Beginning, Previous Section, Section IV, Next Section
Posted on Monday, 20 June 2005
Emma's life at Hartfield became a fairly regular and domestic one. She cooked the meals for her grandfather according to his dietary regiment. She accompanied him to the doctor's office for checkups whenever she could. She helped him cleaning around the house. Living at Hartfield, of course, meant a long commute to Kingston for her classes. It wasn't the life of the typical graduate student, and there were certainly times when she itched for the freedom to go out on the town with her friends. But she would be here for her grandfather as long as he needed her to be.
And her grandfather, thank God, was coping fairly well given the circumstances. It had been slow going at first, as she'd expected it to be---resentment was a common pair to any ailment, particularly at first. She'd seen that with her mother, who'd usually been the sweetest and most genial of people in any sort of health. But it seemed that forty years of Lucien Woodhouse convincing himself that he'd acquired one ailment or another had prepared him fairly well when an ailment actually struck. His vision would always be impaired in one eye. His coordination would always be a bit off. But mostly things were getting better. And in the safety of Hartfield, with the best medicines money could buy him, and his granddaughter at his side, his life was still better than most. And he knew it.
For all these reasons, Emma's grandfather was therefore not highest amongst Emma's list of headache inducing topics.
Her father, however, kept consistently earning his place in the top five. He'd called recently to convince her---yet again---to come back to Georgia. And this time to bring Lucien with her.
"My father could get treatment in Atlanta," he tried explaining to her. But he weakened his argument with a frustrated statement of, "You're both being ridiculous."
Emma shook her head as he spoke, though he obviously couldn't see her. "It's not ridiculous. Grandpa would never agree to leaving Hartfield. He'd be miserable. He hates hot weather. He hated it for all the years he lived there with Grandma Julie, in fact. He only stayed because it was her home. His heart is here in England, Daddy, you know that. It's always been at Hartfield, I think."
"And exactly how far away is your university from Hartfield?"
Emma swore inwardly. She hadn't wanted him to ask that. It sounded so inconvenient, an hour commute to and from...
"It's no big deal, Daddy---"
"No big deal is not an answer, Emmanuella Mae Woodhouse."
"It's an hour away, okay?" She admitted. "It practically takes that long just to get around the speedway circling Atlanta. And I don't even have to drive. Public transit is very convenient, Daddy. I study on the trip up, and on the trip back. When I'm here at Hartfield, I help grandpa. I get up early. I go to bed early. It...it keeps me from wasting time, so if you think about it that way, it really keeps me responsible and out of trouble. You should be happy about it, really." Emma stopped there, letting the points of her argument sink in.
"Emmanuella," her father's voice sounded weary, "One phone call---one---and I could arrange for your credit transfer to North Carolina."
Emma twinned the cord around her fingers and tried to keep her temper down. "But I don't want to go to North Carolina, Daddy. You know that. I chose Kingston. I chose...I chose England." She was trying to repress her more argumentative streak, what with her grandfather in the next room and everything---he wouldn't like to hear them arguing. "I like it here. It's my home."
"I'll wire you money for the ticket home for Christmas. Your term ends in how many weeks?"
"Um...just one week until the end of Michaelmas term, Daddy. But---" She'd been hoping to argue her way out of coming home. "Well, I mean, I was thinking that Grandpa really needs me here for the holidays---"
"Emmanuella, I'd counted on having you home for Christmas. What about seeing your Aunt March? Susannah and Rex have been asking about you, so has Beau, and Leigh Ann."
Someone shoot me, please, was the first thought that popped into her mind. Emma rolled her eyes at the list of names. The family of her late American grandmother, Julia Woodhouse---née Julia Hamilton---was Georgian high society. Thus Emma's list of second and third cousins in Georgia, of great aunts and uncles and whatever other form of obscure relation possible, was tiresome and extensive. Which all equaled up to the fact that time home meant time spent with them.
Gathering together for luncheons, or at the country club, or taking the yacht around the Golden Isles, or visiting great-aunt so-and-so who lived in her lovely compound on Tybee Island. It was parties at this great aunt's event, or that third cousin's ancient farmhouse, having her pictures taken to show up in the local society papers...It was all so exhausting. Was it any wonder she'd been so eager to flee from it all? To stay in England where she had her own life, and her own identity?
"And Sela wants to meet you," her father continued. "All she's seen of you are pictures."
Sela. Her father's newest paramour. From everything March said about her, Sela was just her father's type, early thirties, a former Miss Tennessee, tall, blonde, a stylist in an uptown salon. But her father had had so many love interests over the years, Emma didn't usually bother trying to actually meet them. That settled things in her mind, though. She was definitely staying in England.
It was then that she realized her father was still talking.
"I have a meeting I have to prepare for, Emmanuella. I suppose we can come to some accord on the subject later. After you've explained to Sela why you've decided that you---and my father, for that matter---should remain in England instead of spending the holidays with your father in the spirit of fellowship."
Ouch. If he actually wanted her to talk to this woman on the phone, it must be getting serious...That settled things. She was definitely staying in England with her grandfather. She hung up the phone with a sigh.
But why did their conversations so often turn into battles? She loved her father, and she knew very well that he loved her. But inwardly, she contested, they were destined to always butt heads. The greater the distance between them, she reasoned, the better.
"How is your father, Emma?" Lucien called to her from his bedroom.
Emma rubbed her neck, trying to loosen some of the tension that had knotted into her muscles while the phone conversation had progressed. But hearing her grandfather's voice immediately allowed Emma to slip into a more 'Grandfather appropriate' tone, even-keeled sweetness. She stood from the chair, moving tiredly down the hall to where she knew he was.
"He's his usual self, Grandfather," Emma replied as she entered the room. It was nearly time for him to retire for the evening. "You know how we are, Daddy and I. We don't always get on."
She sat on the edge of his bed, running her fingers along the weave of the blanket. Her grandmother, Lucien's late American wife Julia, had made this blanket. She noted this with a soft smile and kissed Lucien on the cheek. She also noticed that he was still wearing his glasses. "Here grandpa," she took them off and set them on the nightstand. "You don't want to sleep with these on."
"Is the humidifier--"
"Yes, the humidifier is turned on," she nodded. "Your sinuses will be fine. I see you took your medicine too, without me even having to tell you. Good for you."
"Are you going to bed soon?"
"No, Grandpa," Emma shook her head. "I have some work to finish up. And Harriet said she might be able to stop and stay the night. That is, if Knightly can bring her."
Knightly. Emma's saving graces as of late were threefold, and he was one of them. Since Emma had settled in Hartfield, Knightly had taken to spending his Sunday mornings at Hartfield and bringing breakfast with him. It was a small gesture, but he was so busy the rest of the time, she really appreciated the visits. Particularly considering that following his stay at Hartfield when Lucien first fell ill, things between them had seemed oddly strained. She didn't like it one bit, but she didn't know quite what to do about it. And neither, it seemed, did he.
It was difficult too manage time to see her friends living at Hartfield. She missed them. Yve was particularly upset at having her friend gone from their flat. They were both so busy in the week, and rare was the weekend where their schedules converged---Yve usually had Ian visiting.
But tonight was Saturday, and for the first time in a month, she would get to see Harriet. If Knightly could manage to bring her. It was good of him to work as part-time chauffer when she asked it---more than good, actually. He was so busy working towards his doctorate, and teaching part time at Kingston. But of course, this was the end of Michaelmas term. Everyone was busy. Including Emma.
Her studies were certainly moving at an intense clip. When she wasn't with her grandfather or at school, she was pouring over books and studying till midnight, just to wake up at seven and start the process over again. She was relieved that the Michaelmas term was soon coming to an end. Christmas would be a welcomed break.
Emma's second saving grace was the fact that, unlike so many years ago, the patient she was living with in Hartfield this time around truly was getting better by the day. Emma counted that as her biggest blessing.
And the third saving grace was the daily presence of her grandfather's home-care provider, Justine Williams. There was only one word to sum up the sixty-seven year old widow and registered nurse who came visiting Hartfield every day to help with her grandfather: lovely.
Justine Williams, showing little of her 67 years in her spry movements and her ready mind. She was a native of Ghana, Africa, and fifteen years a widow, Justine Williams had the patience of a saint and the bearing of a royal.
She could charm Lucien into doing his exercises every day, she could time every medicine he took to the minute, and the widow had even managed to cook his low-fat high fiber lunch in a way that he would actually enjoy eating it.
Though Emma wasn't Catholic, she was practically ready to call up the Vatican and demand that the sixty-seven year old be granted living beatification.
"Justine is coming early tomorrow," Emma told Lucien and kissed his brow as she stood.
"Yes," her grandfather answered with a twinkle in his eyes, "We'll have to make that new tea from Sainsburys for her. That's good tea. Quite good tea. I think she'll like it."
Emma smiled at her grandfather, watching his face light up at the mention of the name Justine Williams. She wondered if it was obvious to the elegant African woman how smitten her grandfather Lucien was. She hoped so. Smiling further at the thought of them, Emma made a mental note to give them as much alone time together from now on as possible.
She quietly turned off the light and slipped quietly out of the room, tightening her night robe. Emma moved quietly to the window in the main sitting room, pushing back one of the brocade drapes to see car lights flickering in the long expanse of driveway. Her smile widened. Harriet and Knightly. Emma moved to meet them at the door, shivering at the cold air that met her.
A young woman arrived first and she greeted her with a smile and a hug. Harriet's cheeks were rosy pink from the cold air. "Harriet! How are you?"
"Good!" Harriet answered brightly. "Knightly kept the heater on high for me and everything because my fingers were so cold. The drive was so quiet, I nearly fell asleep. He's been so kind, Emma!"
With her hands on her hips, Emma surveyed Knightly as he walked up the dark walkway. "Yeah, he's all right," she said at last. She winked at him then, and held out her hand to him. "Come on in for a nightcap, Knightly. Heaven knows we have plenty of rooms here at Hartfield, and the more the merrier."
But Knightly simply shook his head and politely declined. "I'm just stopping through. I promised a visit to John this weekend, and I told him I'd arrive tonight."
"John?" Emma repeated the names with an arched brow. Suddenly the coyness was gone from her voice, replaced by genuine wistfulness. "As in John Chevalier?"
Apart from Emma herself, John Chevalier was Knightly's best friend. He held a special place in Emma's heart as well. John was the first of Knightly's college friends to be introduced to Emma, and the bond they'd formed was immediate. John Chevalier was very much a brother to Emma Woodhouse. And fate had a way of twining the group together further through the person of Issy Brice.
Issy was actually a distant American cousin of Emma's. On a whim, she'd chosen to visit her cousin Emma for a summer at Hartfield. Little did Issy know upon her arrival that she would loose her heart so easily to one of the natives. John Chevalier. And though they saw each other quite rarely, Emma had always enjoyed her cousin Issy. She was a bright pixie of a girl with a ready laugh and an easy manner. It was a good match.
That was three years ago that Issy and John met and married in a whirlwind romance. John Chevalier and his blonde sprite of a bride were now happily ensconced in London, caring for their first child. A beautiful little baby named Bella.
"I haven't seen Bella since the christening," Emma mused wistfully. She gave Knightly a measured look. "And remember, Knightly, the baptismal sheet says that she's as much my god-child as she is yours. If I can't come to visit, you ought to buy her at least three new Barbie dolls to play with in concession for my absence. "
"I'll bear that in mind." His mouth quirked. "Goodnight, Emma." Emma watched him for a moment, then deliberately looked away. There it was again. Something veiled in his gray eyes. Something he was holding himself back from saying or doing. It hurt her to see it. But she'd been noticing it a lot, lately.
He was trying to maintain the status-quo, just as she was. But at moments like this she felt helpless, unable to so much as reach out and touch him...
Emma sighed when she heard the sound of his car driving away, and she shut the door. Sadness lingered in the motion. But she couldn't dwell on that now. Remembering Harriet's presence, she motioned for the girl to follow her down the hallway.
"Welcome to Hartfield, Harriet. You'll be staying in the Green Room for the night. It's one of my favorites because there's a really good bathroom connected to it---one with a claw-footed bathtub, not those tacky marble showers my grandfather had installed ten years ago."
Harriet was standing with her mouth agape at Hartfield's interior decor, and doing what Emma considered to be a very good impression of an open mouthed trout ready for a wall mount. "Harriet?" she repeated. "You okay?"
"How many bathrooms do you have in this place?" she asked in awe.
Emma shrugged and tried not to laugh. She'd never thought the bathrooms particularly worth commenting upon. "Um...gee, I don't know...ten, maybe..."
"That's amazing." She said the phrase with awe and took out her camera. "I've never been in a stately home!"
"Harriet, if you want to bring out the camera, just don't do it when my grandpa's around. He'll get confused and think you're from the English tourism board. Now come on, it's been forever since I've seen you." She tugged at Harriet's sleeve and pulled the girl enthusiastically down the hall. It was fun to see Hartfield through the eyes of someone who'd never stepped inside it before. "Now come check out the awesome room you're staying in for the night."
The two girls stayed up talking and catching up one another's lives. They hadn't seen one another since her birthday at the beginning of October. It was now December, which meant there was a lot to catch up on. After hearing the life that Emma had been living for nearly two months, Harriet declared that she couldn't fathom quite how Emma did it. How could she stand living in such a big old house all by herself and acting as a part time nurse to her grandfather on top of commuting to Kingston University for classes and still maintain her status as an honors student?
"It's not so bad. I'm sure you have things to keep you occupied too, right?" Emma had asked the younger woman. "At least you don't have to think about Elton anymore, right?"
No sooner had she said the name, than she immediately regretted it. The conversation quickly deteriorated into Harriet's plaintive declarations of undying devotion and love to Elton Fitzgerald.
Elton? Still? Emma felt more than a twinge of guilt for initially encouraging the notion, but Harriet was taking this much too far. Particularly given the fact that he'd made very clear the fact he wasn't interested in Harriet.
She would have to divert Harriet's attention elsewhere...But to whom? She ran through her mental list of eligible men at Kingston. Albert Coxwell? No, no...too drab. Freddie Cowley? No. Too hyper-active. Hmm...she would have to keep thinking about this.
With these thoughts rolling around in her head, Emma at last declared herself exhausted, wished Harriet a good night, and retired to her own room for the evening.
Her grandfather was a big fan of promptness, even for things like breakfast, so Emma made sure to alert Harriet in time for the morning meal. Emma had laid out everything to her grandfather's liking, as she did every morning.
Eating breakfast at an antique oaken table, with a linen and lace tablecloth, and a full set of eighteenth century silverware, though typical for her grandfather's lifestyle, was clearly a bit overwhelming for Harriet Smith. Emma winced inwardly to see Harriet actually try a curtsey to her grandfather when she entered the room. As luck would have it though, the motion was made on the side of his bad eye. He didn't even notice.
"No need to stand on ceremony, Harriet," Emma urged her friend kindly. "Have a seat."
"Thank you for allowing me to stay here for an evening, Mr. Woodhouse," Harriet spoke politely before awkwardly sitting down.
Emma nodded approvingly before settling herself across from Harriet and next to her grandfather. Her keen gaze noted the fact that Lucien had chosen to wear his favorite blue and red tie that morning. He'd definitely chosen that for Justine Williams. Excellent. The nurse was due to come in an hour. Emma suppressed a grin of satisfaction and stuck to buttering her toast.
"Well, it's nice to have a bit of company." Emma nodded to Harriet. "Knightly was nice enough to bring you here."
Harriet perked up at the topic of Knightly. "Oh! Yes, he's very kind in person. He's a bit intimidating as the teacher of my class, though. I do hope I'm doing okay in it..."
Emma nodded reassuringly. "I'm sure you're doing fine."
In truth, she was sure of no such thing. Knightly had confided to Emma some time back that in his class, her young friend was barely making passing marks with her essays. Emma excused herself the obligatory lie, though. What else was she supposed to say? Actually, Harriet, Knightly tells me you're failing his class---please pass the toast?
Instead she decided to change topics. "Are you going to the Christmas Ball for the end of Michaelmas term, Harriet? It's one week away."
"I don't know, Emma," Harriet shook her head and took a worried sip of her tea. "All those people in all this fancy clothing...I don't know if I have anything that would suit."
"Emma has many gowns," Lucien interjected kindly. "You could borrow one of hers."
"That's a great idea, Grandfather," agreed Emma enthusiastically. Of course the seems would have to be altered for Harriet to wear one of her dresses, but that could be done by a seamstress easily enough. "You should definitely go, Harriet. It's great fun. Everyone will be there."
"But I won't have a date..." Harriet spoke cautiously. She was not quite assertive enough to argue her point, but it was clear she was unconvinced that going to the ball was a good idea...
Emma shrugged. "This is the twenty-first century, Harriet. Lots of people won't. I won't have a date. Neither will Knightly, probably, or Frank Churchill, or loads of other people. It'll still be the usual group of us. There's nothing wrong with going alone."
"I know what!" Harriet's eyes widened. "Martin could take me! He and I have been exchanging emails, and he...he wants to take me to see Blenheim Palace sometime, he said. Isn't that nice of him? He said they have beautiful landscaping. So I'm sure he would go with me to something like this!" She smiled, pleased with this solution. But her face fell, though, at seeing Emma's frown. "Do you...do you think that's a bad idea, Emma?"
"He's a gardener, not a student." Emma's answer was dry. "I doubt the grounds-crew can attend."
Harriet set her cup down, more than a little disappointed. The light in her eyes had dimmed. "Oh," was all she managed.
"But why worry about not having a date, Harriet? Not having one just means that you can flirt with whoever you want, and it means that you don't need to worry about someone hovering over you asking if you like your drink, or stepping on your feet whenever you slow dance. And you don't have to dress to impress the boy you're with. You can wear whatever you want. And my wardrobe is definitely available if you want to borrow something."
"You make it sound so easy," Harriet's curls flew as her head shook. "But what if Elton's there!?"
"Then you show up in a great dress, looking like the bell of the ball and knock his pretentious Armani socks off."
"Did you know I saw him across the quad yesterday?" Harriet mused.
"Did you?"
"Yes, and he made eye contact, and though it was only for a moment I'm sure there was something in his eyes---something he'd wanted to tell me. And he sort of waved, or maybe he was just fixing his hair...he'd just gotten a haircut, you see. He looked so handsome, Emma. He always looks handsome. And his blue shirt was just the right shade to match his eyes. Darker than a sky blue with just a hint of gray in it---"
She paused hearing the phone ring, and Emma for one was grateful for it. Anything to stop this list of Elton's glories. Emma set her tea cup down and pushed herself out of her chair. "I'll get it."
Perhaps it was Knightly calling from the Chevalier house? She'd love to talk to Issy or John. Even something as simple as baby Bella cooing would be a welcome sound.
But it was none of those people. It was Rebecca Weston on the other end of the line.
"Emma!"
"Good morning Rebecca," she greeted her friend. "What can I do for you?"
"Big news." Well, Emma had suspected as much. She could always tell from Rebecca Weston's voice. "I thought you'd want to know."
"I'm all ears."
"Guess who Frank saw Elton Fitzgerald getting up close and personal with last night at Club Escape?"
Escape. Well, that made sense. Elton wasn't likely to go to any club in London that wasn't high end, and Escape was certainly that. But she still grimaced at the name. Elton Fitzgerald. Good heavens, why was everyone talking about him lately? It had been nearly two months since the disastrous incident at her 21st birthday party, and for her part, Emma never wanted to hear his name mentioned again. They passed one another very awkwardly on campus and avoided eye contact in any class they had together. She didn't really care who he was with now, or why.
"I don't know, Rebecca," she asked to humor her friend. "Who?"
"His new wife."
Emma nearly dropped her phone. "No!"
"Yes!"
"No!"
"Yes! And she had a rock that could rival the queen's jewels for gaucheness."
"Are you kidding?" Remembering that Harriet was in the dining room enjoying breakfast and still very much in the throes of an Elton Fitzgerald Infatuation, she lowered her voice to a whisper and moved to sit with the phone at the kitchen table. "How do you know this?
"Frank was my informant, actually. It's all very coincidental. He was there at Escape, and so---surprisingly---was Joceline Fairfax. She was getting a lot of attention, apparently. And the happy couple---Elton and his new wife---they really tried to latch onto her, since she's famous and everything." A rare moment of sympathy for the French beauty glimmered inside Emma.Poor Joceline.
"So Frank says Elton had a bit too much to drink, and his wife was just desperate for the attention of someone famous. Which meant that collectively, they were telling her everything. Their whole story. And Frank happened to be within earshot. Heard the whole thing. Elton and his blushing bride started dating about a week after your 21st birthday party, Emma. The wedding was a quick affair, and recent. Apparently they're planning this big unveiling of their marriage at the Christmas Ball, when she'll parade in wearing some Versace gown and a ring big enough to sear the cornea, to hear Frank tell it."
"Why such a rush to marry? What...is she pregnant?"
"You guessed it, Emme. She's one month pregnant with Elton's child. The two of them together, I never would have thought it---"
Now Emma had to sit down. She didn't like the sound of all of this. It was all too weird of a coincidence. Huge diamond. A Versace gown? It couldn't be...but it had to be. Who else was there? Dazed, Emma asked a question she was fairly certain she already knew the answer to.
"Who, Becca? Who is it?"
Rebecca took a breath. "Elton's married to Celia Edwards. Knightly's ex-fiancée."
Posted on Saturday, 25 June 2005
Emma chewed on her lower lip as she drew a line of brown liquid eye-line around Harriet's eyes. It was delicate work. "You don't move, Harriet."
Meanwhile, Yvette was frowning down at the pair and wielded her brush threateningly. "Emma, stop fidgeting until I finish with your hair." Emma winced. The French girl clipped a single golden tendril back with a small emerald-colored hair clip. "So much wavy curls---" Yvette clucked her tongue.
"I wish I could get my hair to fall like yours does, Emma," Harriet said wistfully.
"It's genetics." Yve, the future doctor, commented casually.
She put a few calculated strands up Emma's hair up in small clips, but let the rest of it fall down around the girl's shoulders in loose waves. "Mais, it is so lovely, all this hair that you have, Emma. You should keep it down like this more often." Emma smiled to hear the speech pattern. Yve had gotten off the phone with her parents in France not long ago, and for the moment her accent was in full force.
"Chin up, Harriet," Emma swept a hint of pale blush along the girl's round cheeks. There, that was just right to give Harriet's face a lovely hint of a glow. Emma smiled at her handiwork. "Perfect." She set the blusher down on the counter of the bathroom that Yvette and Harriet now shared. Emma slipped on her own heels and smoothed out the folds of her dress. Content with the work Yve had made of her hair, and even more pleased with the results of her makeup artistry vis-à-vis Harriet, she smiled at her two friends. If Harriet had to face Elton's new wife, Emma was determined that Harriet would properly look the part of the lovely party belle, even if she didn't feel it.
But Harriet was fidgeting with the edges of her black gown. "This doesn't make me look fat, does it?"
"No," Emma told her firmly. "It's a lovely dress and you look perfectly wonderful in it." A honk from outside drew their attention to the window. Yvette Lorraine's fiancé would be their driver for their night. "You'll be turning heads all night. Right, Yve?"
"Mais oui. Are we ready? Elton and Celia are most likely already holding court."
There was only one ball held Kingston University each term. Which meant this was the party to beat all parties. The university Chancellor always seemed to make a yearly bid to outdo himself where the university's Christmas Ball was concerned. It was expensive to be sure, but what catered, black-tie event, with champagne, a hired band, and a full orchestra wouldn't be? It was the place to see and be seen, the ultimate celebration for the upcoming break, and the holiday season.
It took place in the magnificent Thornton Hall---a building built by the famous British architect Edmund Thornton. It was now reserved solely for such functions, and small wonder why. Thornton Hall was an architectural wonder from the outside, but walking around inside was truly a privilege.
"Happy you came, Harriet?" Emma asked her friend as they walked carefully up the broad marble staircase. Harriet was speechless. She simply nodded. Emma could understand it. "Wait until you see the second floor."
The first floor of Thornton Hall was lovely. Ancient portraits on the walls and boughs and swags with holly and ivy decorated the windows. But the second floor was breathtaking, and built for dancing.
A vast, blue and green Tiffany dome stretched above them acting as the ceiling. The marble floor was etched with small patterns of ivy leaves lined with gold. Long windows stretched around the room, and double doors connected to the far end of the room, providing an entrance to a balcony. Who wouldn't be speechless in a room like this? Emma asked herself.
Well, Celia Edwards for one. She was already surrounded by people. Holding court, Emma was amused to see, just as Yve had said she would be doing. Her diamond ring---Emma could see it already, though she was yards away---was so big it looked like she'd grabbed an ice cube from the nearest freezer, chopped it in half and set it in gold. Her dress was scarlet red, matching her long red hair, and the cut was daring. She'd pulled back in a braid that Emma deemed a bit too tight. A Dior gown, Emma thought by the lines of it, not Versace, as Rebecca had guessed it would be. It was a stunning look. But severe.
Elton stood next to Celia, his arm around her waist. How could I never have noticed the smug look in his eyes? It was repulsive. Emma wanted to get as far away from them as she could.
But Celia's gaze was as sharp as Emma's---maybe sharper, even, Emma Woodhouse thought suddenly, for Celia locked eyes with Emma from across the room and gave her a sleek, vicious smile. Emma bristled. Harriet coward.
"Harriet," Emma whispered to the young freshman, "if you feel like it, you could find the Westons and let them know that the group of us have arrived. I'll be along in a bit."
"Good thinking, Emma," Harriet answer was quick and full of thanks. Poor Harriet. If Celia was a vulture, Harriet was easy pray. The young girl was clearly terrified of Celia.
Emma, however, was not.
"Emma Woodhouse!" Celia's voice echoed above the orchestra. Heads turned and Celia's smile broadened. Celia moved through the crowd in a series of controlled and graceful steps. Elton was by her side, though Emma thought little of him. Of the pair, Celia was the true danger.
"Emma," Celia walked up to her. She stood far enough apart to project an air that she assessing Emma instead of actually conversing with her. "My, what an interesting dress you've chosen. That shade of green, so few people can wear it well. And a dress with an empire waist." she gave a cool laugh. "Such a traditional cut. How...eighteenth century."
Emma lifted her chin proudly and smiled through her answer. "I think it's more effective to leave something to the imagination, Celia, than to flaunt ones assets to the world. More of something isn't always better." She glanced casually at the ostentatious diamond. "Nice ring."
"Did you know that Celia and I are married now," Elton interjected. "She's the most amazing woman I've ever met. The only one I want."
But his eyes had yet to leave Emma's form. However much Celia disapproved of her dress, Elton's face seemed more than admiring. It made her acutely uncomfortable. Emma shivered and folded her arms.
"Did you come here alone, Emma?" Celia tried to ask the question lightly but there was a dangerous edge to her voice when she added, "Or did Knightly bring you?"
Emma opened her mouth to answer, but a hand touching her bare shoulder stopped her.
"Celia, Elton." It was Knightly's rich voice that filled her ear. "Congratulations on your marriage."
Celia laughed, a sound that spilled from her throat, more harsh than amused. "Always such a gentleman!"
Knightly's mouth twitched downward. But rather than addressing them, he chose to address Emma. "Would you like something to drink?"
Emma slipped her hand into his. Safely connected to a point of warmth, she smiled a true smile, though just at him. "Yes, that would be wonderful."
"Do take your childhood friend away, Knightly!" Celia called out to them. "She is probably such a sister to you after all of these years. Elton's presence is more than enough to satisfy all of my needs now."
Emma couldn't help but glance back. Celia's eyes were hard. She had a feeling she'd made a very dangerous enemy in Celia Edwards-Fitzgerald, and that the grievance had very little to do with Elton Fitzgerald and almost everything to do with the man whose hand she was now holding.
"Oh, Emma!" Rebecca Weston rushed up to them. "Knightly and I saw her talking to you from across the room. I was going to go over to you over---"
"But Knightly got there first. He was so quick," Yve interjected smoothly. She moved to stand next to Rebecca and looked Emma directly in the eyes. "George was half way across the room to you before Ian even could come back with drinks. He looked composed the whole time, but I've never seen anyone react so fast."
"Who reacted fast?" Knightly asked, reentering the group and handing Emma a glass of champagne.
"You, George," Yve replied steadily. She wouldn't break her gaze from his.
"To get her away from Celia and Elton," Ian put his hand around his fiancée. "They looked like a pair of vipers swarming on a solitary cub."
"More like a solitary lion," Knightly replied with a smile. "Emma's more than capable to take whatever's thrown at her. But I didn't her to feel forced into facing them alone."
Emma smiled at him. Knightly nodded and continued.
"You're one of the strongest people I've ever met, Emma" His answer came easily. Emma smiled at him. So did Yve---broadly. Yve exchanged a quick glance with Ian. Ian, assuming that his fiancée wanted him to say something as well to Knightly, decided to declare companionably:
"So George, rumor has it there's a billiards room somewhere in this place. Feel like playing a quick round?"
Yve's smile vanished in an instant, "Ian, I thought we could all dance for a bit..."
"And we will," her fiancé agreed with a good-natured smile. He kissed her lightly despite her frown. "But this party goes on for hours, right? Plenty of time for dancing. Don't you agree, Knightly?"
"But---" Yve interjected.
"Ladies, you look lovely, the lot of you!" Robert Weston called to them. He bounded near them in long, enthusiastic strides and tugged at the sleeves of his tuxedo. "Gentlemen, I've just managed to reserve the billiard room downstairs. You're up for a quick game, right George? Ian?"
"Definitely, sir." Ian agreed with a nod. Knightly hesitated and cast a glance in Emma's direction. She winked.
"Go play. If we can get the lot of you to dress up in tuxedos for the evening, you deserve something like a game of billiards. I'm just surprised Frank isn't clamoring to join you," Emma added with a laugh. She tried to ignore Knightly's momentary glower. "Where is he for the night?"
"Oh, he's coming," Robert informed her with a wink. "He'll be late though. He took the chunnel for a day trip to Paris."
"Paris!"
"For a haircut, can you believe it! I think there was some shopping involved in the trip. I can't believe anyone would go all the way to Paris for a haircut," Rebecca added. "But he did want to come tonight. He said he'd try to get here for the last hour of it, at least."
"Yeah, maybe there was shopping involved," Ian Henry interjected. "but I'd be more likely to say women were the motivating factor. I've never met him, but I've heard stories." Now Robert and Rebecca Weston were frowning and looking from him to Emma. His comments kept having that affect. "So," he cleared his throat awkwardly, "a game of billiards boys?"
Celia's laughter echoed over the swell of the orchestra. She was coming towards them. Knightly finished his drink in one swill. "Please."
Emma felt a pang of guilt watching them. She could guess at his sudden unhappiness. Yes, he had broken it off with Celia, not the other way around, but seeing her married and pregnant by Elton and flaunting it in that shocking Dior gown, with that ring on her finger...Poor Knightly. Her heart ached for him. A game of billiards would be good for him. He needed some time just with the boys.
"I do believe the men of the group have spoken. Let them go gamble and smoke cigars and what have you. We'll just discuss--" Emma paused, her voice playful. "What is it that we women go on about when we're not in the company of men?"
"I believe we discuss important stuff like, makeup, maybe hair. If we're feeling deep, clothing even." Rebecca joked right back. She laughed. "I think we'd rather play billiards!"
And after the ladies gave one another their proper collective due for beauty and fashion, and caught up on one another's lives, they turned to commenting upon who looked stunning in the room---Ann Cox, for one---and who looked tacky---Celia Edwards-Fitzgerald---an hour had gone by. It was time to dance.
And Emma was certainly not short on offers. Though she never went out of her way to become popular or particularly well liked in her law classes, she was always a favorite among the people she knew at Kingston. Beyond that, most of the people in her law classes were young men. Single men. Even without Frank there (and while she admitted she did regret his absence it was not half as much as she had expected to...), she was hardly ever without a partner begging for her hand to take a turn about the room. She was having a grand time. And Teddy Boswell was begging for another dance.
"Just one more," Teddy grinned at her. "It'll be fun, Emme. We can go into the band room and show this group of muppets how to really dance."
"Thank you, Teddy," Emma shook her head and gave him a sweet smile, "but my feet are asking for a bit of a holiday."
Her feet truly were hurting her. It was time to sit down. The Westons were still dancing, as were Ian and Yve. She scanned the room to see how Harriet was faring.
The term wallflower had never seemed so accurate. She seemed afraid to so much as take a step from the boarder of the room onto the dance floor. Was there anyone who could offer to stand up with her? Teddy perhaps? Emma frowned. No, Teddy had already found a new partner in Carrie Dent. And Celia maybe Celia was in the bathroom, because Elton Fitzgerald was prowling the room alone. And he had stopped nearby Harriet.
"Elton," A young man whom Emma didn't know commented. "You looking for someone to dance with?"
Elton shrugged his response. "I'm a married man now," His gaze shifted to Emma, "Though I could be convinced otherwise if the right specimen were brought along, I suppose."
But Emma's dagger-like gaze was enough to make him look away, so he turned away quickly in favor of his friend. "Certainly wouldn't want to dance with that one over there." He gestured in Harriet's general direction. "If that one was the only other option in the world, I'd be faithful to Celia till death took me."
Hearing this, Emma's jaw dropped. She was about to march over to him and give him what-for when she realized...it didn't even matter. Harriet wasn't standing next to him plastered on the wall anymore. She wasn't standing anywhere, in fact. She was dancing. And with---of all people--- George Knightly!
Gratitude rushed through her. Harriet's class with Knightly was only the length of the fall term. Fall term was officially over now. He was no longer her teacher, and therefore was free to ask her for a dance without any impropriety. Emma smiled, motioning to the waiter for a glass of champagne. Proud of them both, she moved to watch them dance.
And George Knightly, who always hedged away from dancing on the grounds of lack of talent and interest, was such a wonderful dancer! He was graceful and charismatic on the floor---Emma wasn't the only woman in the room who was following his steps with her eyes. And whatever he was telling Harriet at the moment was certainly making Harriet laugh. Knightly grinned too, and dipped her in a fluid movement. When he brought her back up again, he said something further and Harriet burst into giggles. The girl suddenly had a smile the size of a billboard. Well, who wouldn't? Just having him on the floor commanded attention, and in that tuxedo Knightly was the best looking man in the place.
Emma grinned. She was so proud of him! Knightly, who had never professed much interest in the life of Harriet Smith, was being positively charming. When their dance ended, Knightly bowed and kissed Harriet's hand lightly. Emma watched Harriet giggle and try a little curtsy. At last, looking like she was in something of a euphoric daze, Harriet went off and out the door---probably to go check her hair.
But it was Emma that Knightly had eyes for at the moment. Her smile proved an irresistible temptation for him. Without breaking his gaze, he moved across the floor to meet her. His own smiling face was particularly beautiful, and here she was, so worried that Celia would strip him from all happiness for the duration of the night!
"Of all the gin joints in all the world," Knightly quoted into her ear. His voice low. "You had to walk into mine."
"The beginning of a beautiful friendship," Emma replied with her own Casablanca quote and squeezed his hand. "You and Harriet, I mean. Thank you so much for dancing with her. I think it really made her night."
The orchestra was starting up a new tune. Noting this, he pulled her gently away from them, keeping hold of her hand.
"Come on," he said softly, "Let's talk on the balcony."
Emma leaned against the balcony's edge. Knightly's suggestion to go outside was a good one. It was December in England, not exactly the tropics. But tonight's weather was surprisingly temperate. The sky was clouded over, though. No moon or planets or stars tonight to gaze at this evening.
The hour bell tolled. The time was two o'clock in the morning. Emma pushed her hair back and laughed ruefully as a breeze fluttered the edges of her dark green dress. "I told Yve that having my hair down was a bad idea," she said. She moved to push it back, but stopped at Knightly's expression.
"Leave it. It's beautiful when it's down." he spoke softly and wouldn't look at her. "Tonight every man here finds you breathtaking."
Emma blushed to her roots. It was the first time in their long friendship that Knightly had made her blush. She didn't know quite how to respond.
"I should've given your friend more credit," Knightly spoke again after a moment's pause. Emma's mind came to a sudden halt before she realized he was talking about Harriet. It was usually Emma who switched topics from one sentence to the next, not Knightly.
"She doesn't have your intellect, Emma," he continued, "but she's a sweet girl, and kind. And Elton's behavior was unpardonable."
Emma shrugged. "Well, Celia wasn't so great to anyone, either." A pang of concern for him swept through her again. "I'm sorry for that, Knightly. Sorry you have to deal with having her here with him."
Knightly kept his gaze on the skyline. The spires of Kingston city were just barely visible in the darkness. "I've said my fill to Celia. She's known that for months now." He hesitated before adding cautiously, "What upset me most was her treatment of you."
She gave him a long look. Honestly, sometimes she just couldn't follow his train of thoughts, and now was certainly proving one of those moments. "Knightly, you don't have to hide how you felt. You were engaged to Celia Edwards. I'm sure it hurts you. I can't imagine anything worse for you than watching her with Elton, seeing her flaunt it your face---in all of our faces..."
She watched Knightly's grip the balcony, saw the hesitation and conflict in his face and the slow release of his breath. Don't you see, she wanted to yell to him, it hurts me more that you won't tell me how this hurts you. Why won't you let me understand the pain you're in because of Celia. But she kept silent. He seemed to be weighing his answer in his mind. When his face turned to look at her, his features were set sharply.
"Emma," he spoke at last, "I--"
"There you both are!"
Both Knightly and Emma jumped. Rebecca Weston had come up behind them.
"Rebecca!" Emma let out a breath as she turned. She felt a rush of emotions---irritation, some sense of irrational guilty that they had somehow been caught near something almost forbidden. "Good God, Rebecca Taylor Weston, give us a bit of warning next time! You scared the life out of me! Right Knightly?"
Knightly hadn't gained enough of his composure back yet for speech. He closed his mouth and rubbed his eyes, seemingly unsure if he was caught in the real world or a dream world.
"The ball's nearly over," Rebecca declared loudly. "Everyone's just---tired. Or asleep already. The band's set up where the orchestra was. They're going to play one last song in the main ballroom. Come dance!"
Emma and Knightly exchanged a rather relieved smile.
"Come on, Emma, you have a laundry list of men waiting for you inside," Rebecca laughed. "What are you waiting for? You can even dance together for all I care. It's not like you're brother and sister." In a flurry of silk and sparkles she was gone, as quick as she'd come.
Emma sighed when their mutual friend was gone and cast Knightly a rueful glance.
"She's had too much to drink," She declared. "Becca always gets loud when she's drunk.
"A little," Knightly agreed. His own smile to Emma was small. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at her with an amused expression. "Who are you going to dance with?"
Emma put her hands on her hips, looking at him. Honestly, sometimes where Knightly was concerned, the mind boggled. Didn't he know the answer to that? He was her oldest and best friend in the world. Who else would she want to dance with?
"Well, you if you'll ask me. You haven't, you know. Asked me, I mean. I've only seen you ask Harriet."
Knightly small smile turned into an honest grin. He looked at her for a long moment. Then, taking a slow step to bridge the distance, Knightly placed his hands on Emma's shoulders. His touch was soft and infinitely cautious. He seemed afraid that close contact would make her fade into a dream. But even with his slow caution, Emma still caught her breath as he leaned in close to whisper in her ear.
"Dance with me."
It was strange, she thought to herself as he guided her onto the dance floor, this feeling that suddenly they were the only two people in the whole entire world.
Posted on Tuesday, 16 August 2005
"Did you get your breakfast yet, Emma?"
Emma tapped the end of her highlighter on the dining room table and began the last paragraph of her reading for the second time in five minutes. It was five days past Christmas and she was having trouble concentrating, and for more reasons than her grandfather's sporadic interruptions. "Yes, Grandfather." She turned the page in her book.
"I'm surprised to see you up and about this early in the morning."
"Uh huh," she answered absently. She knew full well that this was supposed to be her vacation, but she had too much work to catch up on in preparation for the impending Hilary term to engage in her preferred Saturday morning activity: sleeping late. She couldn't afford distractions. And of course, fate was busy piling one distraction on top of the other today. She was supposedly reading, but her mind was still out in the stratosphere somewhere. She was practically forcing herself to do her reading word for word, line for line in an effort to pay attention to it. But if she didn't make it to the end of the chapter this time, she was giving up for the day.
"Who were the boxes from that arrived this morning?"
"The what, Grandpa?"
"The boxes, Emmanuella." Her grandfather called loudly from the kitchen.
"Oh." Emma hesitated briefly, then gave a little rueful snort. Honestly, it was hard to tell today which of them needed a hear-aid more. "They were after-Christmas Christmas presents. Some earrings in the smaller box, and a new outfit in the bigger one. Dad sent me the earrings."
Dad---and Sela, she reminded herself dryly. The card had been signed by both people, a fact that came as a bit of a shock to Emma's sensibilities. In the years following her parents' divorce, her father never allowed one of his paramours to give Emma gifts. Not once. For a long time, Emma thought it was simply a kindness to his ex-wife and respect for her role in their daughter's life. But after Cordelia's death and in the years that followed, nothing changed in his policy. Her father still kept his lovers at arms length; it was a rule Emma was infinitely grateful for.
But the notion that this Christmas gift supposedly came from both her dad and Sela (though no doubt her father footed the bill) was a strange one. Sela---whom she'd never met---was either very persuasive and simply won him over (which Emma doubted, her father was about as pliable as an iron-filled ox), or else her father was...in love. Her father in love? The thought was jarring.
The gift, however, was not. It was a pair of tasteful earrings. Diamond studs. Very elegant, very appropriate, very refined. Very much her father's gift, never mind that he always forgot how she hated the look of diamonds. She would still wear the earrings and make him happy.
"And who sent the other box?" asked Lucien Woodhouse from the kitchen.
Emma hesitated. She coughed to hide her blush, when he poked his head into the room. She turned the page in her book. "It was just a..." The word admirer sounded silly. "A friend, Grandfather."
The second box was larger than the first. She'd opened it in the confines of her room and found a pair of trousers and a shirt in its tissue-paper depths. If the clothes were another gift from her father, she reasoned, then she knew to expect the worst. If her father were given his way with things, Emma would still be dressing like she was thirteen years old. She tried on the outfit, anticipating that it would be some frumpy outfit she would hate.
But she didn't hate it. In fact, from the fit, it was downright stylish. And it took only one look in the mirror to confirm that this was definitely not a gift from her father. Emma pursed her lips and pulled her hair back. Whoever ordered it had an eye for colors that suited her. And unlike her father, the giver possessed a good appreciation for her grown-up proportions. The pinstripe trousers were cut just right, loose on her hips to create length for her short frame, and the top was made of soft, clingy black. The overall effect was lovely for her figure and, well...downright sexy.
"Emma?" Hearing her grandfather's approach down the hallway, Emma had slammed her door shut. She watched as the force of the door shutting caused the box on the edge of her bed to fall to the floor. A small white card tumbled out from its depths.
"I'm in here changing, Grandpa."
Emma walked over to the edge of the bed, bending down to examine the card. Her name was scrawled across. Emma. Nothing more. Whose hand-writing was this? She opened the card with a frown.
"From the man won by every smile."
Emma read the card over once, twice, then put her hand to her mouth, hiding a suddenly self-conscious smile.
'From the man won by every smile,' she'd whispered to herself. Who in the world could that be? She checked the postmark on the box to see where it had been sent from. It was shipped from a well known boutique in the city of Oxford. Oxford? Who did she know in Oxford? No one. Did she know anyone who'd recently gone to the city of Oxford for a day trip or something? Living at Hartfield kept her ignorant of her friends' the daily activities and movements. The shipping address told her nothing.
Emma went back to check the note for clues. She didn't recognize this handwriting. But it could have been dictated to some store clerk to write. She had only the content to work with. Sweet though it was, the card was not an open declaration of love. Which meant that realistically speaking, the box could have been sent by one of her many male friends. This forced Emma to start with the obvious.
George Knightly.
But no sooner had she thought the name then she instinctively crossed it off again. Knightly had given her a present already, five days ago---on Christmas day to be precise. It was a weighty, leather bound sketchbook.
Things had started out so well Christmas morning. Emma was determined to be festive for the day, and had decided to wear red leggings and a red, oversized sweater in celebration of the event. Her hair was in twin braids down her back.
"Someone looks festive," Knightly eyed her with a boyish smile when she opened the door. Emma answered this statement with giggle and a theatrical bow.
"My grandfather still calls me Santa's Little Helper on Christmas morning. I thought I might as well dress the part." She grinned, motioning for George to look upward. Mistletoe was attached to the doorframe. "Looks like we caught you, Knightly." Emma tiptoed to kiss him lightly on the cheek. "Merry Christmas." She told herself she was silly to blush after kissing Knightly on the cheek, and continued her explanation. "Grandfather put the mistletoe up, can you believe it?" She rushed on with her explanation. "He's usually such a scrooge about Christmas, but I think he wants to catch his caretaker under the stuff." Emma giggled at the thought. "I know what Mrs. Bates will say about my outfit, too. Too bright, too red, too young. That's part of why I wore it. But you'd better be careful around here, Knightly. Mrs. Bates is coming over soon and she might not let you off the hook with just a kiss on the cheek or something."
"I'll keep that in mind." His gray eyes sparkled. "And I like your outfit. You look like an elf." Knightly caught her at her wrist, keeping Emma in place beneath the doorframe. "One good turn deserves another." He leaned down, kissing her lightly on the opposite cheek. "Merry Christmas, Emma." His fingers toyed with the silver charm bracelet on her wrist. "Who gave you this?"
"Oh---um..." She blushed. "Frank Churchill, actually," Knightly arched a brow and dropped her hand. "Frank said he bought it in Paris after getting his hair cut." Emma pulled him into the room with a flustered laugh. "Do you believe that? He really did go to Paris for a hair cut."
She noted Knightly's polite nod, and his choice to keep blessedly silent on the Frank Churchill subject. But he spent the bulk of the dinner talking to the other guests, and seemed distant while giving her her Christmas present after dinner.
"I bought it while I was in London visiting John Chevalier," He'd explained when she pulled the sketchbook from its wrapping. The sketchbook had been wrapped in an embroidered scarf. "The scarf is from Issy. She and John miss you, Emma."
Just what precisely were you expecting from him, anyway? She didn't know, but somehow the gift lacked the personal touch found in Knightly's past presents. And why was his voice so strained? She'd kept her gaze on the sketchbook, hiding the disappointment in her eyes. "Thank you, Knightly. I needed a new sketch book."
Her grandfather's voice had interrupted the tense silence with his typical, booming obliviousness. "Here, Emma---open my gift next."
Emma sighed at the memory of the whole incident. Two steps forward, one step back. The box on the doorstep was no gift from Knightly. He was too busy giving her sketchbooks.
So who else was on her list of men? It would have to be someone single. Married men didn't go around giving gifts like that. Well, except for maybe Elton Fitzgerald. But ugh, Elton! Immediately her mind revolted at the possibility. Yes, he had admitted to his infatuation with her, an infatuation that seemed to linger despite his claims to the contrary, or to his recent marriage. But she didn't want the gift-giver to be Elton. In fact, she steadfastly refused it could be Elton. Celia would have his hide on the wall if he tried such a gesture. And besides, Emma had experienced firsthand with what Elton considered 'romance,' and she knew subtlety was not among his cards to play. No, thankfully this gesture was beyond his capabilities.
The obvious answer seemed to be Frank Churchill. He'd already declared an appreciation for her physical 'charms,' and the clothing certainly expressed such an awareness. But there was more to the gift than that. There was a sweet shyness in the gesture, both in the note and in the way it was given. Was Frank capable of that kind of subtlety? She simply didn't know.
She'd wondered if the giver was perhaps her ex-boyfriend, Brandon. Brandon was undeniably charming. Rebecca had said from the first, he could sell ice to the Eskimos or charm a turtle out of its shell if he set his mind to it. But she hadn't heard from Brandon in months. And beyond that, even when they were together, he was a far cry from romantic. And when he tried to be, there was always something disingenuous about it. No, the giver couldn't be Brandon.
So who was it? "The man won by every smile." Someone in one of her classes who'd been admiring her from afar, who knew her better than she realized? Surely not Brian, who'd approached her drunkenly in the club on her birthday and whom she caught eying her occasionally ever since. Ugh, she hoped not. She'd danced with Teddy the night of the Winter Ball. He'd seemed a bit taken with her. But that was probably on account of the wine. And she doubted his knowledge of her ranged beyond the superficial. Who, then?
Emma changed into jeans and a sweater and decided to try and study in her room, momentarily giving up on the mystery. She didn't know who was responsible for the gift but she would save it for a special occasion. Still, the presence of the card and the clothing proved too distracting. In an effort to concentrate, she'd retreated to the dining room in an effort to rid her mind of the puzzle and get some real work done.
No success yet though. The slightest things, including her grandfather in the kitchen, were proving enough to make her mind wander back to the issue. Emma dropped her highlighter and flipped to another page. The man won by every smile. Sheesh, could he have been more obscure?
"Emma?" Emma started, hearing her grandfather's voice once again. She really had to stop thinking about that silly card. "Do remind me later, I must call your father and thank him for sending Paolo."
She held back a giggle. "Okay, Grandfather." It was like he was thanking her father for a new fedora, not a living breathing person. Paolo was a chef. He was a premier cook from Portugal, and now Hartfield's personal chef. Lucien Woodhouse, wealthy in his own right, declared her father's gift to be excessive, extravagant and wholly unnecessary for Hartfield House. But that didn't stop him from delighting in dictating what he wanted in his morning meal. Emma observed this newest test of wills between her father and grandfather with amusement. Silently, though, she conceded that in this case her father was right. Paolo was a brilliant chef, and they couldn't rely on Justine's generosity in cooking for them all their time. Emma certainly couldn't cook. That afternoon with Knightly in the residence---the day she'd slept till 1 pm and managed to make only coffee for breakfast---had reaffirmed this fact. Simply put, Hartfield needed Paolo.
Another upside of Paolo's presence was that it allowed Lucien Woodhouse to focus his energies on someone other than Emma. Particularly at times like this when she was trying, albeit futilely, to study. Her grandfather seemed to have given up on his administrative duties, however, because she watched him amble his way into the dining room, probably in an effort to talk with her face to face instead of all this shouting back and forth. All this shouting was a far cry from decorum, and her grandfather was from an era where propriety meant everything.
"Are you expecting company, Grandfather?" Emma noted his brightly colored waistcoat and the tie he was meticulously straightening. Lucien nodded.
"I invited Justine. She should be here soon." He scratched his whiskers nervously. "I haven't been able to give her a present for Christmas or the New Year, and I thought today would be a good day. I know it's a few days after Christmas now, but better late than never." He leaned back in his chair, pulling a small box from his pocket. "I saw this in a catalogue and thought of her," he admitted, grinning like a schoolboy.
"May I?" she asked, reaching for the blue-velvet box. He nodded. Inside was a rose-gold tennis bracelet.
"She's coming for lunch. You don't think she's allergic to gold, do you?"
Emma grinned. Gift exchange and a catered lunch? This was practically a date! She shut her text book with a thrill of triumph. Enough pretending to study. It was time to start gathering her things together. Never let it be said she'd stood in the way of giving her grandfather and the lovely, elderly widow some proper 'alone time.'
"I'm sure she'll love it, Grandfather. It's beautiful."
"Now wait a minute, young lady. Just where are you off to? I thought we could have lunch together, the three of us."
Emma clutched her books to her chest, giving him a bright smile. "Oh, no. I have plans with Rebecca Weston for the day. I should go give her a call."
This was not quite the truth, but not quite a lie, either. Rebecca Weston had called yesterday to invite Emma to spend Saturday with her on the set of Joceline Fairfax's new movie. Emma had politely but firmly declined. There were a lot of things she'd rather be doing other than watching a whole film set worth of people gush over the dull-yet-perfect Joceline Fairfax.
Nevertheless, this was the perfect excuse to get out of the house and let the burgeoning pair of Justine and her grandfather draw a little closer. Some things were simply worth the sacrifice, and her grandfather's romantic happiness was one of them. With a bounce in her step, Emma pecked her grandfather on the cheek. "Enjoy your lunch, Grandpa. I'm off to spend the day with a movie star."