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Posted on Saturday, 4 June 2005
Emma hated hospitals. Hated them. Even seeing them made her nauseous. She hated the sterile lighting. She hated the beeping of the heart monitors at the nurses station. She hated the smell of the air in the hallways. But most of all she hated the fact that her mother had been stuck in this place on and off for a little less than a year. Emma had managed to scrupulously avoid hospitals ever since.
Knightly put his car into park and unbuckled his seatbelt. He seemed so calm.
But Emma's glare at the building was a moody one. She hadn't even gone inside, and still it affected her. She could still see a vision of her younger self in front of her eyes, about to step into this very place.
Emma tugged at her knee-high stockings. All her new classmates seemed to enjoy complaining about the uniforms, but she didn't mind them. Beyond the color scheme and the crest, there was very little difference between it and her uniform at Savannah Prep. Same pleated skirt, though this time blue and white plaid. A starched shirt. Equally uncomfortable shoes.
Getting here had been easy. There was a bus queue only a block from her new school. Grandfather Lucien told her which one went to St Aldate's, which stop to get off at, and the price. 1 quid, five pence. Emma dropped her backpack to the ground and shrugged off her blue blazer to tie it around her waist.
Her parents had come to a temporary new accord for custody. Her time in England, usually restricted to the summer months, had been extended for as long as her mother was sick. Emma would go to a local private school. She would live at her grandfather's estate. She would get good grades. She would spend time with her mother. And her lawyer father, and her wealthy landed grandfather would argue over who got to pay for her expenses.
But for the moment she was here to visit her mother, and her hair was going everywhere. She pulled a hair tie from her wrist with the intention of constraining it to a high ponytail, but a loud whistle from yards away drew her attention. She looked around. Two young men in their mid teens were eying her from across the parking lot.
"Lookin' fer a bit a critical care, Love?" one of the youths shouted out, whistling appreciatively. His friend elbowed him, an equally ribald smile on his face.
Emma frowned at them. She'd always been an unusually pretty girl. She was used to being commented upon. But now that she was thirteen and starting to develop a woman's body, the nature of the comments were also starting to change.
Tying up her long hair, she picked up her bag and made her way into the building. Where men calling out to her like that were concerned, it was best to get away as soon as possible.
Her mother's room was on the third floor. This wasn't her first visit, but it was her first after coming from a day at her new school.
"Momma?" she knocked on the door before pushing it open.
Cordelia Danes brightened at the sight of her.
"Don't you look scholarly!"
Emma looked down at her outfit, thinking there was nothing much to glow over. It suddenly occurred to her, this was the first time her mother had seen her in a school uniform. Up to this point, her school had always taken place in Georgia, with her father there beside her, not her British mother.
"Let me see you model it."
Emma placated her mother with a smile and a graceful spin. The folds of her pleated skirt spun with her.
Her mother nodded approvingly. "So take a seat, then, and tell me about this new school."
Emma did as told, taking out her pencils and paper to draw as she talked. She drew whatever was in the room that caught her eye. Plants, the television, chairs, curtains, artwork her mother had insisted having with her. Drawing helped both mother and daughter relax, and had become the root of Emma's adulthood interest in art. But she never drew her mother, not like this, in the hospital. It was too hard, seeing how the swelling from the medicines had consumed the beautiful lines of her mother's face, dwelling on the now-bald head, the shadows beneath her eyes. Cordelia drew out there talks to hold onto what she could of Emma's spirit. But inevitably strength began to fail her by the end of the visit. Emma got so used to it, she could practically set her watch to it.
"Emmanuella?"
"Yes, Mamma?"
"Can you step outside and call the doctor, dearest? I'm not feeling very well."
In her thirteenth year, Emma ended up losing ten pounds in a year when most girls were busy growing out of there training bras. A petite stature that belied both parents height had followed her into adulthood, a token of that period in her life.
She tried to shake off the thought as the automatic doors of St Aldate's slid open. But she couldn't keep her hands from shaking.
"George," she whispered softly. He squeezed her hand.
"I'm not leaving you, Emma."
She plenty of forms to fill out. Knightly helped her with them, searching through her wallet for the proper id information and the medical insurance card she and her grandfather shared. She signed where he pointed to and watched as he went to go find the doctors who were caring for Lucien.
He'd been gone for a good half hour. The hospital was warm. Knightly had taken off his jacket and slung it on the chair beside her. Emma picked up the blazer now, absently running her fingers along the fabric while two nurses aids cleaned up magazines and cups from the waiting area. She could see Knightly from afar, coming towards her.
One of the nurse's aids noticed him too and grinned, unsubtly motioning for her friend to look as well. Her friend, a blonde, saw him and her eyes widened.
"Gorgeous," the friend agreed.
Emma smirked and returned her gaze to Knightly. He was always so unaware of his affect on women.
The top buttons of Knightly's pressed shirt were undone. His tie was loose. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal lean, tight forearms. He was usually tan from Sunday afternoons spent playing soccer. Or football, she corrected herself, as they called it here. But tension had darkened his gray eyes.
Some people were haggard by stress. Knightly seemed refined by it. The part of her mind that was floating outside of this nightmare gave an ironic laugh. When did Knightly not look refined?
"Emma?" He knelt in front of her and handed her a cup.
English breakfast tea with just a touch of milk. Just the way she liked it. The affected on the nurse's aids was automatic.
"Some girls have all the luck," one aid whispered audibly to the other, who nodded her agreement.
Emma hid her amused expression by taking a sip. Knightly clear his throat.
"I spoke with his doctor, Emma." She looked up, more grateful than words could express that he had done what he knew she could not.
"He's had what's called a hemorrhagic stroke. It's when a blood vessel in the brain develops tare and blood begins to leak. The pressure, they said, causes the brain to swell. He called 999, complaining that he was suffering from a terrible headache in the frontal lobe. They said he was disoriented, groggy. He couldn't remember your number, and the one they had on file was to your old Kingston dormitory. That's why it took so long for them to call you."
Emma blinked back tears. "Did they give him any medication? Operate or something?" She should have brought her med-school roommate Yve, as well as Knightly.
"They can't operate until the swelling goes down, else there's a greater risk of brain damage."
"So what can they do?"
"Wait. Dr Benton says he'll stay in critical care. They'll monitor his vital signs, his blood pressure and swelling. He hasn't shown signs of suffering any form of paralysis, though he has suffered loss of vision in his left eye. He'll need physical therapy, they said. And an in-home care specialist."
"As anyone called my father?"
"I don't know," Knightly shook his head. "Emma, maybe---" She remembered her phone was off. She fumbled to turn it on quickly. If he knew, her father had probably been trying to call. If he didn't, she'd have to call him.
But she didn't have to resort to that. As if on cue, her mobile phone rang. "Hello?"
"Emmanuella Mae?" Her father's usually sonorous Georgian voice sounded tight. Emma looked down at her purse. No one else she knew called her by her full name.
Her answer to him was small. "Daddy."
"What in the world is going on, Emmanuella? I've been trying to call you for two days now. And now my secretary puts a note on my desk that says your grandfather's in the hospital---"
"I know," Emma answered and bit her lips. Andrew Hamilton Woodhouse was the District Attorney for the South Georgia Judicial Circuit. If the world were coming to an end, he wouldn't find out until his secretary, Emma's honorary Aunt March, left him a note on his desk.
"I'm sorry, Daddy, I've just arrived at the hospital, and---"
"Well, why do I pay all these expensive phone bills if you're not using the darn thing---"
"I know, Daddy." Her fingers dug into her purse. He sounded upset. Had she been feeling more of her usual self, she would have recalled that she was the one who was supposed to be angry with him for the whole birthday incident. But all she felt like now was a little girl.
"It's an eight hour flight from here to there. How serious is this, Emmanuella Mae?"
Emma usually prided herself on her ability to go toe to toe with her father in conversations, but at the moment she could barely think clearly enough to keep up with Knightly's activities or inquire with the doctors. She was flailing.
"Daddy," Emma Woodhouse took a humbling breath and shut her eyes, prepared to declare a statement to her father that she had not said in a very long time. "I don't know."
A pair of strong fingers gently touched her hand holding the mobile. 'I'm not leaving you, Emma.' His earlier statement echoed in her mind while he pressed the phone to his ears.
"Mr. Woodhouse? This is George Knightly." The life-long friends didn't need words. She thanked him with her eyes. "Yes, I've spoken with the doctors---"
Knightly stood, walking away with the phone in his hand. He looked more than prepared to do verbal battle with her father. She certainly didn't feel up for it. Well, if anyone could handle it, Knightly could.
A steely haired nurse who'd been standing nearby interrupted her thoughts.
"Are you Emma Woodhouse?"
Emma looked up. "Yes."
"Doctor Benton told me that your fiancé requested this paper for you." The nurse handed Emma a white paper.
Emma scanned the form---a paper to put in a request for in an home care provider. But inwardly her mind came to a halt. Had the nurse just said fiancé? What in the world would give her that idea? "Um...thank you. But do you know how soon arrangements could be made for one?"
"No." The nurse's answer came briskly as Knightly return with the mobile. She looked to the phone. "Those aren't allowed here."
"I know." Knightly answered calmly and handed the phone to Emma. "Can she see Lucien?"
Fiancé. The word was still ringing in her ears. Emma looked questioningly to Knightly, who deftly avoided her gaze by turning his attention again to the nurse.
"Visiting hours are over." was the nurse's answer.
"But..." Emma's voice was small. "I'm his granddaughter. There are no exceptions?"
"There's no special granddaughter provision, if that's what you mean. She's not his daughter. You can come back and see him any time between two in the afternoon and seven thirty at night," the nurse shot back. Knightly scowled. Emma bit back a smile as she saw him shift to attack mode. They neither of them could ever back away from a challenge. Perhaps that's why she and Knightly were always butting heads. But it was also why the got along so well.
"Lucien has had partial guardianship over Emma until she came to her majority," Knightly began his reproach, his tone severe and his brow furrowed. "She should have all the rights a daughter would be allowed. She's also the main beneficiary of Lucien's estate and responsible for its care in his absence. Given the fact that Lucien Woodhouse is in critical care, Emma should be entitled to the rights and status at this facility that a daughter would have."
The nurse glared. "Five minutes."
"Fine." Emma agreed. Letting the nurse walk out of hearing range, Emma caught hold of Knightly's wrist.
"Fiancé?" She repeated the word aloud at last, and with an arched brow.
Knightly gave her an unrepentant wink. He pushed a stray blonde lock out of her eyes. His hand lingered there. "It was the only way I could get the doctor to tell me that information about Lucien's condition."
"Always a trouble maker." Humor had crept into her voice for the first time since their arrival.
"I think I learned it from the best of them."
"Did you get an earful from my father?"
Knightly nodded. "I gave him the information I'd received from the doctor, as well as Dr Benton's extension. He said he'll call you tomorrow. In the evening, I told him. You'll need time to get your strength back."
She shook her head, amazed. "How do you handle me so well?"
"Years of practice." She smiled at him. Seeing this, Knightly's lips parted slightly. He looked to say something, and then seemed to stop himself very deliberately. He released a breath, and his hand fell. He spoke quietly. "You should go to your grandfather."
"Nurse 'Ratched' is getting impatient, right?"
She looked over to her. Nurse 'Ratched' was, indeed, impatient. Emma had to walk quickly in an effort to catch up. The nurse had pushed the button swinging the critical care doors open and led Emma into a large room with a triage center in the middle. Sets of long blue curtains partitioned the various beds around the room.
"Five minutes. No more. He shouldn't be disturbed." The nurse pointed to a curtain at the far end before adding dryly, "The young man with you, is he a barrister?"
"No. But he probably ought to be." Emma suppressed a proud smile. He'd successfully faced her District Attorney father, and that was no small task.
Gathering up a share of her trademark aplomb, Emma swept past the nurse and pushed back the blue curtain.
Her grandfather was deeply asleep. A young man in a white coat stood next to him, writing on a chart.
"Hello," he said, looking up from his chart in surprise. "Who are you?"
"The granddaughter," Emma answered readily. "Um...if you want me to go, I can. I sort of bribed my way in here, but I can leave if you need to---"
"It's fine." The young doctor flipped his chart closed. "We gave him a sedative to calm him. He's hardier than I'd expect for a man his age." The doctor assured her. Emma immediately felt put at ease by his calm smile. But the phrase he'd chosen struck her as funny. Her grandfather was a 'hardy' man? Well, perhaps when it counted he could be, which was a relief. But he was such a hypochondriac most of the time.
"How is he?" she asked. It was time she took up her role as his granddaughter.
"If it's within his budget, I would strongly recommend a live-in nurse from now on," the doctor continued. "Coordination will be slow in coming. His vision will be permanently damaged. You should be prepared for that. But with medicine and physical therapy, he should be able to gain much of his strength back. We'll be monitoring his blood pressure and vital signs. We'll take good care of him. We gave him a fairly heavy sedative, though, so you needn't worry about waking him."
"Thank you, Doctor."
When they were alone, she kissed her grandfather's hand and told him softly while he slept that she would come by tomorrow to make sure everything in the room was to his liking---that everyone had washed their hands and his bed linen was properly disinfected and none of the hospital food would be 'off,' or bacteria ridden. She'd make sure of it. He might be hardy in health according to the doctor, but he was still a hypochondriac.
Emma also told him that she would stay with him in Hartfield for as long as he need, and take care of his dog, Marlowe. The dog had actually been a gift from Knightly to her grandfather. She also assured him that Knightly was taking very good of her, and was doing his part to keep her from getting into too much trouble.
Emma pulled her coat on as she pushed the ICU doors open. Knightly was waiting for her. It was too late to drive back to Kingston. Hartfield, her grandfather's estate, was their best bet for the night.
Posted on Wednesday, 8 June 2005
Clang, Clang, Clang!
Emma Woodhouse woke with a yelp as she tumbled to the ground. The sound of Lucien Woodhouse's booming Grandfather Clock filled her ears. She raised her hands to her forehead, trying to get a sense of what had just happened.
"Emma?" Knightly's voice drifted down to her from the couch above. That had hurt. Where was she? What was going on? She rolled groggily onto her back and craned to look at the clock. That damned clock. It was 3 am. "I'm sorry the sound woke you." His tone was dry as he added, "But so much for our old rule."
"Um..." Emma's memory was beginning to fill in the gaps of what had happened.
Emma and Knightly had arrived at Hartfield House around midnight, only to find that they were both too full of the thoughts and stress from the day to even think about retiring for the night.
It was her fault that she was lying here on the ground then, probably. She was the one who'd brought up their old rule...
"I'm too tired to sleep," was what Emma had declared once Knightly put the car into park in Hartfield's long driveway. The statement sounded counterintuitive given everything she'd been through today. But it was how she felt, and she couldn't help it. Going to bed would accomplish nothing beyond giving her a view of the ceiling to stare at. She had too many thoughts about her father, and grandfather, and Hartfield and all the things she had to do running through her head.
"So what do you want to do?" Knightly asked her as she pushed open her grandfather's front door. Marlowe came to greet them, scampering up with his tail wagging.
"Marlowe!" Emma greeted the dog with a fond smile. "Hello, baby." She bent down to rub Marlowe's floppy ear, dropping her purse and jacket unceremoniously to the floor. "Make yourself comfortable, Knightly. You know where everything is. Pick whichever guest room you want."
"I have too much on my mind. I actually might check out your grandfather's library," Knightly admitted. She watched him take off his tie and set it on top of the radiator in the entryway. "I don't think I'll be able to fall asleep any time soon." Knightly stopped as soon as he'd said the phrase and saw her look. He knew that face and he could practically see the wheels turning. She'd already started plotting something. "Emma," there was more than an edge of caution in his tone.
"Why not go by our old rule!" she declared with a delighted laugh. Now that the two of them were installed in Hartfield---even if it was temporary---the world felt safe again. At least until dawn and the world and everything in it woke up again. "Unless of course, you don't remember it..."
"Emma," He looked at her squarely. "I would know it as well at age one hundred as I did at age ten."
During the summer, Emma's weekend visits to the Knightly house and George Knightly's visits to Hartfield had been frequent and often. And young Emma was always certain there was something fun and exciting she was being forbidden from once she'd been shuffled off to bed. The world was just as alive in the night as it was during the day, she told Knightly then, and ten times more mysterious.
The child had scrambled into ten year old George's room. Her tiny voice called out. "Knightly!"
George frowned and tried to ignore her by turning the page of his book. He was reading the first chapter of his new book, Adam of the Road with his lamp light turned low. His parents had no reason to know that he was still awake. But somehow their guest had sniffed out his ruse and chosen to invade. The boy pretended to ignore her.
"Knightly!" the five year old repeated. She pulled on his blankets in an effort to get her chubby legs up onto his bed. "Come play!"
"My name's George," he corrected the girl. The cherub's answer was a frown. "And you're supposed to be asleep."
"So are you, spos'da be." she answered in a pout.
"But you're little," the boy pressed. The child held up her whole hand wide. "I'm this many." A whole hand obviously meant something of significance. "Five."
"Oh, yeah?" George pressed. He put down his book in frustration. "Well I'm this many." He held up both his hands pointedly.
"Ten's not so much." the blue-eyed cherub answered. "It doesn't mean you know everything."
"So what do you want than?" he said rudely.
She curled up next to him. He'd never been around many children who were younger than him. She was so small. She could probably sit on their shepherd, Kit, as though it were a horse. "Whatcha readin'?"
"Adam of the Road," he answered begrudgingly. "You wouldn't like it..."
"Why not? The cover's pretty..." The ten year old rolled his eyes. "Read it to me."
George glanced at Emma in the shadowy light of his lamp to see if the little girl was serious. She was. Her thumb was in her mouth, but she looked strangely determined for a five year old.
"You wouldn't like it."
"Prove it?" Seeing the tiny angel's persistent defiance made George set his book down and look at her hard. This was not an average five year old.
"If I read it to you," George spoke in the tone he'd learned from his father, "you have to stay awake. I won't read it to you just so you can fall asleep. So that means you pay attention. No sleeping..."
The little girl nodded solemnly. "No sleeping," she repeated. George began to read. The two children had finished the book by the end of the night.
No sleeping became an adage they'd used occasionally in future summers in their childhood and adolescence. It was a childhood competition between them, put in affect whenever Emma and her mother Cordelia would come to spend the night at the Knightly's home, or George Knightly would come to Hartfield. The wager? To see who could stay awake longest. Knightly called it a race for dawn. Whoever noticed the dawn breaking first was declared victor for the night.
Those evenings were fun for both. Six year old Emma had allowed eleven year old Knightly a good excuse to practice the art of fort-building---something he would never admit to doing while with his friends at school. It wasn't cool at age eleven. But it was still fun. At seven and twelve respectively, Emma developed a talent for artwork and showed Knightly how what she'd learned could be used to draw some of his favorite comic book characters. At eight and thirteen, Knightly taught Emma how to play soccer in their basement.
Over the years their exploits wandered into any part of the house that was uninhabited. They played indoor croquet. They challenged one another to different games of cards. They watched movies, they played midnight catch on Highbury's expansive back lawn. And they, of course, they had their share of disastrous events. There was the broken Tang-era style vase, or the time when two pop tarts were left toasting in the toaster and the whole apparatus caught on fire. But those were the nights that formed the root of their friendship.
"I need something to keep me from thinking about things." Emma insisted. "Apart from today, we've hardly seen each other, Knightly. You know it's true. This'll be fun. Like old times."
"If you think you're up for it," Knightly answered cautiously.
"What makes you think I wouldn't be?" She entered the living room and put her hands on her hips.
"Well," Knightly slipped off his tie and set it on the radiator of the entryway. "You've had a hard night, Emma. You're tired."
"So are you. But neither of us can sleep." she countered. "Unless you don't think you can beat me to dawn anymore."
He shook his head, knowing he couldn't talk her out of this. "We'll see."
It was as much of a capitulation from him as she was going to get. For the first time since she'd entered university life, the two had reverted their childhood pact.
"Excellent!" Emma laughed triumphant. "You get the drinks, Knightly, I'll pick the movie."
For once he did as told without much protest, while she moved to the living room to choose a movie for their viewing pleasure. Something light and funny, she'd decided. Given the events of the day, tonight wasn't exactly the right time for watching 'Gladiator.'
As she put the DVD in, Knightly returned, handing her her drink. He took a sip of his own, watching her reaction.. He was drinking scotch on the rocks. She sniffed it, suspicious. It didn't look like he'd fixed her scotch, which was good. She hated scotch. It just looked like...Coke or Pepsi from the way it fizzled.
"I know neither of us drink often, but I actually am old enough for alcohol, you know," she teased him. "Would you like to card me, Knightly?"
She took a tentative sip, then looked at him. Her eyes danced. Coca-cola with Malibu in it, usually referenced by its shorter nickname--Coke and Malibu. It was her favorite mixed drink, actually. She'd ordered in the last time they'd gone to a club together. That was ages ago, with a host of their old friends around. Hannah and John and her old boyfriend, Brandon had been there. She was impressed that he'd remembered had ordered on an evening so long ago.
"Trying to get me drunk?" she joked.
"It's to help you relax." Knightly cast her an amused glance. "Not that it takes a lot more than that to get you drunk."
She'd hit him with a throw pillow before plopping down beside him on the couch. "I'll get you back for that."
Emma did, too, and by simply pressing 'play' on the remote control. Boisterous 1930s movie music swelled from the speakers of her grandfather's entertainment system. The movie's title, Knightly soon discovered, was Top Hat. Soon enough, Fred Astaire came strutting on stage.
A pained expression came over his face. "Please don't tell me there's singing and dancing involved in this film..."
Emma bit her lip, trying to hid the pert expression on her face. But she couldn't hold it in. Knightly's horror at what he was being forced to watch was obvious. She burst out laughing.
"War's war, Knightly. You're the one who's tried to ply me with alcohol. And I like this movie," she said with a grin and folded her arms, "but we'll see how well you manage to stay awake now." And maybe it really was the alcohol, but for the first ten minutes of the film neither of them could stop laughing.
But ironic that he'd been the one to stay awake while she'd fallen sound asleep three-fourths of the way through it. Of course she didn't give him much credit past that. He'd turned the movie off---probably as soon as she'd fallen asleep, and had just put down his book. One from her grandfather's collection.
"Are you all right?" he asked, seeing that she had yet to get up from the floor. He offered her a hand up. She took it gratefully. "I'm sorry the clock woke you." He paused before adding. "Your grandfather has plenty of books to keep me busy, you know. We're not children anymore. I won't hold it against you. You can go to sleep, Emma."
"No I can't," She let out a laughing breath. Her back hurt from the fall. "Not now, anyway. I'll be awake for awhile, I think." She paused. The movie was over and she didn't feel like watching another.
"I still have a chess board in my old room here. We could play a game of it."
Now it was Knightly's turn to laugh. He shook his head no. "Bad idea."
"Why?" She pouted.
"Because I always beat you in chess." Knightly answered easily. "And because you don't like losing."
She put her hands on her hips and picked up her cup. "Since when?"
"Since always." He took the cup from her hand and unconsciously gave her what Emma considered his trademark smile, the one Rebecca Weston always said could make knees weak. It didn't put Emma off for a second.
"What do you mean it's a bad idea," she persisted, reaching to grab the cup from him. "We haven't played in years! I could probably beat you now."
"No you can't. I think I'll put this in the kitchen before it comes to harm."
"Knightly." Emma followed him. "Just because you're five years older than me, doesn't mean you're the British Bobby Fischer."
"But I can still play better than you can." He placed the cup in the sink, a surprisingly wicked grin on his face.
"Oh yeah?" She leveled him with her bright blue gaze and repeated the defiant phrase she'd told him so many years ago. "Prove it."
Posted on Saturday, 11 June 2005
For anyone who doesn't know much about where Knightly takes Emma, England's Lake District---it is really, really breathtaking. Check out this link for some amazing pictures: http://www.google.com/search?q=The+lake+District+photos&hl=en&lr= for pics of it, or just try putting the words 'The Lake District photos' into a google photo search. It's gorgeous, and worth admiring. : ) ~Bern.
Chapter 14
Emma checked the clock. It was 4:30 am. They were still awake.
"Face it Emma," Knightly began once their chess game was well underway, "You're too fond of your own opinions to accept the concept of losing."
She smiled. "Why do you think I went into law? It's the only job that will pay me for debating. Unless I want to go into politics."
They sat on her bedroom floor facing one another. Emma sat casual and cross-legged, watching his black knight capture her white bishop. She held back a smile. That made his queen vulnerable. Once she captured it---if she could guess his moves right---she could have him in check in ten minutes flat.
"Then God help any politician you'd go up against."
"I don't have any interest in the political arena." she waved off the idea. "Besides, I'm just a small girl. What's so dangerous about that?"
"Entrapment with a smile. They'd go willingly into the night."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she answered sweetly. "My charms can't be all-powerful. It never seem to help me when we argue, yeah?"
Knightly took another one of her pawns and changed the subject.
"So what did you think Anita's gathering?"
"You mean from---" She stopped herself, watching his mouth thinned. Apart from our disastrous argument in the kitchen about Frank Churchill? He knew what she was talking about. That wasn't a safe topic of discussion yet. And neither of them felt like spoiling the night. "Apart from that, yes." He confirmed. "What did you think about it?"
"I've tried not to. Are you referencing anything specific?" she asked, unconsciously slipping into lawyer-speak.
"Joceline Fairfax."
Emma nearly knocked over the piece she was moving. "I don't know." She sounded disgruntled and righted the piece.
"She could use a friend in Kingston," Knightly spoke casually.
"Well, I'm sure she has lots of 'friends' already. You'll have to get in line, Knightly. Every man around seems to by vying for that role."
"Don't tell me you're jealous of her..."
"Jealous! Of an actress? Hardly."
"Just because she gives you competition for looks and attention, doesn't mean--"
"I'm not jealous," she cut him off.
"Fine."
"Fine." She moved her next piece. "If you think she's so interesting, next time you play, ask Joceline Fairfax. Maybe she can beat a wannabe Fischer in chess." She looked down at the board, then back at him. As their conversation progressed, she'd captured his Queen and put his King in check. "Check."
Knightly gave a pleased laugh and moved his King out of harms way. "Did I say I wanted to play Joceline Fairfax?" He countered. "You're the one I'm sitting across."
"Check," was her only answer. She was rewarded by seeing Knightly's dimpling smile deepen.
"Remember me saying you don't like loosing?"
"I'm not losing." She looked at the board. Her Queen had him on the run for awhile, but he'd managed to shield his king with his rook. She'd have to double back. She did, and pulled out her last Bishop.
"Checkmate," he countered.
Emma looked at the board again. Her mouth opened. No sound would come. She could not believe it. While she'd been thinking of a way to trap his king, he'd arranged a way to corner her own king with his bishop in one move without her even noticing. Knightly didn't say anything. He didn't need to. He'd won.
"You," was all she could manage. She threatened to hit him with the nearest pillow in reach. "Stop that."
"I'm not gloating."
"I know. And that's worse!" She shook her head with a laugh. "You should gloat. Then I could call you a bad winner and feel better about myself."
Knightly laughed too, and held up his hands in protest. "This is why you can't beat me in chess, Emma. You misapply your reason."
"Misapply my reason?" she repeated. "Do you want me to tackle you too? Don't think I wouldn't. Just because I'm small doesn't make me weak."
"I know." He looked deadly serious in his response, and his eyes burned silver.
Marlowe, who'd settled between them while they played, interrupted the moment by barking his agreement and proceeded to step on the board, grabbing one of the pieces.
Emma gave a breathless laugh, though she shooed Marlowe. "Well, I'm sure Marlowe's would defend me. He's on my side. He'll make short work of you."
Knightly growled good humouredly and helped her pack away her chess pieces into the box. "For doing what?"
She moved the box back to its shelf, then gave him her best smile. "For beating me, of course." She settled down on the floor pillow and yawned before declaring, "I can't remember the last time we stayed up all night together like this."
"I can."
Emma hid her satisfied grin. "Yes," she admitted with a wink. "So can I."
"Then--"
"Just testing you, silly." Having settled comfortably, she exhaled and shut her eyes. It was the summer of her eighteenth year, just before she was about to begin her first term at Kingston University. To congratulate her, Knightly had offered to take Emma on a camping trip to the Lake District. He'd been dating some awful girl at the time, someone named Mariah. Emma's hatred of Mariah was fairly equal to her disdain of her. Their Lake District Trip. The whole event would be burned into her memory until her last breath on earth, Emma knew that instinctively.
"I'd hoped you'd remember," she spoke at last. "The Lake District."
Knightly nodded. His own voice sounded distant. "How could I forget?"
It was originally going to be just the two of them. Much to Emma's ire, Mariah Bertram insisted on coming along.
"But why?" Emma complained. She knew she sounded nothing like the eighteen year old she was, and everything like a kid who didn't want to play with the neighborhood children just to be polite, but she didn't care. Emma thought Mariah Bertram's hobbies were restricted to shopping...and getting her nails manicured. And maybe her getting toenails painted to match. Emma didn't really care to find out the rest of it, if there was more. What mattered was she didn't think those hobbies included camping.
"Why is she coming?"
Knightly grinned as he stuck their gear in his car, holding up his hands wide.
"Mariah's professed a newfound interest in the subject." He was all set to go, sporting worn jeans and a plaid shirt, hiking boots. They'd gotten a rent-a-tent and everything.
Emma leaned against the hood of his cherry colored convertible.
"Since when?"
"Since she found out what you look like," he answered with a laugh and walked away. Emma shook her head, confused in his wake.
"Knightly, that doesn't make sense!"
"So we'll go pick her up after I'm done packing the car. You're ready, right?"
"Knightly--" Emma sputtered. She watched his long legs bound up the driveway.
"I'm getting some food before we go." He called back to her. Emma smirked, though he couldn't see her. He was 21, but she could swear Knightly still had what her grandfather termed a 'wooden leg.' Boys. Always hungry.
"Don't eat my grandpa out of house and home!" she yelled up to him before muttering to herself, "I want to be able to come back here to do laundry..."
Emma stomped her booted foot, watching him disappear into Hartfield House. How ridiculous was Mariah Bertram being with all of this? So ridiculous. Knightly was Emma's oldest and best friend. Emma could be a two-headed gargoyle, for all that her appearance mattered to Knightly.
So why did Mariah---and the immature part of her wanted to stomp again at the name---care that Knightly wanted to take his oldest friend on a trip to the Lake District? It was supposed to be special, just the two of them. Emma had never even been there before, and all she knew was that it had been a rite of passage in Knightly's life, and he'd wanted her to see it before she entered Kingston in the fall.
Knightly's late father was a member of the Royal Navy. The two had spent many a night camping in the Lake District during his youth. Knightly revealed this information quietly before he'd told her about going on the trip. She'd felt privileged that he'd wanted to take her there himself. But Mariah Bertram? This wasn't the first of his admirers that she'd dealt with. She was used to them by now, having met the first of an already long list of them at age ten.
George Knightly had arrived at Hartfield one afternoon, age fifteen. Emma had run down the steps to meet him---despite her mother's scolding---only to find he'd brought a tall fourteen year old brunette with him. Cherie had been her name, and she'd had braces and a peasant skirt and lots of silver bangles on her wrists. Emma remembered that particularly, and how the bangles jingled whenever Cherie flipped her hair back, which she did whenever she said the name George. Emma had been disappointed and confused, and she didn't like the fact that this Cherie treated her as though she were a particularly stupid six year old instead of what she really was---a fifth grader who learned so quickly her teachers said she could easily be skipped ahead two years and still learn at a faster rate than her peers. The ten year old had patiently waited out Cherie's visit.
"Oh, Emmanuella," her mother said as she'd tucked Emma into bed that night. "I know you're used to having him as your summer playmate sweetheart, but he's starting to grow up. You can't expect to have him all to yourself anymore. George is a kind boy, intelligent and already the image of his father. I know he's getting a lot of attention." Cordelia Danes kissed her daughter's brow and gave her a very pretty smile, the same one her daughter had inherited. "In a few short years you'll be bringing your own dates home, too. Then you'll understand."
The ten year old had listened to this explanation with intellectual objectivity. She supposed she understood what her mother was trying to say. She was certainly looking forward to the time when she could have different boyfriends and do with them what she'd caught Knightly and Cherie doing this afternoon---kissing in the pine tree grove. But that didn't explain why that would change his interests, or the amount of time he spent with her. Did his girlfriends always have to intrude on the world that had been just theirs for so long? The ten year old had escaped from her bed soon after her mother left to grill Knightly about the issue.
Her mother was right. Emma did understand, once she got her first boyfriend. She was newly thirteen. Edmund Berant was the boy's name. He was a Georgian pastor's son. He was a nice boy, cute, with a shy, charming manner and a mind for books. Between her strict father, and Edmund's religious parents, their relationship had been the picture of innocence. They held hands. They went to movies together. Edmund gave her chaste kisses no one was around. But the relationship ended when she was due to fly to England for the summer and then her mother became sick and she was in England indefinitely.
She'd had other boyfriends since, as Knightly had had other girlfriends over the years. And the only thing her mother had been wrong about was to discount the steady strength of their friendship. They'd grown even closer over the years and at eighteen and twenty one respectively they could still measure each other's thoughts with a single look. But since he went to college, most of his time was spent in studies or with friends he'd made there. They were nice people, and he'd introduced Emma to some of them. She thought it would be just the two of them. A time to remember their shared past. A time to look towards the future. To let go and prepare herself for whatever was to come.
Instead she was stuck in one of the most beautiful places in England with the Wicked Witch of the West...
"There's nothing to do here." She watched Mariah wrinkle her nose and looked around at the sloping tree covered hills. Sad. Mariah saw none of the beauty Emma could so easily perceive in the distant color-streaked mountains or the vaulted bowl of sky. She'd probably rather be in some Prada shop on High Street. "So why did we decide to stop here for the night?"
"Because it's perfect." declared Emma confidently. Mariah rolled her eyes, then sauntered up to Knightly. He was setting up their tent for the night.
"George, can't we get a room for the night in one of the cabins?" Marie formed a pout with her generous lips, "For just the two of us? And Emma---Emma can take care of herself." Seeing Knightly's expression, she rescinded her statement. "Or we can get a room for her...at the other end of the cabin complex. Please, George? A place of our own inside, just the two of us? They have some really," Marie paused breathily and twinned her arms around his neck, "cozy accommodations."
"No." Knightly planted a kiss on Mariah's and moved to start building their fire. "We stay here."
"But..." Mariah asked. "But...what if I want to use the toilet?"
"Ha!" The sound escaped from Emma before she could restrain it. "This is the natural world, Mariah," she said with a giggle and a wicked grin. "Be creative."
Seeing Knightly's dark look in her direction---that 'Emma, be nice' look---Emma smothered her smirk with her hand and turned her gaze in the other direction. She didn't need telepathy. She got the point. Emma tried to look around for something to do in an effort to keep from laughing more.
The air was hot for August, it made her skin itch. Men are so lucky in hot weather, Emma mused. When they get too warm, they can strip off their shirts. Not exactly appropriate for women to do the same.
She crouched down to retrieved her camera and drawing materials from her backpack. Her braid was coming undone, but Emma didn't think to fix it. It was just Knightly and Mariah here. She doubted they'd care. Opening up her backpack, she pulled out her camera and put it over her shoulder by use of its strap. That would leave her hands free for carrying her drawing pad and some charcoals. Emma rolled up her sleeves, then unbuttoned the lower part of her shirt and tied it around her small waist. That was better. Cooler.
It was only when she turned around that she noticed Knightly was watching her. Mariah Bertram was watching her too and she was definitely frowning. Emma frowned too, confused by Knightly's expression and a little worried. His face had gone very still. Is he still mad about my comments to Mariah?
"It was good that I came," Mariah declared at last.
Puzzled by the comment, the 18 year old chose brushed it off. Now was the time to make a temporary exit.
"I think I'm going to backtrack a little towards the lake we passed on the way here. I want to take some pictures and do some drawing before the sun sets completely." Emma held up her supplies. Knightly looked to say something as she moved to go, but she ignored it and turned anyway. She thought it would be best if she left 'the couple' to their own devises. She shook her head. She didn't want to think about what that meant, actually...
"Have fun settling in!" she called from behind as she left from the encampment. She pulled her hair from its falling braid and quickened her pace to a light jog.
It was past dark by the time Emma returned. She'd had to adjust the light-meter on her camera to accommodate for the affects of the sunset, but she was sure she'd gotten some really good photos out of her walk. What she was most proud of though, were the new sketches of one of the Lakes in her notebook. She might even recopy her favorite one onto canvas and turn it into a painting. She shouldn't have stayed away from camp for so long, particularly at night, but once artistic inspiration took hold, it was hard to let go of it. She'd never been in a place this beautiful before.
Knightly was sitting by the fireside when she came back.
"Oh, good." The 21 year old noted nonchalantly when he saw her. "You haven't fallen down anywhere, or been attacked."
Emma winced. She walked over to her backpack to get her jacket. The air had cooled off drastically in the past few hours. When she spoke at last, she knew she looked guilty.
"I'm sorry. I know it was stupid to stay out in the dark by myself...and dangerous." It had been dangerous. Probably the first thing she'd learned about camping as a child was not to go off somewhere alone. Particularly at night. She dropped her camera and sat down clutching her book of drawings. "I'm sorry if you or Mariah worried about me. But it's so beautiful, Knightly. I lost track of time. I've never seen a place like it in my whole life."
Knightly's whole aspect changed when he realized what she'd said. Something sparked in his eyes, and a surprisingly boyish grin graced his face. "You like it?"
"Are you kidding?" Emma answered enthusiastically. "It's amazing." She looked around, noticing that the tent had been zipped shut very decisively. "Where's Mariah?"
"Asleep. She's not used to so much walking. She was tired."
Emma nodded. She wasn't surprised, though she didn't want to show her satisfaction of Mariah's weakness to Knightly. It would probably just make him mad again.
"Check out some of these views..." She flipped open her sketch book and showed him some of what she'd drawn.
"Emma, these are incredible."
"I had a lot to work with." She grinned. Knightly looked at her sidelong, and then looked up. "Can I show you something that my father showed me?"
She smiled softly, immediately understanding the wistfulness of his tone. "Always."
She watched him stand and move over to his own pack. He opened it up and pulled out a blanket. Whatever he was going to do, he'd definitely been planning it in advance. "Come on." He motioned for her to follow him into the darkness. He led her to a dip in the Valley, just far enough that the campfire flickered distant, but not so far that they'd risk not finding their way back. She watched him spread out the blanket.
"Close your eyes and lie down on the blanket."
Had any other young man said that line to her, 18 year old would have laughed, assuming he was going to try and get fresh with her. But this was Knightly. She did as told without hesitation.
When she was sufficiently positioned on her back and feeling very foolish, she heard Knightly speak again.
"Now open your eyes, Emma." She did.
And caught her breath...
"My God..." she spoke at last.
It was the only word majestic enough to fit. She'd never seen so many stars. It was like a blanket of white jewels strewn on a velvet blanket, infinitely long and stretched out above them. Emma was speechless. Tears stung her eyes. It was so beautiful. She'd been so busy admiring the views around her, she hadn't really thought to look up. She'd never seen the stars so bright, or so numerous.
There was a cloudy streak at one end that she could swear was the Milky Way, though she'd never seen it before... She looked to Knightly, expecting to see him equally enraptured by the sight of the sky. But he wasn't looking up. He was looking at her. She gave him her best smile and mouthed the words 'Thank you.' Knightly nodded. He moved his gaze to the stars and began his story.
"When I was a boy," he said, "my father would bring me here. Just the two of us. He knew a lot about sailing at night. Which meant he also knew how to chart a course by the stars. I've never met anyone who knows quite so much about the constellations, the moon, the planets. I wanted to learn them all. Everything he could teach me. He was my hero as a little boy. I thought he was perfect. Wanted to be just like him." Emma rolled on her side to face him, listening to him speak. "After the car accident, I guess...I thought...every time I saw the stars and remembered...I wasn't just seeing what he taught me. I was seeing him. And not just him, but the best of him. The part of him that I still aspire to be. The stars are always there, you know?"
Emma reached for his hand and shut her eyes tight. She was having trouble speaking. "Yeah."
He was quiet for a moment, his eyes fixed on the stars, and she let him have his silence. When the memories of whatever he was thinking of faded into the distance of his mind, he continued. "The best time for doing this is early, early in the morning, you know..."
"You going somewhere?" she asked him, sitting up in an effort to hide her pert grin.
Knightly hesitated. "Well, I didn't want to assume that you'd want to spend all night looking at the stars." He laughed. "I couldn't even get Mariah to stay up past---"
"Knightly," Emma cut him off. She didn't like Mariah Bertram, but she felt bad that she wasn't the type of girl that would enjoy doing this sort of thing with him, and she didn't want him to have to dwell on it either. "I want to learn whatever you'll teach me."
Knightly's smile broadened. "So no sleeping, then?" he repeated their old phrase with a wink.
"No sleeping," she agreed with enthusiasm. It was set. She curled next to him on the blanket, clinging to him for the warmth of his body.
Emma was determined to burn into her memory each story and grouping that he told her. Everything he could teach her. They were there for hours. And Knightly was right. The longer they were there, the brighter things got. She couldn't believe the sky could possibly be filled with more, but so it was. There were larger objects now, and brighter. Emma pointed to another suspicious small cluster of stars that she assumed was probably a constellation too. There was a particularly bright one at the top of it.
"So which one's that?"
"That," he answered, squinting to see what she was pointing to, "is part of Lyra. It's called Vega. The Harp Star."
"Why's it called that?"
"For what they thought it was shaped like. It's a Greek harp. The story behind it is the Orpheus myth."
"Orpheus?" she repeated.
"His music was so beautiful that one song from with his lyre made the rocks sing and the trees weep."
"One of those," Emma chuckled. "He probably did it for the women. Girls love musicians, you know. He probably had to beat them off with a stick."
Knightly grinned.
"Once I tell you how his life ends, you'll understand the irony of the statement you just made. Orpheus only wanted one woman. Eurydice was her name, and his devotion to her was legendary. It's one of the great love stories of Greek culture. But nothing in love is ever made easy by the gods." Knightly paused reflectively and Emma shut her eyes. She loved the sound of his voice when he told stories. "When she was bitten by an asp on their wedding day and taken into the Underworld, Orpheus was devastated. He swore to do whatever it took to rescue her. Taking only his lyre, he followed her, walking the path into the Underworld."
She rolled to her side and rested her head on her arms. "When he was brought to the Lord of the Underworld, he pleaded for his wife in the only way he could---through song. Even Hades was moved to tears. He agreed to return Eurydice to Orpheus with one condition. She would travel behind him, but he could not look back for the duration of the journey. He agreed. But as they climbed up towards the earth, right before they reached the mouth, Eurydice tripped. She cried out. Hearing her cry, Orpheus immediately reacted. He loved her---how could he restrain himself? He had to look back."
"Oh," Emma whispered, completely caught up in the story. Her eyes were wide, like a child's.
"He'd done the one thing forbidden to him. He'd looked back. She was to him lost forever." Knightly said softly. His voice seemed to echo in the dark spaces above them. "He traveled the world singing for her. A group of maidens approached him. They told him to pick one of them, said that they would take away his pain. But he refused. So they killed him, throwing both him and his lyre into a river. Zeus, who had been one of the gods enchanted by his music, took pity on him and raised his lyre to the sky."
Emma rolled onto her back again. She was quiet for a long moment, looking up at Lyra.
"That's so sad." She sighed contemplatively. "It's a beautiful story, though."
"Isn't it?" She nodded. Knightly eyed her in the darkness.
"If you could have any star, which would you choose?"
Emma thought for a long moment. There were so many. They were all so beautiful...
After a long silence, she pointed at last to a bright jewel, glowing pale blue a little above the horizon. It sparkled particularly bright. "That one. What is it?"
"That's not a star," he answered, leaning back on his elbows. "That's another world. Venus."
She grinned then and lay flat on her back, in awe of the sky.
"Then I guess I want a whole world. Its beautiful." She never wanted to leave this place.
"Mariah Bertram." Emma repeated the name now, remembering Knightly's old girlfriend as they relived the event. "She wasn't one of your finer choices, Knightly."
Knightly chuckled. "Why did you dislike her so much?"
Emma rolled her eyes skyward. "Listening to her fawn over you the whole time? Where was her dignity as a woman?" Emma lowered her tone to a breathless, suggestive whisper. "Why can't you just...move a little closer next to me, George? I---I'm just a helpless girl, and you're so big and strong." She burst out laughing then, and let the illusion drop, slipping into herself. "For the whole trip, Knightly, I swear..."
Stunned by her to-the-letter mimic, Knightly had to collect himself before answering her. "You should have been an actress."
Emma laughed. "To be compared to Joceline Fairfax all the time? No thank you." She sat up and stretched. The dull feeling of fatigue had settled into her bones. She rubbed her eyes, blinking. Then she remembered. Emma quickly pulled back the curtain. The sun was cresting on the horizon. "Good morning, Knightly."
She stood in front of the window with folded her arms, triumphant. "I won."
"Competitive to your toes." It was said with fondness. "I still beat you at chess."
If she hadn't spent the whole night awake, she would have had a smart answer to that. But she didn't say anything. Because it didn't really matter who had won what that night, and they both knew it. She knew Knightly could see the look of thanks in her face. She'd wanted him to see it. She hadn't wanted to be alone tonight, and because of him, she wasn't.
She walked him to the door. Most of the time Emma knew what he was thinking. But every once and while over the past ten years he had the occasional habit of putting up a carefully guarded wall between them. She didn't know what it meant back then when he did it and she didn't know what it meant now. All she knew was that the look in his eyes was one that commanded her not to press the barrier. She could see it in his eyes now, and she was cautiously respectful of the distance.
So Emma didn't try. She simply wished him a sweet good morning and tip-toed to give him an impulsive kiss on the cheek. His eyes closed at the touch. He must be exhausted, she thought, a little worried. When he opened them again, the wall she felt between them had become a mountain. She didn't know why, but it made her sad and dizzy at the same time.
"You should sleep." His voice was gravelly. The sound of it caused a strange shiver to trail her spin. Her head felt light. She simply nodded, confused by the strange mixture of emotions which she couldn't even begin to put a name to. All she knew was that part of her was strongly resisting shutting the door...
"Sleep," she repeated in a whisper as she watched him walk down the hall to his own room.
At last, Emma did as told and crawled into bed. She closed her eyes, remembering the look of Knightly's face, pondering it. But she was too tired for grand insights so all that she could really think about was the fact that he had beautiful eyes and really long eyelashes. Didn't men have all the luck where eyelashes were concerned? They were always the least appreciative of the existence of the eyelash, and they always seemed born with the most beautiful ones. It was the last thought she had before drifting off. Sleep came without dreams.
Emma tugged at her pajama top and picked up the cup of coffee she'd poured for him. I should change, too, she thought to herself. She wanted to be at the hospital by 2:30 that afternoon.
Knightly entered the kitchen in his black trousers and a white tee shirt. He held up two shirts, both her grandfather's.
"You know how I like playing dress up," Knightly joked. Emma grinned. "So look, I need to leave in ten minutes for my class. Which one makes me look like I've actually gotten some sleep."
"I have cause to know the shirt you wore here last night smells like scotch, and is probably wrinkled, so this is a good idea." She looked at the two shirts, one blue and one green, and handed him a cup of coffee to drink. She could hear the doorbell ringing in the distance and excused herself. "Wear the green," she called to him, jogging to the door and pulling it open. "It'll go better with your gray eyes."
Standing on the doorstep was Frank Churchill, and a bouquet of large white and yellow daisies. When he saw her, his face lit up in a broad smile.
"Good afternoon, doll-face." Frank greeted her. He paused quizzically upon seeing her sleeping attire. "Or should I say good morning?"
"Frank!" Emma took a step down onto the stoop and threw her arms around his neck. He spun her around easily before setting her down again. "These are for the Woodhouse-house. From your adoring fan club."
"Thank you, Frank. They're beautiful." He leaned in to kiss her lips lightly. It was a playful kiss and she didn't even hesitate. It was Frank. This was how he was. "We all care about you, Love. Which means we care about the people you care about."
Emma looked to the daisies, her heart swelling in appreciation for the circle of wonderful friends she had gathered around her. Knowing that Frank was here and Knightly was inside, she hesitated at asking him in too. But Frank gave so effortlessly it didn't even seem like giving sometimes. He was a great friend. Maybe, with this gesture, Knightly would be able to see that for himself and could reconcile with Frank. She fought down her guilt with ire. It wasn't like she'd done anything wrong with either of them against the other. She had nothing to hide.
"Come inside, Frank," she told him. "Have some coffee. We'll talk, the three of us."
Frank followed her into the kitchen. "Oh, do you have a maid or a cook?"
"Emma," Knightly was buttoning his shirt. "I have to go soon, but I wanted to check and---"
The two men saw each other and both stopped. Seeing the momentary flare in Knightly's eyes, Emma dropped Frank's hand and moved a safer distance away, getting a cup for herself from the cupboard.
"Knightly, Frank came with these flowers. Isn't that sweet?" She was talking at a nervously fast pace. "They smell so nice and fresh. And Frank, Knightly's been so helpful for me. Are you done with your drink, Knightly? I'm sorry I burnt the food. Frank, do you care for coffee? It's not quite espresso, but--" she paused, feeling the tension in the room and looked from one man to the other man, "---it's not so bad, yeah, Knightly?"
George took a sip of his coffee. Probably to keep from saying something he knows would make me mad, she thought dryly. "Um...Frank, take a seat." He did as told. She perched herself on the edge of the table, facing him. "Can I offer you a drink?"
She watched him scratch the back of his neck, hesitant. He shot a look, equal odds humored, satisfied, and chagrinned, to Knightly, then decided it was safer to stick talking to Emma. "Look, I certainly did not come to interrupt." He grinned wickedly and Knightly who looked like he wanted to clobber him, instead chose to move to the sink to wash his cup. Emma released her breath.
"So I'll just leave you to your chap, Emme. Congrats, the both of you."
At last caught onto what he was trying to say. The picture that she and Knightly must present to him formed in her mind. Pajamas at 1pm in the afternoon. Knightly buttoning his shirt. It was clear she hadn't slept...obvious he'd stayed the night...
"Frank Churchill!" She laughed once her mind was finished connecting the dots. "Knightly is my oldest friend. He's stayed here loads of times. Since childhood. Is that the first and only explanation you have?" She picked up her dish towel and threw it at him, finding it humorous despite herself. "Sex?"
"I shouldn't have assumed. Sorry. It's just the obvious conclusion." Frank responded good humouredly.
"Frank," she began, very much the patient schoolteacher. "Poor Knightly here has plenty of women throwing themselves at him on a regular basis. He doesn't need me to be one of them." She laughed again and shook her head.
"And as far as sex being the obvious conclusion, I come from a traditional Episcopal background. I'm not having sex with anyone until I get married. And I refuse to marry unless I'm absolutely head over heels in love with the mystery man and can unflinchingly pledge my undying troth to him until the clammy hand of death takes me." She took a breath and shrugged. "And now, what with my studies and taking care of my grandpa--and maybe taking care of him forever depending on how things go...I mean, at this rate, I'll probably never marry, let alone sleep with someone."
A clang of dishes followed this statement. She turned to look. Knightly looked stunned, though she couldn't imagine why. True, the subject had never been one they'd discussed before, but didn't he know her well enough by now? Men. She rolled her eyes and explained further to Frank.
"Look, my parents married after my mom got pregnant with me. And they divorced very badly. Big custody battle and everything. Lots of resentment. I had to deal with that for my whole childhood. And I'm serious about wanting sex and marriage to mean you love someone and are really committed. My parents weren't. I don't take these things lightly. So I'm waiting for marriage. Not that it's any business to you." She pretended to smother Frank with the towel, and wished she had one to throw at Knightly, too.
Why were people always so surprised by her admission? What other people decided was their business. She wasn't naive. Lots of people her age slept together and lots of people her age got married quickly. It didn't bother her. That was their decision on both counts. But her views on sex and marriage were something she'd thought about and decided upon a long time ago. She took pains to explain to every boyfriend she'd ever had. And she always listen patiently as they tried to talk her out of her viewpoint. Particularly on the waiting for sex issue.
It was particularly hard with her last boyfriend, Brandon. After all, their relationship had been based almost entirely on physical attraction--- mainly been flirting in public, and make-out sessions at his flat. The boy had been charm itself. But when she refused to sleep with him it became very clear they could move no further. He couldn't stop wanting her, and he told her so. But she wouldn't budge, and told him as much. It was over. But she knew in her heart what was right for her. Brandon wasn't it. And to be honest, she knew it was bad to be cynical at her age, but the whole incident made her hesitant to get into another relationship at all.
"It's just, you don't often hear people say stuff like that," Frank was saying. Emma nodded. That was true. But suddenly it occurred to Emma that Knightly wasn't in the room anymore. He'd said he'd had to go to teach. That's right.
"Excuse me, Frank, I'll be right back..." She slid off the table to go look for him. She hoped the conversation hadn't made him uncomfortable before he'd left to teach.
"Knightly?" she called into the hallway. She felt guilty. had she missed his departure already? It looked that way. She'd wanted to wish him well for the day..."Knightly?"
There was a note for her in the entryway. Emma picked it up and read it.
"Had to go to class. Call me if you need something." Seeing that he'd put the last sentence in bold, Emma smiled and pocketed the note before she returned to Frank.
"So why are you so shocked about everything I said?" she said when she'd returned, reverting back to their previous conversation with her arms folded.
"You're just so beautiful, Emma." He answered as though the response was obvious, though she was having trouble following his logic.
Her mouth tightened. She wasn't sure if she should laugh or be genuinely outraged at that statement. Her reaction veered towards the latter. "So what if you think so?" The lawyer in her roared and she added, "What does your opinion of my looks have to do with the relevancy of what I said, or why I said it?"
Frank looked a little taken aback. Knightly could always equal her when she questioned him about something in 'lawyer mode.' Apparently Frank could not. Well, he'd never seen her do it before. She watched him try to explain himself.
"I'm sure you get loads of offers for the contrary, that's all I'm saying. And I'm...impressed by your resolve to wait. And to marry for only the deepest love." He shrugged. "It's sort of my philosophy, too."
Her jaw dropped. His reputation as a ladies man was not without merit by his stories. "You're kidding..."
"See, now who's shocked?" Frank laughed. He reached for her and pulled her onto his lap. His manner was always so casual, she allowed it without thinking twice.
"Well, I guess it's sort of the reverse execution of it, if you want to put it that way." he admitted. "But I've always known it would take the real thing to make me settle down is what I'm saying. To make me commit. I mean, that's what you were saying you want too, right? Only the real thing. And you're right, for the real thing, for someone he really loves, a man is willing to sacrifice, to wait. You're right. It's a good test of devotion."
She looked at him as he spoke feeling that there was something else he was digging at here.
"Well, look, Emme," Frank said at last, "You know how I am. And I was thinking last night, with everything that came up with Knightly--"
"Don't let him bother you, Frank," she interrupted insistently. "I'm sorry for it. He's usually not like that---"
"Yeah, well, I think I understand him better than he thinks. Which is why I...I thought maybe I should tell you something important, Emme. Because I want you to know that I trust you, and I want you to know that you can trust me, too. I think--I know we haven't known each other more than a few months but from the first moment I saw you, I knew that we could be close. You have a lightness about you that draws people in, and---and," He shook his head, and his tone was serious. "Maybe I shouldn't say it. I told myself I wouldn't. I really...I want you to know, Emma. I want you to know what's in my heart." For Frank Churchill of all people, they were solemn words.
What was he going to say? Could he honestly be on the verge of saying, 'I love you?' There was an odd sort of flutter in her stomach. And what did that mean? Was it apprehension for what he was about to say? A fear that her rejecting him after he made this admission would ruin their friendship? Or was it excitement, the first beginnings of a feeling that she could actually be falling in love? She couldn't tell. It was so easy to talk to him. To flirt with him. He was warm, and funny, and clever, and well traveled. He had a way about him that she liked. He set her at ease. But for all that...she didn't think that she loved Frank Churchill.
She was warm to the prospect of him. She knew that much. She liked him. A lot, actually. But it wasn't a heart stopping feeling. It wasn't an "I don't want to live without him," feeling that she'd heard talked about so much.
Emma felt torn. She was definitely fond of Frank. But was fondness the same as love? Probably not...but...but maybe it could become love. She'd fended off so many advances from various men in the past, that she'd just gotten really used to doing it. And Rebecca Weston had been pressing a match between her and Frank since his arrival. Maybe it was a good idea, long-term. She didn't know anymore. Would she actually know if she was in love? Her logical mind said maybe not, but her heart rebelled against the notion. Her heart said that when she was really in love, she wouldn't have to ask if she was in love. She would just know. Was that wishful thinking? Something in books and movies, 'lies of poets' and that sort of thing? She should talk to Rebecca or Yve about all of this...
"What is it you wanted to tell me, Frank?" she managed to ask at last, though inwardly she felt like she were near a coronary.
Frank looked away and shook his head. His blue eyes had clouded. "Here I am talking when you have your grandfather in the hospital. Now isn't the right time. For either of us, probably." She nodded silently. I don't even know what I wanted him to say. But that was probably the right thing regardless. "Can you trust me enough to wait for me to tell you what it is?"
"Definitely." Her answer this time was confident. He was right. Now wasn't the right time. She needed a bit of space in order to sort out how she felt about him.
"Good." Frank kissed her cheek. "So are you planning on going anywhere today, lass, or were you wanting to prance around in this lovely little cotton garment and use me as your armchair? We could make a fun day of it, I promise you that much." He winked.
Emma pushed at him and stood with a laugh. "I'll shower and change."
"And I'd offer my skills as a soap holder..."
"But you knew I'd decline."
"Exactly. Why risk rejection?"
Why indeed, she wondered, again happy he'd waited to say whatever was in his heart.
"With Knightly gone, I was going to take the bus today to St. Aldate's. Could I bum a ride off of you?"
"Do you mind if I come and pick you up after a few hours?" Frank asked as he pulled up to the drop area of St. Aldate's hospital. "Sorry, Emme, but I'm not good with being inside hospitals. I don't think I'd be much use to you."
"Oh, um," She didn't know what she'd expected from Frank, but the statement made her hesitate. "Sure, Frank. That's fine. Most people aren't too good with these sorts of places." She unbuckled her seatbelt and picked up her bag, trying not to project anything in the way of disappointment in him. "Pick me up at four, yeah?"
"Can do, Love."
She shut the car door and waved, watching him drive off. St. Aldate's doors slid opened in welcome. Everything was the same as yesterday, but for Knightly absence. That she felt acutely. She remembered his calm composure, and tried to channel a bit of it herself. His note was in her coat pocket, she remembered. Emma took it out and clutched it like a talisman as she moved towards the elevator.