her best to relate the events delicately.
"And then what happened," Harriet had asked.
"And then...then Elton pulled the car into the hotel parking lot and confessed his...feelings for...me."
She watched a look of dumbfounded disbelief come over Harriet's face---it was as if she'd just found out that her favorite actor of all time, Collin Firth, was really gay and had spent the entire filming of the BBC's Pride and Prejudice falling head-over-heels in love with the actor who played Mr. Collins.
Only this look was worse. Much much worse. Because instead of affecting the state of Harriet's wall-shrine to a very far-off Collin Firth, this issue affected the state of Harriet's heart, and the state of her interior shrine to the very-real Elton Fitzgerald.
"But I thought he loved me!" And then she'd started to cry.
If things were going well, Harriet would be realizing right now at this very moment---and after perhaps a few cartons of ice cream and a viewing of Pride and Prejudice, with a definitely heterosexual Collin Firth---that she didn't really need Elton in her life. That Elton wasn't half the man that she deserved and there were other fish in the sea. Taller fish. Fish who were better at holding their tequila.
And if things were going badly...then chances are Harriet was still crying. And Emma couldn't stay in the library forever. She'd have to see Harriet eventually. They did live in the same flat. And Yvette would be there---Yvette who was Emma's dear friend, but was also currently engrossed in her study of dissecting rat brains, and who would be filling the refrigerator with healthy food when all Emma wanted to eat right now was chocolate.
"Oh, G-d." Emma turned off her lap-top computer and put her face in her hands. Her 21st year was off to an auspicious start.
Why can't I live with normal people? People who are level headed. People who eat things other than dried figs and wheat bran. People who will pick up on the fact that maybe I'm having a bad day after being dumped on emotionally for a situation which is not wholly my fault, and my hair looks awful today and my head hurts and I have PMS.
She needed people who understood her. People like...
...well, people like George Knightly. Who definitely wouldn't understand the PMS part, but at least he'd listen to her ranting.
So maybe she did want to talk to Knightly after all. A little bit. Maybe more than a little bit, since her first instinct after leaving a weeping and piteous Harriet was to speed-dial Knightly and burst into tears herself. And that had been her impulse every hour on the hour since then...
Why, why, why? It's not like he could help anything. In fact, he'd probably make the whole situation worse. Tell her that she was a hopeless meddler who couldn't even manage normal relationships in her own life, let alone arrange any sort of relationship in the lives of others.
"Emma!"
Emma's head jerked up. She knew that voice. It was not the one she'd wanted to hear. She'd forgotten who worked in the Kingston University Library on Sunday afternoons. Emma swore inwardly. Anita Bates. Resident busybody.
"Hello, Anita."
"Emma!" Anita came up to her with her cart of books. "Oh, my! Oh! I tried to call you at your flat, Emma---I tried and tried and tried and tried and I just couldn't get through, but I'm so very happy we ran into one another because I never see you at the library, and I really wanted to let you know because everyone else knew, but I never in a million years thought that I'd see you here on my shift, but imagine the luck at seeing you here at this very place right at the time I'm here working on the periodicals!"
"Luck," Emma repeated with a nod. She had to admire Anita's lung capacity. But her head hurt, so it was hard to force the smile. "What were you calling about, Anita?"
"My cousin!" the girl declared proudly. She pushed her glasses up her nose before taking another breath. "Joceline Fairfax. She swore me to secrecy, not to tell anyone, but she's coming for a surprise visit here! She's in Britain filming a movie for the next five months. A period piece, and they're filming not twenty minutes outside of Kingston!"
"Joceline Fairfax?" Emma repeated. "You can't mean the Joceline Fairfax? The French actress?"
"Oh, you've heard of her!"
Joceline Fairfax. Emma's mind reeled. Of course Emma had heard of her. One couldn't be friends with her French roommate Yvette, or with foreign-film lovers like Knightly, and not know who Joceline Fairfax was. She was a huge sensation in her native France---a stunning beauty and a rapidly rising star.
"Yes!" Anita confirmed excitedly. "Oh! I'm so happy! Did you know she won the Cesar award last year, and was nominated at the Cannes film festival for l'heure de Printemps! Plus she just signed a contract modeling for Chanel, though I'm not supposed to tell anyone--- she's my third cousin twice removed on my mother's side---through my aunt Jane who married my great-uncle Pierre. Anyway, Joceline begs me not to tell people anything about her, so I never mention it. But she's coming tonight, and we're throwing a party for her. I invited everyone! Robert and Rebecca Weston, Robert's cousin Frank Churchill---isn't he charming?---and Knightly of course, who I think will make quite an impression on Joceline, as he's so handsome and so very intelligent. And Yvette is coming, because she's French, so she could--"
"Speak French with Joceline Fairfax." Emma finished Anita's sentence, mainly to allow the girl a breath. She'd never met anyone who could say so much, so quickly.
"Anyway, everyone will be there. You must come! Tonight at eight. You promise?"
Emma hesitated for a very long, painful moment. Darn it. Try as she might, she couldn't think of a single valid excuse not to go.
Knightly would be there, at least. Which might be good or bad, considering the other people in attendance. Frank Churchill, who Knightly had developed a completely irrational but surprisingly passionate dislike for. And also---Emma tried not to roll her eyes as she thought this name name---Joceline Fairfax. Who Emma was already positively convinced she was going to loathe. She tried not to think about that. Instead she tried to think of the other people in attendance like Knightly, and the Westons, and Yvette, and Frank, as she gave her answer.
"Sure thing, Anita. I'll be there."
Sufficiently assuaged, a beaming Anita scuttled off. Emma shook her bag, fishing around beneath her books and CDs.
She needed more aspirin.
Posted on Saturday, 14 May 2005
Emma Woodhouse shivered, fastening the top button of her coat. She'd rushed to change her clothing in an effort to arrive on time for Anita Bates' party. But she'd never been to the Bates' residency before, and wasn't sure if she'd written down the address correctly. She hoped she had the right house.
Well, at least she could tell Anita she'd tried. She was really only coming for the Westons and Frank and Knightly, but chances are that wouldn't really end up worthwhile. They'd all be too caught up chatting with the famous Joceline Fairfax.
But just because she was a well known actress, Emma insisted mentally, didn't mean she was interesting. Besides, no one could be that beautiful in real life. She probably wasn't even very pretty, up close. It was probably all lighting and makeup, and anyone could look that good if they had a team full of people working on them all the time...
Emma knocked on the door to the house, trying to repress a twinge of guilt for hoping that she actually had the wrong house number and could turn around and go home. The door swung open.
"Hello," Emma greeted the person at the door with as much Southern warmth as she could muster. "I might have the wrong house, but is this the Bates residence? I'm looking for Anita Bates---"
But Emma's smile dissipated as soon as the door pulled open further, and she caught sight just who had opened the door.
Standing in front of her was Joceline Fairfax. Who, truth be told, was easily the most beautiful person Emma had ever seen. Her outfit was simple: dark trousers, and a matching dark blue sweater. Her only piece of jewelry was a delicate freshwater pearl ring, hanging from a delicate chain around her neck.
The outfit was purposefully subdued, Emma realized shrewdly. The point was to draw attention to her face. Because everything about it, from her big green eyes, startlingly bright, to her rose petal blush, was beautiful. She stood easily five inches taller than Emma, and her cheekbones were so perfect, she could practically measure geometry with them. This girl wouldn't even be able to take out the trash without getting noticed.
Joceline smiled at her, a sweet, demure smile, and reached out her hand. "You must be Emma Woodhouse." The French accent was faint, but enough to give her voice a soft, musical quality.
Be nice, she told herself firmly.
"And you must be Joceline." Emma greeted her with warmth.
"Please, do come in."
Emma stepped inside, pledging to herself to be sweetness and gentility and everything pleasant. If either was going to be accused of being rude tonight, Emma was determined that it wouldn't be her. "I've heard a lot about you from your cousin."
Joceline blushed. "I'm sure. May I take your coat?"
"Please," Emma nodded and shrugged of her jacket. "Was your flight to England very difficult?"
"No, quite uneventful, actually." Joceline answered with a quiet smile.
"And was it hard to get adjusted to the time difference? Although it's only an hour between them, and you gain it going from France to England..."
"No, I've adjusted okay." Joceline said softly.
"I guess, it certainly beats my eight hour flight from Georgia. I managed to watch Troy four times on one flight once. But I hate flying. It makes me nervous. Do you mind it?"
Joceline replied that she thought flying was just another step to get from one place to another.
Hrmph, Emma thought to herself, not exactly Grade A conversationalist, is she? Pretty to the point of it being irritating. At least her cousin didn't greet me at the door. She just goes on and on and on. I don't even want to be here. Why am I here again?
"Josie?' A questioning voice called from behind. "There you are, I---"
Both women turned to see a searching Frank Churchill step into the hallway. Emma arched an eyebrow at him, surprised by his use of a diminutive for the actress, and by his tone. It was soft, almost intimate. Seeing Emma, he colored.
"Pardon the interruption ladies," Frank recovered himself with his usual quick aplomb, and gave a bow to the ladies. "I meant only to announce that to you Joceline, that your cousin, the dear Anita, requests the pleasure of your company. I believe she wants to show you her collection of Brazilian worker ants, or something equally stimulating. She's upstairs."
"Thank you, Mr. Churchill." Light danced in Jocelyn's eyes, but her expression remained placid. She turned to Emma. "It's nice to meet you, Emma."
"Nice to meet you, too," Emma said.
"In the mean time, I'll keep Miss Woodhouse here occupied." quipped Frank. Emma smiled.
"Will you now?" She asked him once Joceline had left.
"It's a hard task," Frank declared with a boyish grin, "but if entertaining a beautiful woman is my cross to bear, then so be it."
"And such a burden, I'm sure!" Emma let him slip off her coat and smoothing out her dress absently. For all his pretense, Frank eyed her now and gave a low whistle.
"Nice dress," he said with a grin and wrapped his arm around her waist, leaning in close to whisper, "So tell me, Miss Woodhouse, what do you think of the starlet?"
"Very pretty," was all she could think to say. She shrugged. "I don't know. Polite enough. Quiet. Or maybe just shy or distracted, I don't know. I've read a bit about her in the papers, lately. Supposedly she's engaged to someone, though no one knows who."
An amused look, half suppressed, flitted across Frank's face.
"Well, I might have a theory about that. Have you heard about this movie she's making?"
"Just that its being filmed outside of Kingston. In the countryside, or some estate."
Frank nodded. "They're reporting on it in the Daily Mirror and the Star. She'll have to be careful while she's here, not to be trailed by photographers. Particularly considering all the talk about her in the papers.
She's the talk of the Paris papers, too. Or at least she was when I left there. You saw that chain hanging around her neck?"
"With the pearl ring." Emma said. "Yes, it's beautiful."
"An engagement ring, they say," Frank continued.
She's their biggest star since Catherine Deneuve, so everything about her is scrutinized. They call it the "Affair of the Necklace."
"Any idea who it is? The Mirror thought maybe Orlando Bloom."
"I heard the newest suspect is Andrew Campbell. He's her next costar for this new movie of hers. It's Wuthering Heights. He plays Heathcliff to her Cathy."
"No wonder she agreed to do the movie," Emma said with a laugh. "No woman with a pulse would turn Andrew Campbell down. Kissing Andrew Campbell, and getting paid for it, not many women would call that work, Frank Churchill."
"Campbell's that charming, huh?" He asked suddenly, his voice flat.
"Definitely. And supposedly quite the ladies' man. But last I heard, he was dating someone pretty famous, like Keira Knightley or Nicole Kidman or someone, so what do I know."
Frank's face looked suddenly pinched. Nevertheless, he continued.
"Yeah, well there's another suspect in the matter. Ever heard of a man named Durant Dixon?"
Emma laughed. "He's only just about the most famous director in America. Of course I've heard of him. But he's married."
"Uh huh," he nodded, "And I know him."
"What?"
"Through my father." Frank made the admission casually, without any hint of boastfulness. "My dad's a member of the House of Lords. It's because of him that admissions pulled a few strings and let me transfer here my final year of uni. They came for a lunch on my father's yacht last summer. Mrs. Elizabeth Dixon was conspicuously absent. But I got the feeling this Joceline Fairfax is Durant Dixon's new muse. And when she nearly fell overboard, he was the one who rescued her. Stayed with her for the rest of the day."
"Durant Dixon," Emma repeated the information, shaking her head. "An old married man. Small wonder she wants to keep in secret."
"Emma!"
Yvette had come from the kitchen and was walking towards them, her arms crossed.
"You two are speaking awfully close," she commented speculatively, arching a brow. "Conspiring?"
"Always." Frank answered readily.
"It's a good thing Elton's not here, Emma." Yve continued.
"That's a lovely dress, and I hear he couldn't keep his hands off of you the other night."
Emma grimaced. "Harriet told you?"
"Yes," Yvette admitted. "She isn't mad at you, Emma, or at Elton, either. She said that only a good friend such as yourself would even dream her fitting of the match. She's practically ready to beatify you. She went to London for a few days with one of her friends. It'll be good for her to get away for awhile."
Emma sighed. "If not for me, she never would have liked him in the first place."
"Well, would this St. Emma consent going into the living room for a drink with the heathen folk?" Frank interrupted them, placing a guiding hand on her waist.
"Please." Emma agreed, happy he had chosen to steer the conversation elsewhere, and enjoying the feel of his hand. A small party had gathered, just as she'd expected. The Westons, Knightly, Yvette, and now herself and Frank.
"Nice outfit, Emma," Robert Weston commented as they entered. "Dressed to kill tonight?"
"Just call me Buffy," Emma answered with a wink.
"Would it be ungentlemanly for me to ask where you hide your stake?" Frank asked, his hand remaining the curve of her waist.
"A lady doesn't speak of such things in mixed company," Emma replied.
Rebecca Weston's gaze shifted to Frank Churchill. There was humor in her voice. "I see Frank managed to find you quickly enough, Emma. I've been trying to reach you all weekend."
"Well, when it comes to beautiful women, my cousin usually makes fast work of things." Robert Weston laughed and a swig of his Guinness. "Emma, love, you and Frank should take a seat on the couch. And you look beautiful."
"Thank you, Robert." Frank answered his cousin, pretending the comment was for him. "I wore this tie just for you."
Yvette looked to George Knightly, shrewdly noticing that he had yet to make a comment, for all that take his gaze off of her.
"Doesn't Emma look nice, Knightly?" Yvette prompted him. Up to this point Knightly had divided his time between glaring at Churchill and staring at Emma.
"Emma's charm is undeniable."
Emma's mouth quirked. "High praise, indeed, Knightly."
Knightley's eyes flashed.
"But what I have always valued most about Emma," Knightly spoke in calm, measured tones, looking first just Emma and then, accusatorily, to Frank, "is not just her beauty, but wit and her mind."
He finished his drink and stood. "I'll get you a drink while we wait for Joceline and Anita to come back."
Emma opened her mouth, then closed it again. She didn't know how to respond. What's put him in such a bad mood? Frank Churchill's hand slid from the curve of her waist to touch her shoulder.
"I'll come."
Emma sat next to Rebecca, deflated. Honestly. Men. For all that she'd known George Knightly for most all of her life, sometimes she just didn't understand him.
"Have you met Joceline Fairfax?" Rebecca Weston pressed excitedly. "She's filming a new movie, Wuthering Heights. She's going to play Cathy. And the film's going to be directed by Durant Dixon, the Oscar winning director---can you believe it?"
"Yeah," was all Emma could manage. I will be nice. I will be nice. She's done nothing to me, and she seems perfectly pleasant.
"And guess what?" Rebecca whispered conspiratorially. "Joceline Fairfax and George Knightly have really hit it off. I think they're quite taken with each other. Can you believe that she's taking part-time classes in literature at the Sorbonne?"
What? Emma didn't even try to hide the shock on her face. "But---but I thought she was just an actress."
"Well, she's a smart actress. And the sweetest girl you'd ever want to meet. Wouldn't she and Knightly be a wonderful couple? He's so handsome and intelligent and she's so beautiful and elegant...imagine the two of them together. Can't you just see it?"
"No!" Emma responded heatedly. "They'd be terrible together."
Rebecca persisted. "I know they just met, but she's certainly better than Celia was for him. And this girl he went out with the other night---Lydia Something or other--"
"Lydia Sapporo," Emma supplied.
"Well, that didn't go anywhere. So why not? Better than Celia."
Emma rolled her eyes. "But she might be worse than both of them combined! Besides, I struggled to have so much as a five minute conversation with her in the hall. She may be beautiful, but the woman can't hold a decent conversation."
"Yes, she can, Emma," Rebecca insisted. "You haven't talked with her long enough. I think she'd be perfect for Knightly. She's just shy and self-conscious, that's all. I hear the best actresses are."
"But who's to say she's even his type!"
Robert snorted. "It's Joceline Fairfax. She's every man's type."
Emma set her purse on the coffee table and stood. "Well that's Knightley's business, not mine. And I think my drink got lost in transit somewhere. I'm going into the kitchen to get one."
Emma was relieved not to hear Joceline Fairfax's voice emanating from the kitchen. She must still be captive of Anita and her collection of Brazilian worker ants. The girl had patience, Emma gave her that much. The two voices she did hear were Knightly and Frank Churchill. Knightley's wasn't exactly accommodating.
"What about any of that white Zinfandel?" Frank was asking. "Is there any left? It was a nice vintage."
Knightly answered coolly. "If it's for Emma, there's plenty left. If its for you...we'll see."
Emma's jaw dropped. Knightly, who was never rude to anyone, and always, always chided her whenever he thought she was being rude---how dare he say something like that to Frank! She was about to storm in and declare exactly that, when she heard Frank's laughter---laughter! It was a loud expressive chortle, and held only amusement, not an ounce of the outrage Emma would have thought justified.
"Fair enough." was Frank's response. Emma stepped into the kitchen, seeing Frank watch Knightly with an appraising eye. "Really, Knightly, you really ought to know where I stand where she's concerned. Emma is---"
"Standing right behind both of you," she interrupted them. The declaration took even Frank by surprise. They turned.
"Frank, Knightly," she greeted them evenly, schooling her face to calmness. "Frank, could you excuse Knightly and me for a moment? Maybe you should go rescue poor Joceline from Anita and the ants. She probably needs it."
A wide grin spread across Frank's boyishly charming face.
"I knew there was a reason I liked you so, Emma Woodhouse," he declared, and leaned in to kiss Emma on the cheek. "I'll do my best to play the knight for Miss Fairfax."
He cast an unreadable glance at Knightly. "And leave you two to one another."
Emma waited till he'd left to explode. Which really, given the circumstances, she thought was quite restrained.
"Why were you being so rude to him!"
"You know I don't trust him," was Knightley's answer, surprisedly heated. "We've discussed this before. And if you'd pause to examine the situation reasonably, I think you might reconsider your views on him."
She tried to count to ten, but couldn't.
"Reasonably! I'm not the one who's been unreasonable lately."
Knightly laughed.
"I'd argue you on that point, Counselor Woodhouse. Need I mention the outcome of the Harriet-Elton incident?"
Emma glared. "Yvette told you what happened?" Traitoress.
"Yes," he answered. He didn't look happy.
"I admit I was wrong, okay? But better Elton Fitzgerald than---than Martin Christopher!"
"Emma," Knightley's voice was equal parts shock and reproach. "Martin told me he asked Harriet to dinner and she refused. You're the reason she said no?"
"He's the groundskeeper for goodness sakes!"
"He's an upstanding member of the University, and a good man."
"He's a groundskeeper!" she repeated her answer to him in a furious squeak. "She can so do better than that, Knightly!"
"Martin Christopher is a fine individual, and my friend, Emma." Knightly replied. "He at least would have treated Harriet with respect, which is more than I can say for Elton Fitzgerald, or your 'friend' Frank Churchill." He took a breath, seeing her cold expression. "I just want you to think prudently, Emma."
"First of all," Emma began trying to speak in measured tones so as to not let the whole house in on their argument. But it was probably too late for that. "My emotions are my own, thank you very much! Secondly, as I have told you countless times before---Frank Churchill is simply my friend! Nothing more."
"I watch him toy with you." Knightly answered back, his eyes ablaze. "He makes people believe what he wants them to believe. If I didn't care, I could be polite to him. Do as you will, Emma. You're right. You're a grown woman. But I won't be accommodating to someone who---"
"Knightly!" Emma interrupted, cutting him off. "You say you care about my emotions, but I've had enough of people forgetting about me when I really need them!" Emma took a ragged breath, surprised with the force of her emotions, and with the tears welling in her eyes. Maybe it really was PMS, she didn't know. But suddenly she was crying.
"My own father didn't even remember my birthday, Knightly. Okay? So with everything going on, I've had a difficult weekend. And apart from you, and my grandfather, my dad is all I have left in the world, really, and he didn't even think to call---"
George's expression paled. "Emma," he began hoarsely. He watched a delicate tear run down her cheek.
"Emma." Knightly spoke the word again, this time with a velvet tone that made it sound more like a caress than a name. He took a step towards her, the wine and Frank Churchill and Joceline Fairfax and the rest of the world forgotten.
His touch was soft. He cupped his hand around the curve of her tearstained cheek. The next thing Emma knew, Knightly had wrapped his around her and for one blissful moment, all Emma's world consisted of was the warm smell of his Issey Miyake cologne, the pillared strength of his arms, and the swift beating of his heart.
There was a tentative tap on the door.
"Emma?" It was Yvette, her roommate. Emma wiped her eyes, and looked up. Yvette looked acutely embarrassed to be interrupting. But, Emma granted mentally, it wasn't exactly the ideal place or time for them to be having this discussion with Knightly in the first place...
"What is it, Yvette?" Her roommate was carrying her mobile phone.
"Your mobile, it was ringing, and you weren't around, so I answered it," Yvette spoke tentatively. Her eyes were troubled. "But you'd better take this call, Emma."
Emma took the phone and pressed it to her ear, grateful for the continued strength of Knightley's arms around her.
"Hello?"
"Is this Emma Woodhouse?"
"Yes," Emma answered, her gaze drifting up to meet Knightley's. "Who is this?"
"This is registered nurse Carrie-Ann Cole from St Aldate's Hospital. Lucien Woodhouse has you as his primary contact in the event of a medical emergency. You are his granddaughter, is this correct?"
"Yes," her voice came as a whisper. She suddenly felt weak.
"Your grandfather suffered a stroke at five o'clock this evening and is in critical condition at St. Aldate's, Miss Woodhouse. I suggest you come to the hospital as quickly as possible."