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Chapter 1 ~ Reflections
George Knightley leaned back into the armchair and stared into the bright fire that lit up the room, his book lying forgotten in his lap. Returning from Henry and Isabella's home in London, he had noticed that the night was cool, and the fire, often absent from the study of Donwell Abbey's master, had returned in a blaze that would have heartened Mr. Woodhouse's old soul. The lone occupant of the room, however, was scarcely aware of the warmth or brightness of the room, lost as he was in his thoughts. His reverie was interrupted by a servant, who put the customary after-dinner tea on a nearby table and curtsied her escape from the silent study. Mr. Knightley returned to the contemplation of the cinders in the fireplace, now beginning to burn low.
Seized by a restless urge, he got up hastily from the armchair, and the book previously in his lap landed heavily on his foot. With a muffled curse, he picked up the book and a bookmark fluttered to the floor. Rolling his eyes in annoyance, he retrieved the bookmark and straightened out before he noticed what it was. His face softened, the rough, tired lines smoothing out to reveal a younger face that belied his thirty-seven years. With a barely perceptible smile, he turned the bookmark over and sought the delicate, strong, but unformed handwriting he knew would be there - "Emma." Turning the bookmark over again, he absently fingered the pressed flowers on the surface while reminiscing of a time when a seven year old Emma had signed it on a visit to Donwell Abbey with her sister and the newly acquired Miss Taylor. She had imparted it seriously, and twenty-three year old George Knightley, fondly indulgent, had matched her expression in solemnity. Young and fresh from Oxford, he had decided to stay at home to take care of his mother's failing health, allowing John to take the bar successfully. They presented an incongruous pair, the little solemn girl in her pinafore and the young man with his Le Siècle de Louis XIV under one arm.
Returning his gaze to the fire, Mr. Knightley wondered how that memory had survived. But, he thought, smiling, Emma had been as naturally delightful and fanciless then as he had been lively. The years that had given him a grave countenance and somber manners had also robbed her of her simple nature. Young then, her imagination had still been under the control of Miss Taylor and her liveliness tempered by her love for her family.
As a log cackled and spit in the fire while succumbing to its charred fate, Knightley roused himself with a severe shake of the head. He realized that he was being uselessly nostalgic, and though he desired to prove himself Emma's friend by impartial criticism rather than flattery, he sensed that he was being unjust. She was still young, and with good guidance, she could curb her occasional thoughtlessness while retaining her endearing liveliness.
As the clock struck the hour, he straightened up automatically and put the book, with the cherished bookmark, in its place. He was glad to leave his thoughts and even more eager to provide Emma assistance in cheering Mr. Woodhouse. He had lingered at home for an hour after his dinner, well aware that his unexpected arrival at tea-time would be as destructive to Mr. Woodhouse's peace as his timely arrival now would secure his comfort for the evening. Donning his greatcoat as he gave orders for supper to the butler, he left the house and marched with long steady strides towards Hartfield.
Chapter 2 ~ Stirrings
And staying away from the wedding was an added advantage, he thought wryly. He had been keen to watch neither Emma's attempts at concealing her pain nor his own awkward and futile attempts at consolation. His own master, he was a great advocate for independence, and although he could understand Emma's feelings, he knew he would not be able to empathize effectively. The reality and poignancy of the sorrow he did not doubt. He knew that despite all of Emma's faults, affectation of feeling did not exist in her.
As he approached the house, he donned a more cheerful frame of mind, focusing on seeing Emma again. Her youthful cheerfulness and elasticity of temper were a great a boon not only to her and her father, but Knightley as well. Unwittingly, his step became brisk and a smile graced his face as he entered the great house. Nodding to the servants, he moved to the parlor and, adjusting his coat, entered.
Obtaining a moment to observe as father and daughter turned to perceive him, he studied the picture they made and a surge of warm affection built in his heart at Emma's thoughtfulness. While he had been imagining her as giving way to her own grief, she had apparently attempted to establish a cheerful façade to prevent any distress on her father's part. His smile grew warmer and tenderer as he also noticed the contentment that appeared in her face as she recognized him.
Brightening his smile momentarily for Emma's benefit, he turned to Mr. Woodhouse and almost directly began to talk about Isabella and the children, knowing that that topic was paramount to all others in his listener's mind. After talking about his brother's family and delving into great detail about each child's health, he commenced an exhaustive discussion with Mr. Woodhouse about the wet weather in London, which he sagely described as "refreshingly cool." However, midway through the description of a particularly well-favored night, he noticed the wilting of Emma's cheerfulness and the momentary sadness that enveloped her face caused a pang in his heart. He desired to comfort her, but noticing that Mr. Woodhouse was waiting for his concurrence on some detail of draughts, he hastily made the expected answer. Talking with zest and forced cheerfulness but wishing that the topic were long over, he attempted to gloss over the elder man's concern over the weather, unabashedly contradicting his private opinion of the coldness of the night and hoping his indifference to the matter was not blatantly obvious. However, his attention was riveted to the conversation the next moment when Mr. Woodhouse observed in his quiet, anxious way,
"It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour, while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding."
Observing the perfect opening to introduce the topic on which, doubtless, Emma dwelt, and hoping to distract her by maintaining a cheerful discourse, he asked them about the wedding.
"Bye the bye - I have not wished you joy. Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations. But I hope it all went off tolerably well." And then, turning to Emma, he teasingly asked, "How did you all behave? Who cried most?"
"Ah! Poor Miss Taylor! 'tis a sad business," was Mr. Woodhouse's melancholy answer, which Knightley did not regard as absolute assurance of the state of affairs.
"Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly say 'poor Miss Taylor.' I have a great regard for you and Emma, but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence!" He paused for a moment, untoward memories of his own succession as Donwell's master came to his mind and brought the lie to his assertion. Mentally shaking himself, he continued. "At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two."
"Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!" exclaimed Emma. "That, is what you have in your head, I know - and what you would certainly say if my father were not by."
He had to suppress his smile of delight that rose at her playful speech. He knew that she did not look upon his reprimands favorably, but her tone had been bantering, which spoke auspiciously for the overall state of her spirits.
Both were astonished the next moment by Mr. Woodhouse's contribution to the conversation, and Knightley watched with feelings of mild, unmerited guilt surfacing as Emma gave her assurances that she herself and not her father was the subject of their banter. However, other feelings soon took precedence.
'Yes, it is true,' he thought warmly as she watched her patiently soothe her father, 'I like to find fault with you, but I could never fault you for neglect of your father.' But he only said, rather coolly, "Emma knows I never flatter her, but I meant no reflection on any body. Miss Taylor has been used to have two persons to please; she will now have but one. The chances are that she must be a gainer."
"Well," said Emma, apparently willing to let it pass-"you want to hear about the wedding, and I shall be happy to tell you, for we all behaved charmingly. Every body was punctual, every body in their best looks. Not a tear, and hardly a long face to be seen. Oh! no, we all felt that we were going to be only half a mile apart, and were sure of meeting every day."
Knightley was not fooled by the words and false smile and could see that she well knew the difference between a Mrs. Weston half a mile away and a Miss Taylor in the house.
"Dear Emma bears every thing so well," said her father. "But, Mr. Knightley, she is really very sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I am sure she will miss her more than she thinks for."
Knightley saw Emma turn away and noticed that although she was smiling, her eyes were shining with tears. His heart wrenched with her sorrow and he was momentarily seized by a ridiculous wish that Miss Taylor had never married and left Hartfield. Feelingly, he replied while looking at Emma,
"It is impossible that Emma should not miss such a companion. We should not like her so well as we do, sir, if we could suppose it. But she knows how much the marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how very acceptable it must be at Miss Taylor's time of life to be settled in a home of her own, and how important to her to be secure of a comfortable provision, and therefore cannot allow herself to feel so much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be glad to have her so happily married."
He felt uncomfortable asserting opinions that were contradictory to his own; at the moment, it felt as if Miss Taylor had committed the greatest sin possible by leaving dear Emma alone with only her father for company. However, he was rescued from the necessity of prevaricating more by Emma's response.
"And you have forgotten one matter of joy to me," said Emma, "and a very considerable one-that I made the match myself. I made the match, you know, four years ago; and to have it take place, and be proved in the right, when so many people said Mr. Weston would never marry again, may comfort me for any thing."
Knightley shook his head, surprised at how quickly Emma's intrusiveness and overconfidence could change his feelings from compassion to irritation. Her reply to her father's fond concurrence in her abilities and request to stop making matches only served to increase his frustration.
"I promise you to make none for myself, papa; but I must, indeed, for other people. It is the greatest amusement in the world! And after such success, you know! -Every body said that Mr. Weston would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Weston, who had been a widower so long, and who seemed so perfectly comfortable without a wife, so constantly occupied either in his business in town or among his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful-Mr. Weston need not spend a single evening in the year alone if he did not like it. Oh, no! Mr. Weston certainly would never marry again. Some people even talked of a promise to his wife on her death-bed, and others of the son and the uncle not letting him. All manner of solemn nonsense was talked on the subject, but I believed none of it. Ever since the day (about four years ago) that Miss Taylor and I met with him in Broadway-lane, when, because it began to mizzle, he darted away with so much gallantry, and borrowed two umbrellas for us from Farmer Mitchell's, I made up my mind on the subject. I planned the match from that hour; and when such success has blessed me in this instance, dear papa, you cannot think that I shall leave off match-making."
Knightley silently wondered if she also took credit for the fortuitous rain that had caused the first meeting. Genuinely worried about any repetitions of this "endeavour," he attempted to speak severely and quellingly.
"I do not understand what you mean by 'success;'" he said. "Success supposes endeavour. Your time has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeavouring for the last four years to bring about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady's mind! But if, which I rather imagine, your making the match, as you call it, means only your planning it, your saying to yourself one idle day, 'I think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Weston were to marry her,' and saying it again to yourself every now and then afterwards, -why do you talk of success? where is your merit? -what are you proud of? -you made a lucky guess; and that is all that can be said."
"And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a lucky guess? -I pity you. -I thought you cleverer-for, depend upon it a lucky guess is never merely luck. There is always some talent in it." Knightley could not suppress the smile at this willful playfulness. "And as to my poor word 'success,' which you quarrel with, I do not know that I am so entirely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures-but I think there may be a third-a something between the do-nothing and the do-all. If I had not promoted Mr. Weston's visits here, and given many little encouragements, and smoothed many little matters, it might not have come to any thing after all. I think you must know Hartfield enough to comprehend that."
'I know you enough to comprehend what havoc you can create,' he thought. "A straight-forward, open-hearted man, like Weston, and a rational unaffected woman, like Miss Taylor, may be safely left to manage their own concerns. You are more likely to have done harm to yourself, than good to them, by interference."
"Emma never thinks of herself, if she can do good to others;" rejoined Mr. Woodhouse, understanding but in part. "But, my dear, pray do not make any more matches, they are silly things, and break up one's family circle grievously." Knightley heartily agreed with the sentiments, although not the reasons.
"Only one more, papa; only for Mr. Elton. Poor Mr. Elton! You like Mr. Elton, papa, -I must look about for a wife for him. There is nobody in Highbury who deserves him-and he has been here a whole year, and has fitted up his house so comfortably that it would be a shame to have him single any longer-and I thought when he was joining their hands to-day, he looked so very much as if he would like to have the same kind office done for him! I think very well of Mr. Elton, and this is the only way I have of doing him a service."
'Poor Elton. He doesn't deserve this,' he thought absurdly. He was about to retort but Mr. Woodhouse answered Emma instead.
"Mr. Elton is a very pretty young man, to be sure, and a very good young man, and I have a great regard for him. But if you want to show him any attention, my dear, ask him to come and dine with us some day. That will be a much better thing. I dare say Mr. Knightley will be so kind as to meet him."
Knightley could not help laughing at the expression on Emma's face. "With a great deal of pleasure, sir, at any time, and I agree with you entirely that it will be a much better thing. Invite him to dinner, Emma, and help him to the best of the fish and the chicken, but leave him to choose his own wife. Depend upon it, a man of six or seven-and-twenty can take care of himself."
Chapter 3 ~ A Letter and an Introduction
Over the next fortnight, life at Hartfield and Donwell resumed its previous slow pace. Knightley oversaw his farms, tenants, and estate, and yet always remained willing to appear for an evening spent at Mr. Woodhouse's disposal.
Indeed, knowing how restricted society must have become at Hartfield, Knightley tried to free himself from evening engagements to provide company for Emma. However, he realized he was not doing a very good job of it. With the winter approaching fast, he was anxious to finish the drain that would service the west farms. And then overseeing William Larkins was not an easy task, who was eager to have his master's harvest sold with the greatest profit.
Coming home from the fields at sunset, he sometimes experienced unanticipated eagerness for the winter. His burdens would lessen, secure as he was in the knowledge of a plentiful harvest. Some evenings, rising from his accounts for a solitary dinner, he became restless for the peace of the cold and the company of family and friends, restless even in the confidence of having done his duty. It was on such a day, when, having retired to the library after dinner, he was interrupted by Hodges in his reading.
"Mr. Knightley, a letter arrived for you from London this afternoon, sir, when you were with Mr. Larkins."
Knightley thought he could detect a smile on the old servant's face. Yes, he could definitely see the ghost of a repressed smile. Allowing his grin to surface, he answered dryly, "Yes Hodges, I am glad to have a letter from John, but I do not intend to knock over anything tonight. As a precaution, however, you can leave the letter there." He nodded towards the desk and watched as his butler put the missive on the table and bowed. Nodding his leave, he waited till the door was securely shut before he retrieved the letter. Yes, Hodges would not let him forget the incident of the previous spring. Unable to leave Donwell in the planting season, he had been forced to wait the arrival of an express from John for news of Isabella and the birth of the child. Looking back, he was certain that he must have been more nervous than many a father. In sympathy with John and aware of his strong domestic attachments, he had left Larkins in the field looking after him with long-suffering impatience. Pacing in his study after dinner, he had jumped when Hodges had arrived with a letter and, in his impatience to get the news, had knocked down an empty wineglass, the destruction of which he did not notice until he had ascertained the safe arrival of little Emma. When he had finally finished thanking heaven and was leaving to impart the news at Hartfield, he had stepped on a piece of glass, which crumbled under his shoe. Stalled for a moment, he had looked dumbly from his shoe, to the glass, to the amused countenance of his butler, with what must have been an incredibly imbecilic expression.
Catching his reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece, he realized that he was grinning. He relaxed his thoughts and face and opened the letter in his hands as he dropped into a chair by the sideboard, knowing that for all of John's declarations of indifference towards correspondence, his letters were never unsatisfactory in terms of amusement. Knightley poured himself a drink from the decanter and read.
October 3, 1813
Brunswick Square,
London.Dear George,
I received your letter of the 28th and reported their contents to Isabella. She is full of sympathy for her father and sister, and knowing that she will do an adequate job of condoling for their loss, I feel no need to do so myself. Indeed, unsocial and taciturn as I might be, I have not yet degenerated enough to believe it incumbent upon me to express condolences for a wedding. But even if it were a funeral, I assure you that Isabella's grief would be appropriate for the occasion.
Seriously, however, I thought your letter was rather gloomy. "Emma bears the sorrow with excellent spirits but becomes depressed at times"? Truly, Mrs. Weston must be suffering cruelly in her marriage for such a desponding statement to be written. Emma, dear brother, has an excellent pliancy of temperament that, with aid from her mild self-centeredness, will dispel any depressed thoughts in a trice. Cheer up; in your next letter you are sure to complain about some new misguided plan of hers.
We are all well here. Henry is eager to go to school, the poor lad; he does not know what he is getting into. The other children are better, merely wanting "Uncle George" to come back. Little Emma is faring well. Under the tutelage of Henry & company, I have become an excellent nursery-maid, even in Isabella's distinguished eye. Isabella and I are well, or as well as anyone can be in a house full of children.
I hope all is well at Donwell. I know you are concerned about the drain, but I am sure it will stay till the spring. We can discuss that when I come to Surrey at Christmas. By the bye, I think I shall be able to come in mid-December. Isabella is eager to go home and I must admit that I share her enthusiasm.
Pray excuse any impertinence in this letter; the MacBridge case was successful and I felt it requisite to vent my exultation in a decorous manner. I do hope that neither Emma nor you suffer too much.
Yours &c.,
John Knightley
Knightley sipped his wine as he furtively watched Emma initiate conversation between Harriet Smith and Philip Elton. His brow creased as he noted the awkwardness between Emma's two victims. Victims, he thought wryly, how appropriate. He looked at his rather full plate and frowned, wondering just what Emma's aim was. He had arrived at Hartfield for dinner with Mr. Woodhouse and the Westons, to find two unexpected additions. Elton was a rather natural addition, but he had been surprised by Harriet Smith's presence. While Knightley's hands kept up the semblance of eating, his mind wandered back over the evening to garner all available information about Miss Smith. He could see that she was rather timid, and from the reverential "Ms. Woodhouse" that regularly punctuated the conversation, he gathered that she was as impressed with her hostess and surroundings as would suit Emma's vanity. That, of course, was only to be expected. He knew that she was a parlour boarder at Mrs. Goddard's and one could not expect much. And to be fair, Hartfield had a reputation in Highbury, as the seat of an old, honorable, and rich family.
Yes, it was natural enough for Harriet to be awed by Emma, but what was so confounding was the reciprocal interest Emma showed in Harriet. Knightley knew that Emma was well aware of social distinctions and was able to use them to benefit herself. She was not arrogant, but such uncalled-for, unreasonable interest in a girl who was so very below her in both situation and, judging from her conversation, sense!
"Well, Knightley, what's this I hear? Is it true that you intend to remove the south path?" Mr. Weston's enquiry startled Knightley, and he roused himself to answer Weston and assure him that no changes would be wrought until the spring. Returning then to his thoughts, he glanced at Elton, who was gallantly entertaining Miss Woodhouse and her friend. Suddenly an unbidden thought flew into his mind. He narrowed his eyes. Surely not, he thought. Elton is ambitious, certainly, but this would be outrageous. He could not possibly be so presumptuous...
The thought was cut off as the ladies began to rise, ready to retire to the living room. Knightley arose as well, his eyes intent on observing Elton's behavior. Elton offered to help Ms. Woodhouse, who directed him to Harriet. Knightley missed neither the slight hesitation in the vicar's countenance as he turned from one lady to the other, nor the bright though suppressed triumph in Emma's eyes as Harriet took Elton's arm with blushing acceptance. After the ladies left, he wandered with his port away from the fire, around which Mr. Woodhouse, Elton, and Weston were gathered, and replayed the scene in his mind, wondering over the meaning of that episode. From all appearances, Elton seemed to be pursuing Emma. But then, she was not encouraging. She was more intent on Harriet... Harriet! Of course! His face twisted into a scowl as he realized that she was following through on her decision to grace Elton with a wife. Her matchmaking was escalating beyond bounds! Did she really think she could make Elton fall in love with the girl? And Elton! What did he mean by his behavior to Emma? His manners were always gracious towards ladies, but he seemed to be showing an excessive interest in-
Frustrated, he gulped down the contents of his glass and took a deep breath. No, this was insane. He was reading too much into everyone's manners, basing too much on one evening alone. Yes, he thought, calming himself. He couldn't let his theories run away with him. He cleared his mind, squared his shoulders, and joined the circle around the fire. He would not decide rashly. He would only observe.
Over the next few days, his fears were allayed as he observed the three in question. He saw that Emma did seek to introduce her friend to the vicar's notice, but it seemed of a piece with her general emphasis on establishing Harriet in Highbury's polite society. Elton's behavior did not disturb his serenity either, for his behavior to both Miss Smith and Miss Woodhouse was equally courteous. No, his mind quieted on that score, and for a week or so, he relaxed into normal life. His uncertainty in Emma's new friendship remained, but he decided to let it be, assuming that Emma was attempting to fill the place Miss Taylor had left empty. He felt confident that Emma could be trusted to keep the acquaintance at an appropriate level of intimacy.
It was mid-October when his perception of the friendship began to change. He had arrived at Hartfield in the morning to discuss some matters of Highbury with Mr. Woodhouse. After discussing the matters for the whole morning in the calm and deliberate manner Mr. Woodhouse's comfort required, he decided to accept Emma's invitation to lunch.
Lunch was an informal affair, rather more a midday snack than an actual meal, which was hardly surprising given Mr. Woodhouse's belief that only fare as light as gruel could be appropriate sustenance for the middle of the afternoon (or indeed at any time of day). After dinner, Mr. Woodhouse settled in by the fire for his afternoon nap, and Knightley picked up a book to keep himself engaged until it would be necessary to return home. Yet Knightley's attention was averted from his book by the unsettling conversation between Emma and Harriet. Harriet continuously talked about a book that she had apparently read on Emma's recommendation - or possibly coercion - and was asking fundamental questions that sometimes necessitated averting his face to hide his gapes of astonishment. Emma's responses too, although usually right, made him start seething inwardly. She answered her companion with an almost arrogant superiority of manner. Harriet, moreover, was taking the behavior gratefully, immediately accepting each of Miss Woodhouse's statements as incontrovertible truth. Knightley's jaw tightened as he realized that Harriet's ignorance and manners would add nothing to Emma's; her reverence would steadily increase Emma's vanity and self-assurance.
After staying long enough to ascertain that he had not judged the pair too hastily, he left, his growing discontentment at the situation making his leave-taking of Emma curt in even his own opinion. However, he was stalled by Emma, who left her seat with Harriet to see him out. His annoyance diminished inadvertently as he looked at Emma's puzzled face, canted to one side, and her eyes asked him the cause of his anger. However, without vocally questioning his sudden change in mood, she asked him if he would be available for dinner, as she planned to invite the Westons as well.
"Do say that William Larkins can spare you, Mr. Knightley," she added with a sparkle in her eye. "Poor father will be rather sorry he fell asleep after lunch despite your talking, and besides, I need a sixth at dinner."
Knightley smiled at her as she spoke. "Yes, I know what you think of my entertaining abilities, but why the sixth?" His smile abruptly vanished at her answer.
"Well, I plan to invite Harriet as well, so that would make it six, and you know father had rather have an even number at the table." She looked almost alarmed at Knightley's sudden change of countenance, and a puzzled frown appeared on her brow as he accepted his hat and cane from a footman.
Knightley warred with himself, wondering whether he should say something to Emma now or wait till his opinions had a more solid foundation. Deciding, however, to introduce the idea to Emma and let it be for a while, he settled on the direct method.
"Emma, are you sure Harriet is an appropriate addition?" he asked, hoping that Emma wouldn't immediately bristle at the idea.
"Why, of course I am sure," came the amazed reply. "Whatever could possibly be wrong with inviting her to dinner?"
Knightley looked up in confusion and, when he understood her, started laughing deeply. The looks of astonishment and bewilderment that she directed towards him only promoted his laughter, as the tension of the afternoon was released. He stopped gradually when he saw her getting concerned.
Calming himself, he clarified. "No, I was not talking about the dinner, but about -" He stopped as an urge overcame him to not ruin the tranquility that had suddenly formed between Emma and himself. He smiled at a still-baffled Emma and, with an injunction to reserve some time for him in the evening, said his goodbye and headed towards Donwell in high good-humor.
Chapter 4 ~ An Unsatisfactory Meeting
"Madness," Knightley muttered, his eyes trained on the cornices along his bedroom ceiling as his valet unbound his cravat, "complete and utter madness." He struggled against the urge to petulantly bring down his chin and grimace at Jenkins and forced himself to be satisfied with bestowing a black scowl upon the ceiling.
If he had been asked when his day had turned so bad, he would have been hard-pressed to answer coherently. Indeed, how could one trace the progress of such a day? From an auspicious morning to a troubled afternoon, the tide of fate's humor ebbed, hesitated a moment in the destruction of the day's comfort, then receded to the nadir, leaving behind wet and dreary worry that soon dried to irritable sand.
"Ready, Mr. Knightley," said Jenkins, and Knightley lowered his head to meet his glaring countenance in the mirror, as if demanding an explanation from his reflection. The confrontation continued as Jenkins helped him off with his coat and waistcoat, then collected the various articles of clothing flung haphazardly across the room, signature evidence of its occupant's rare bad temper.
"Will that be all sir?" Jenkins asked in a subdued tone that made Knightley wince in shame of thrusting his ill humor upon others. Smoothing the deep furrows in his brow and assuming a penitent tome, he answered, "Yes Jenkins, that will be all. I shall require you at six tomorrow."
"Very well sir," the valet said, and proceeded to realize his escape.
"Jenkins..." Knightley watched as the man paused and turned in respectful silence, a look of courteous inquiry tinting his face. "I apologize for the trouble I have caused you tonight." He paused to find the appropriate words without revealing too much and to repress the burgeoning irritability that threatened to hinder his apology. "The truth is that I've had a devil of a day. - Will you consider ignoring my behavior?" He watched his servant's face, not entirely free of anxiety. Jenkins was not prone to sulking fits, but....
"Of course Mr. Knightley. A good night to you sir," Jenkins intoned in a voice a mite less sepulchral than before. He paused again, one hand on the door handle and the other competently holding the discarded raiments. "I believe Mrs. Weston will be at home tomorrow afternoon, as Mr. Weston must visit Squire Stratton, sir." The quiet click of the door left Knightley gaping; then, firmly clamping his jaw, he calmly considered that, for Jenkins' own safety, it was well that he had left. An aptitude for premonition was not healthy if it inspired thoughts of strangulation in others.
With a heavy sigh, he fell ungracefully onto the bed and closed his eyes, resting one hand on them to shield them from the peculiarly bright glare of the candle. He ignored the need to undress as the day's weariness caught up with him, the events of the day gliding against his consciousness like kingfishers skimming the water's surface.
He got up hastily as the mixture of anger and disappointment revisited him. In a controlled and studiously detached manner, he began undressing for the night and thought about the evening without letting his feelings wash him away. Madness. The thought reverberated in his head as he analyzed the disastrous evening.
Having returned from the luncheon at Hartfield, he was greeted by William Larkins with a look of patient accusation that only he could perfect. Suppressing a groan and the desire to slap his forehead, he replaced the smile that had fled his face with a faint, apologetic one. "Really, Larkins, I beg your forgiveness. I got a little...sidetracked, and..." He trailed off, noticing his listener's unmollified air, and sighed.
"Yes, Larkins, I am the culprit here. It really is beyond me how I forgot our appointment. But I shall exonerate myself by looking to the accounts right now." He suited action to word and led the way to his study. The next three hours were spent in a grueling a battle with the accounts and with William Larkins's desire to sell more produce than was consistent with precedent. When he was finally released from his self-imposed punishment, he bid Larkins a farewell that was sullenly returned. Shaking his head at the bailiff's regular inexplicable gloominess, Knightley pulled out his watch, only to find that he had a mere half-hour in which to get ready and appear at Hartfield. A soft curse escaped him before he dashed up to his bedchamber and pulled wildly at his cravat while summoning for Jenkins. Half-an-hour and a quick bath later, he found himself back on the familiar path to Hartfield, his good-humor of the morning diminished but not exhausted. Passing the paling in a quiet thoughtfulness resulting from the afternoon's work, he reached the great house before he remembered his task of talking to Emma about her new friendship. The recollection did little to improve his already dulled humor, and he walked into the hall looking, he was certain, like French royalty headed for the guillotine. Shedding his coat and hat into the arms of a waiting footman, he adjusted his cuffs and his features to appear less disgruntled with the world. In a moment, however, the need to adjust his features was eliminated completely.
Knightley entered the parlor to the heartwarming sight of Emma bending over her seated father, attending to an appeal made in the old man's low, plaintive voice. Mr. Woodhouse was seated at his customary seat near the fireplace, and the light of the fire that outlined Emma's curl-framed face shone softly on her gown. More beautiful that the beauty or grace of the figure, however, was the unmistakable love evinced in the gentle tones and quiet smile of the young woman. Knightley stood, charmed, at the threshold of the room, blind to the presence of Mrs. Weston and Harriet Smith conversing near a window, the tension of the afternoon receding slowly as he observed figure unbend with an contented smile. In a moment Emma turned towards him and the warm smile that spread on her face was mirrored in Knightley's countenance. Feeling an unusual but extremely pleasant tenderness suffuse throughout him, he moved to Emma's side and greeted her.
"Good evening, Emma." He could see Emma's reply forming on her lips when Mr. Woodhouse soft welcome reached his ears. Coloring slightly with chagrin at having unwittingly ignored the elder man, he made his bow to the gentleman and occupied himself in responding to the inquiries about the weather. Mr. Weston soon joined them with a "How d'ye do, Knightley? Pleasant weather, eh?" and in the ensuing discussion on an assortment of topics, Knightley found nary a moment for private conversation with Emma.
When they moved for dinner, with Mr. Woodhouse leading with 'poor Miss Taylor' and Mr. Weston escorting Miss Smith, Knightley found himself with Emma at his side and took the opportunity to express his pleasure at the night's arrangement. To his surprise, he had found himself more genuinely pleased with the evening than he had expected, the companionship of friends of long standing a soothing balm to the aggravations of watching over Emma and battling with Larkins and the accounts. His praise, therefore, was honest and warm, and he could see the wonder growing on his listener's face as he seated himself beside Emma, with Weston across him. He could discern when she had decided on an appropriate response by the amused twinkle that originated in her eyes and pervaded throughout her face as her lips curved into a saucy smile.
"Mr. Knightley, indeed you flatter me. If I had known you to be in such an approving mood, I would have taken care to do more things that would require your forgiveness. But pray tell me what it is that makes you so happy, so that I can employ it to make you give up your disapproval of my more controversial plans."
Knightley teased his face to look strict and, in a grave and ponderous tone, lectured, "If all your ideas were as well-executed as this dinner, Emma, I believe we should never disagree. However, since our disputes are inevitable, I will tell you the reason for my good humor." Leaning in towards her and lowering his voice, he continued. "The secret to winning my favor is the excellent roast duck you have provided and of which your father would highly disapprove. It is my Achilles' heel, my only weakness." He stopped as laughter overcame her and allowed himself a smile as he observed her, eyes bright and slender fingers attempting to mask her lips with the meager cover of a napkin.
Dinner progressed well, and after a short discussion with Weston on parish business, Knightley and the other men rejoined the ladies.
Chapter 4 ~ An Unsatisfactory Evening
Dinner progressed well, and after a short discussion with Weston on parish business, Knightley and the other men rejoined the ladies. The sight of the three ladies conversing together welcomed them, but they dispersed as the men entered. Mrs. Weston, with the kind consideration that emerged from her knowledge of Mr. Woodhouse, moved away from the fireplace to Mr. Weston, and both watched Emma as she went towards her father, escorting him towards his accustomed seat and talking calmly to him as he inquired in his anxious manner about tea. Leaving the threshold and heading towards the large windows that overlooked the shrubberies, he waited till Emma would become free of her responsibility towards her father. He had been reminded of his self-appointed duty to talk to her about her 'protégé,' so to speak, by the familiarity with which Emma treated Harriet, and the yoke of the unpleasant task that lay before him weighed rather heavily on his mind. He had experienced uncommon pleasure in the evening and the meal, and now to destroy that contentment! But I must. I cannot let her do something that she will later regret. And it was only a matter of time before that would happen.
Knightley stared out the window, the shrubberies cloaked in darkness and distinguishable only by the immense depth of the shadows beneath them. He used the natural bustle of the interval between dinner and tea to wander down the meandering paths of memory. Watching over her from when she had been ten, he had learned the importance of carrying his point to Emma. On more occasions than he could recall at the moment, he had had to extricate her from situations of her own creation that she had later found intolerable. Granted, these occurrences had been few and far between for the last few years, but he did not want such a state to arise at all. It was not for his own comfort that he desired to caution her; he was cautious because she seemed determined not to be so.
Emma Woodhouse, though lively and intelligent enough to not always take herself too seriously, was proud. Knightley knew from experience that she would not admit to being wrong and would never ask for help if she felt that it was a result of her misjudgment. For her part, she would rather suffer in silence than request his help. And that pained him.
Over their long acquaintance, he had fallen into the habit of protecting and loving the clever and captivating, if occasionally obstinate, girl. His genial and compassionate nature, though not such as to recommend him to the weighty task of being mentor to such a precocious young girl, had long established him as Emma's friend. However, after the marriage of Isabella to John and Emma's accession to the position of mistress of the house, Knightley had suddenly found himself in the position of a confidant and advisor, and, adapting himself to the role with a quickness born of the relationship to and affection for the girl, had become a brother to Emma.
A touch on his arm recalled him over the expanse of time back to the present. He turned away from the window and looked down into the inquiring face of Mrs. Weston. With a reserved smile, he begged her pardon for his preoccupation, which she replied to by repeating her question, making Knightley glad that she was not of an intrusive nature. Answering her question calmly, he continued talking to Mrs. Weston until her husband accosted him.
"Well, if you'll excuse me Knightley, I must take my wife away for tea," he said with a wink. As the happy couple left, Knightley saw Miss Smith standing along near the tea table, looking out of place amidst the discussion between the Westons and Emma. A kind tendency made him move towards her to involve her in conversation, but his greeting of "Are you having a pleasant evening, Miss Smith?" was answered with a mixture of confusion and timidity that was not conducive to further conversation. Persevering, however, in view of justice, he attempted to coax out her opinions on the subject of Hartfield and Miss Woodhouse. The responses were meager, and although he did not misjudge the timidity of her manner, Knightley could not approve of the lack of decision in Miss Smith. Tensely, he pondered on how dangerous the combination of Harriet Smith and Emma would be for each party. Emma, with her determined opinions and influential manners, would easily sway Harriet, and the latter's ignorance and unconscious flattery would only increase Emma's self-assurance. And now that Emma had decided to take Harriet's social upbringing into hand, who knew what mischief would result?
Knightley ran out of questions to propel the conversation, and both he and his companion silently watched Emma, as she made the tea, spiritedly declining Mrs. Weston's help with the claim that "now it was her turn to serve." The candlelight glanced upon her ebony hair as she turned repeatedly to her father to answer his questions. Once as she turned, their eyes met, and without any apparent change in her visage, she seemed to ask him the reason for the grimness of his. Knightley answered with by deliberately relaxing his features, but his mind was thrown into conflict by the disarming smile. He moved away from the tea-table as Emma turned away, and took up the place near the hearth, which Mr. Woodhouse had abandoned in favor of a closer seat to his daughter.
He admitted to himself that he was in a harsh situation, albeit one that he was well-acquainted with. He must talk to Emma, but it was not pleasant for him to be forever finding fault with her or considering potential problems where there were currently none. He was not immune to Emma's charm, which had so many blind to her faults, but his affections for her, he thought, ran deeper than looking for her gratification and pleasing her. No, he thought, squaring his shoulders, he ought to talk to Emma in firm sensible language about her developing friendship, and so he would!
For the second time that evening, his musings were disturbed, this time by a pleasant, light voice calling his name. Swiveling on his heels, he looked at the object of his thoughts and could not but smile at the teasing look on her face.
"You certainly are distracted today. Mrs. Weston said she called you three times and yet you did not hear her, and I have been calling you for five minutes myself." Knightley accepted the cup of tea Emma offered him, the smile remaining on his face. "What is it, Mr. Knightley? You have been very quiet today, leaving me to the task of entertaining all the guests!" Her smile disappeared, her hazel eyes becoming serious. "I hope it is not any bad news?"
"No, not at all," he hastened to assure her, and yet there is. How shall I tell you Emma, that I have come to begin what must certainly end as a disagreement? "Emma," he began, then paused to pick his words carefully. "Emma, I have been thinking on your friendship with Harriet Smith." He watched her face, apprehensive of her reaction but attempting to look firm. "I am not sure what you see in her. She is sweet and pretty, to be sure, but I do not think that she is an appropriate companion for you."
He was not surprised at the fading of her smile and the emergence of a defensive look on her face, but he could not help but wince as her brows lowered and she answered him. "Mr. Knightley, this will certainly be the beginning of another of our arguments. But I will attempt to be fair-minded. What do you find objectionable in her?"
That is most certainly not a fair question, Knightley thought in frustration. Should I, or rather, can I tell you that you are too strong and she too weak? That her ignorance will swell your opinion of yourself? Fair indeed!
Wording his opinions carefully, he tried to tell her that their situations were different and that Harriet would not help expand her mind or be a companion with whom she could hold rational conversations. He watched as her eyes darkened in annoyance or anger, he knew not which, and tried to keep his words gentle but not at the sacrifice of firmness. Apparently his attempt at gentleness was not successful, for her speech was bridled as she claimed that Harriet was a "perfectly sweet girl, perhaps not polished, but she hoped that she herself would provide her that at least."
"And I doubt that you know her enough to be pronouncing judgments on her. I know her quite well by now, and I believe that she has an open and warm nature, respectful yet not so timid as to be weak. I like her and will give her my help. And as for the inequality of our situations, I did not know you to be so prejudiced in favor of class, but I will not neglect her on that basis."
Knightley groaned mentally. She claims that I am prejudiced? "Emma, I am not biased, and I did not mean her social class so much as her education. You cannot deny that her education, though sufficient, has been only mediocre. She cannot equal you in intellectual discussions and your friendship will only be a distraction to keep you away from your own studies." Having changed 'excuse' to 'distraction' at the last moment, he awaited her reply.
A mixture of pique, anger, and the consciousness of having been defeated infused martial light into her eyes, and her countenance grew stubborn. "Well, Mr. Knightley," she said in a light tone belied by her irritated expression. "I realize that we do not think alike on the topic, but isn't it rather useless to talk about this matter without any evidence? You claim that she will be a deficient companion, but you have no evidence for it. Perhaps we should just postpone this conversation until we both have some proof to substantiate our claims." So saying, she glided away, her furrowed brows smoothing over as she moved to where the Mrs. Weston was talking to Mr. Woodhouse.
Knightley sighed. Emma, why can you not accept that sometimes first inclinations are wrong? He felt too tired after his argument with Emma, however, to say more on the subject. All he could hope for was that the question planted in her head might serve as a check to her more fantastic schemes for Harriet. He had not forgotten the doubts he had had that first evening about Emma's plans for Elton. Wearily, he considered that though he had accomplished no present good, he might be averting a future evil. Elton would not marry Harriet Smith, of that he was sure. Devil take it, he thought, a little bitterly, a man does not rise from relative obscurity to the position of vicar of a village and favorite of its inhabitants only to marry a natural child as soon as his good reputation is established. Elton was a not a fool; he had risen with ambition, and though the idea of his aspiring to Emma's hand disgusted him to a surprising degree, Elton was not likely to forget his own potential either. Elton, if anything, was clever.
Contemplating the misgivings that the introduction of Miss Smith had heaped upon his head, he returned to his perusal of the darkness outside. For the first time in many, many days, he wanted to leave Hartfield and return to the Abbey; its silence, for once, became a charm stronger than that of Hartfield's inhabitants. But, of course, he ought to stay. Soon Mr. Weston arrived, preferring to talk business with him rather than colds with Mr. Woodhouse, and Knightley attempted to equal him in concern about the issue that he brought forth. His scarce interest, however, conspired with his exhaustion and he had to fight to suppress his yawns. Weston appeared to notice and ordered him, in the frank and good-humored manner that made him so popular, to "go and rest himself." Not of a mind to contest this excellent advice, Knightley said his farewell to the old gentleman of the house and moved to Emma to bid her farewell as well. No matter how angry one might be at the other, they rarely parted very angrily, or rather, attempted to forget, for that short space of time, that they were indeed angry at each other. Looking around with Mr. Woodhouse's kind wishes that he might not have caught a cold still ringing in his ears, he noticed Emma standing with Harriet near the tea table and facing away from him, involved in some conversation which was causing Harriet to blush repeatedly. Curiosity was dead tired, and he would have waited for a pause in their conversation, but his eagerness to leave forced him to intrude. As he was but moving towards them, however, Emma's voice floated towards him. "He did so praise you to me this morning, my dear. Mr. Elton..."
These were words to arrest all movement and to illuminate the recesses of his mind with caution. Now wary, Knightley moved to the pair, and from rather farther than was necessary, began talking. Emma turned, surprise evident at his early leave, but that emotion was very soon succeeded by a look of triumph. At any other time he might have delighted in the charisma of the defiance that shone in her eyes, but tonight he was tired and, at her obvious disregard of his advice, at her insistent refusal to gain by anything he said, angry. His goodbye to both Emma and her companion was hasty, and as he met Emma's eyes, he let his displeasure show in a way that others would not comprehend but which she could not fail to understand. Without waiting to see her reaction, he walked out, his anger making him sweep out of the house more imperially than usual.
Knightley lay still on his bed, his arm shielding his eyes. The walk back to Donwell had been by no means pleasant. The coolness of the night could not repair his mood, and the picturesque beauty of the night could do nothing to soothe him. Knightley sighed. Now that the first infuriation was over, he could not understand what it was that had made him so angry. If Emma were ignoring him now, she had never been complaisant either. He had gotten used to the tussle of wills that any serious or jesting discussion with her involved. Nay, he had come to love it, to enjoy it as part of the charm. And now...?
Giving up on his seemingly useless mental struggle, Knightley undressed reluctantly, and gave himself up to sleep. He was not naïve enough to hope that the problems that plagued him today might solve themselves overnight, but perhaps he would think clearer in the morning. And if worse comes to worse, he thought as he snuffed out the candle, I can ask Mrs. Weston to talk to Emma. With that comforting thought, he slid under the covers and promptly fell asleep.
Chapter 5 ~ Opinions on Harriet Smith
Knightley rose, as per his usual habit, at dawn. Lying stretched out on the bed, he enjoyed the quiet for a few moments before the memory of the night before broke into his mental tranquility. Swiftly he reviewed the events of the previous night, and though he could still not agree with Emma's assessment of the situation, he felt a little regret for what must have sounded like harsh words of judgment to Emma. Sounded like? he thought with amusement, they were rather harsh words. In surprisingly good spirits, he sat up in bed and looked at the rising sun peeking in through the sober-colored curtains. It must not be six yet, or Jenkins would be here by now. The fast-lightening shadows of the room and the apparent absence of mist declared that it would be a wonderful day in spite of the season, and the natural buoyancy this thought provided added to his good humor. He leaned back against the headboard, trying to keep his mind from wandering to more agreeable topics, and forced himself to think a way out of the predicament that did not seem nearly as dire today as it had the previous night. His brow creased, though, as he forced himself to think seriously. It might not be a pressing concern and might perhaps never become a valid concern at all, but the possibility ought to be considered. But now he was no longer as certain as he had been last night that Harriet would necessarily be so great an evil, and how could he make a decision on how to act if he were not certain in his own mind of what he ought to do? I need some advice. His eyes involuntarily went to the miniature of his parents hanging on the wall, the rays of the morning sun illuminating their faces with an orange light. For a moment he sat, looking at the portraits, then hurriedly rose and pulled the bell for Jenkins, determined not to be alone with his thoughts for long.
Jenkins, the good man, arrived almost immediately, and began the not very long, but inexorably dull process dressing for the day. After his bath and shave, Jenkins asked him which coat he would wear that morning. Knightley was about to leave the decision in his valet's capable hands, but then considered his hint of the night before. Yes, perhaps he would visit Mrs. Weston. Although she would be quite ineffectual at changing Emma's mind, she could help him become clearer in his own.
"I plan to visit Mrs. Weston later this morning, Jenkins, so choose appropriately." With a solemn nod and quiet "Very well, sir," Jenkins proceeded, and within half an hour, Knightley sat down to his breakfast. The inexplicable cheerfulness returned, and he quite contentedly ate his repast and browsed through some articles in the newspaper. Before he had risen, however, a short note arrived from one of his tenants, reporting a problem with the rather old mill on the eastern side of the estate. Satisfying himself that the situation did not require an immediate response, he decided to call at Randalls before riding to the tenant responsible for the mill.
After leaving the breakfast-room, he decided to attend to estate concerns in his study. It was yet too early to decently call on someone, and he needed something to put his mind in a frame more suited to the discussion of Miss Smith. I wonder, he asked himself as he adjusted to the rigid chair in his study, whether Miss Smith is even aware of what speculation she is causing. Poor girl, to be almost stalked in thought, to have her suitability questioned! But it is more her suitability as a friend for Emma than as a person that is at question. He opened the ledger and applied himself to the work left over from the previous afternoon.
Sooner than he would have expected, the nine ponderous tones of the massive grandfather clock informed him that it was time to get up. Stretching his back, he rung for his horse to be prepared and readied himself for the ride. He was not too old to feel the pleasure of a good ride or a lovely day. He would enjoy it, he was sure. The cool but not cold touch of the windowpane and the warmth of the sun assured him that the beautiful day would be put to better use outside than inside.
Briskly he walked out of the abbey, dropping instructions to various servants as he made his way to the stables. He breathed in the fresh, crisp air peculiar to a country autumn and his walk became brisk and enthusiastic. No, this morning would be fruitful. He could feel it.
Chapter 5 ~ Opinions on Harriet Smith, Part II
Mrs. Weston welcomed him with the mild-mannered kindness which was her custom, and which made her singularly unsuited to the occupation of a guide for Emma. Relieved, however, at having someone of superior understanding and receptive manners to talk to, Knightley allowed himself to talk on general concerns for a while until Mrs. Weston introduced the topic of the night before. Picking up the thread of conversation, he attempted to draw out her opinion of Harriet Smith's acquaintance with Emma.
"Yes, last night was quite pleasant, although I confess that I was rather surprised to see Miss Smith in the gathering."
"Surprised! Why should you be surprised? I believe they have been together very often of late. For my part, I am glad that Emma now has someone to talk to other than her father who, the good man that he is, cannot be an equal companion for dear Emma."
'Dear Emma' indeed! he thought, some unpleasant scenes of the night before intruding upon his memory. But still, he ought to listen to what Mrs. Weston had to say. She must know Emma very well, perhaps even better than himself. In a more tolerant mood than heretofore, he waited for her to elaborate, but, finding that indeed she was waiting for him to explain his comment, he wondered whether he ought to tell her his real opinion. He looked at her honest, earnest face, marked with good-sense as well as benevolence, and made his decision. He had come for advice, intelligent advice that Weston could not give nor was likely to listen to. He had come to sort out his ideas, and here was the perfect opportunity to verbalize them to a person who had neither Emma's pride nor Weston's almost aggressive good-nature to blind her.
"I do not know what your opinion may be, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley, "of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, but I think it a bad thing."
Riding back towards Donwell through the farms slowly, Knightley went over his recent conversation with Mrs. Weston. She had been in favor of the Emma's budding friendship, and yet it was tempered by a something of hesitation - she was not as unworried and satisfied with the friendship as she would have liked to be. Phrases ran through his head - "she is not the superior young woman which Emma's friend ought to be" - "no lasting blunder" - "supposing any little inconvenience may be apprehended from the intimacy" - "accountable to nobody but her father" - "so long as it is a source of pleasure to herself" - such phrases were not likely to relieve his apprehensions. Overall, he had come away from the conversation more uneasy than he had been in the morning.
Yet what had Mrs. Weston said that was not the epitome of sense? Of course, she was a little biased in the favor of her friend now left alone at Hartfield and from whose little vexatious habits she was now removed - she had acknowledged it herself - but her confidence in Emma's overall good sense was rather staggering for any objections, especially as it corresponded exactly with what he wanted to believe. And was the advice of one acquainted intimately with Emma for sixteen years to be discarded so off-handedly? She had said that Emma would not change her decision by any persuasion, and had she not been justified in the previous night's proceedings? Was it not likely that she would likewise be proven right in predicting that Emma would not commit any lasting blunder, that the friendship would indeed be beneficial to both parties? Did anything, in short, justify his attempts to persuade her into dropping the intimacy with Miss Smith?
Uncertain, yet unwilling to return to the abbey until he had sorted out his confused thoughts, he spurred his horse to hasten his pace. The sun was shining brilliantly for an October afternoon and the breeze on his face evinced that apparently nature had decided to favor Highbury with one more late summer day, but Knightley noticed little of this. Determined to reach a decision quickly, he went through the conversation sentence by sentence, trying to find something that would prompt him into action or subdue him to inaction. And that 'something' had been eluding him for a fortnight, since that crucial dinner where Harriet was introduced.
Mrs. Weston had countered his belief of Emma and Harriet's intimacy being harmful with the suggestion that it would give the former "a new object of interest," and the non sequitur that the latter would benefit from Emma. He still felt the force of his argument that Emma would merely make Harriet uncomfortable with her previous friends and her situation in life. Emma's claim, that she would give her friend "a little polish" had not been very far from his mind as he had considered the questionable good that they would likely do each other.
And as far as the benefit to Emma went, she would never restrain her fancy enough to apply either herself or her companion to any serious study. There would always be tomorrow, he knew, to read together; it would be much pleasanter to chat today.
Knightley sighed and slackened his pace. And yet, should that not be enough to make me delight in their friendship? He could not, as Mrs. Weston had so justly pointed out, judge the comfort Emma might derive from a friend always there, from a female companion. He had himself noted Emma's subdued spirits following the loss of Miss Taylor. If Harriet was restoring to Emma her previous comfort, he could not help overlooking a great many small issues.
Knightley frowned. This was utterly selfish. Now he was judging Harriet by what she could do for Emma, whereas his initial objections had been to Emma's effect on Harriet's timid nature. However, he could not help it. Seeing Emma in lively spirits was one of the keenest pleasures he had; indeed, it must be so for everyone who knew her. There was a charm about her that not the most elegant serenity could equal. It was because of that same charm that Mrs. Weston had said that since they had parted, she could never remember Emma's omitting to do any thing she wished; he had not one fault to find with such an affectionate remembrance of an old friend.
But that is certainly not being subjective. Knightley reined his horse in, got off, and looked around. He had wandered away from the path to Donwell, but he knew these lands as well as he did his own hands. There, rising gently, a light gray irregular shadow over the woods in the east, was Donwell. The pleasure grounds formed a square of sorts around the abbey, and flanking them on three sides were the neat farms organized simply yet effectively, and currently bare due to the harvest, the cleared north side facing Highbury. The land that had lain fallow that spring was now a rich brown, and the whole landscape was dotted intermittently with cottages and tenant housing. It was the beautiful, peaceful ideal of an English countryside.
The serenity soothed his spirits and assured him, as it had innumerable times before, that all was well in the world. Confident that his horse would not wander, he allowed him to graze, and sat down on an impromptu seat, his back resting against a tree.
It was true that Emma's happiness meant a lot to him, and perhaps he would sacrifice much to give her any even momentary, or at least short-lived, pleasure. However, Emma had so much potential of which she was thoroughly unaware. She seemed not to regard her native intelligence and quickness as something that could be grown and garnered. She was, by no means, unaware of her own wit or aptitude, but her lack of application was certainly not doing anything to benefit her. And with such a reminder of her own accomplishments as Harriet before her, she would be even less likely to believe that she needed any further instruction by book or experience. Ought he not look to her future advantage rather than her present amusement?
Knightley's sight wandered lovingly over the expanse of field and sky. It was exhilarating, this freedom and openness. Sometimes he wondered how John could live in London, cramped and closed, and still remain happy, never yearning for the wide spaces that had been his home for so long. The outside calmed him so much that Knightley could not imagine living in a city for nine months out of twelve as John did.
Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply. Whatever his problems of the moment, interludes like this in the heart of nature, away from people but not utterly cut off, would always show him how small his concerns were relative to the fields, the trees, and the sky that he was now surrounded by. Suddenly, Mrs. Weston's voice called out to him - "With all dear Emma's little faults, she is an excellent creature. Where shall we see a better daughter, or a kinder sister, or a truer friend? No, no; she has qualities which may be trusted; she will never lead any one really wrong; she will make no lasting blunder; where Emma errs once, she is in the right a hundred times." He saw her, behind his closed lids, bending next to her father, attending to his needs with a gentle smile and loving countenance; at Isabella's wedding, proudly holding back tears with a smile that was full of pure joy; at a thousand moments, all equally beautiful in their sentiment.
Jumping up, he swung up onto the horse and set him to a gallop. He rode with the good spirits of an unburdened soul, and amusedly considered that Mrs. Weston had convinced him without one good, logical opposition to his claim of the unsuitability of Harriet Smith. And he was perfectly happy with it.
He had decided. He would say nothing further to Emma.
It was distinctly odd, Knightley pondered as he came down the mahogany staircase, trailing a hand along the polished banister, that the resolution of one little problem - and it seemed but a little problem now - should have such a calming effect on his mind. He felt more cheerful than normal, any exuberance that he might have felt tempered by the recollection, which had occurred to him in the course of the afternoon, that Emma might very well be angry at him. It was not a pleasing thought, but he felt comforted by the reflection that she would certainly put it behind her if he were adequately penitent. And that, of course, will be necessary, he thought with a wry smile. The moment he indicated that he had abdicated the struggle, merciless teasing would ensue, which he would pretend to be exasperated by while enjoying the play. Yes, he could not be unhappy with his decision.
Yesterday, with all its burdens, seemed an age ago, and the afternoon, even with its anticipated labor, seemed full of bright possibilities. With a light step, he went down to the study, where Larkins was waiting for him. He wore his typically gloomy expression, but the weather seemed to have lightened even his cantankerous expression to something less than morbid. Knightley's cheery greeting seemed to have no constructive effect, but now Knightley was willing to overlook the gloominess without any desire to change it.
No matter how joyful his mood, however, he could not escape from an hour spent at work with the daunting Larkins without some damage to his temper. Escaping the study with relief after the finish of the day's work, he pulled out his watch. One o'clock. It had seemed like at least three, but then Larkins tended to have that effect on his sense of time. Knightley grinned. There must be something wrong with him if William was inspiring him to heights of humor.
What to do next? Knightley paused as he recalled his intention to meet check up on the mill. He sighed. It would have been easier if he remembered had it earlier; he could have taken in the mill on his ride back from Randalls. But as it was, he had to do his duty. He retraced his steps and rung for Hodges to explain his plans to the butler. Then, leaving the abbey on foot, he considered that the temporary overseer of the mill ought be home at this time of day. At least, Knightley hoped that he had not gone out. He did not want to have to search for Robert Martin.
Chapter 5 ~ Opinions on Harriet Smith, Part III
"Mr. Martin is not home, sir, but if you would just step in, he's due to come back in a moment, sir." Knightley heard the servant's declaration with relief. It would be nice to not have to look around for Martin, especially since after the harvest Martin could be practically anywhere, whereas before the harvest he would generally be either at home or at his farm.
Knightley entered the parlour, where Mrs. Martin and her daughters were seated, and greeted them with an easy familiarity. He had known the Martins from the last generation. His father had held John Martin in high regard, both as a farmer and as a man, and George Knightley felt sure that Robert Martin would follow in his father's footsteps. His manners were not prepossessing, as his father's had been, but the stolid honesty and dedication towards his work mingled with a pleasing affection for his family to make him valuable. The responsibility of a family had introduced an ambition to better his situation, and his principles ensured that ambition would not reign at the sacrifice of honour.
"Good morning, Mrs. Martin. How are you this fine day?" asked Knightley as he entered the well-arranged room, the open window allowing a light breeze to carry in the smell of honeysuckle blended with the voice of a solitary bird chirping in the garden. Insisting that she not get up, he bowed to her and her daughters, and sought a seat close to the window.
"Very well, sir, I thank you. I hope you did not have too hot a journey here? Autumn seems to have a whiles to set in. It is so warm indeed that the girls opened the window, and I think a little breeze is not so very bad if the weather be warm," the old lady stated, her weathered hands busily sewing a shirt without a pause, even as she looked up at her guest frequently.
Knightley concurred and assured her that he had had a pleasant walk as he watched her grey head occasionally rising from her task to instruct her daughters in theirs. The Miss Martins were pretty girls with average intelligence, except the oldest who showed a spark of quickness in conversation that was reminiscent of her father. As a landlord interested in the welfare of his tenants, he hoped that Elizabeth Martin would make a favourable match, and, as an old friend of the family, he hoped that she would be happy.
Knightley discussed general topics with Mrs. Martin, with the occasional contribution or question from her daughters, for a quarter of an hour, at which time Martin entered the room. Knightley got up to shake hands with him and asked him about his note. Seeing that Martin was a little anxious on the topic, he suggested accompanying him to the mill, an offer that was met with gratitude. Knightley turned, therefore, to take his leave of the family, and was interrupted by Elizabeth Martin's enquiry of whether he would convey their regards to Miss Smith.
"Miss Smith!" he said, astonished and a little disoriented at hearing the name in such a circle.
"Yes," here Elizabeth looked a little confused, "Harriet Smith. We believe she is staying at Hartfield at this time." Her sidelong glance at her brother was not lost on Knightley, nor Martin's rather red face, but he had sufficiently recovered from the surprise to defer the matter for later and respond normally, assuring her that he would be glad to convey the message. Apparently satisfied, Elizabeth curtsied, and Knightley thought it best to leave. After all, he considered shrewdly as he walked across the fields to the mill, evidently Miss Martin is not the only one who can answer my questions regarding Harriet.
He allowed the silence to continue until they were a safe distance away from the cottage. Looking down at the younger man, who did not have enough art to not appear awkward, he began talking about the problem at the mill, aiming to put him at his ease. The ploy worked, albeit slowly, and Knightley felt something of a dog, drawing him out simply for Emma's sake. But it's best to get it over with, he considered, and, if it turns out be in Harriet's favour, no harm done.
Letting a discussion about the fields lying fallow the subsequent season die out, he introduced the subject on his mind. "And so your sisters are acquainted with Miss Smith?" There, a safe, adaptable question.
Martin coughed, his neck reddening slightly. "Y-Yes sir. Miss Smith studied at Mrs. Goddard's with my sisters. And we - they invited her to the farm this summer." The scarlet colour was now extending to his face, and Knightley remained silent. "They're rather good friends, and Miss Smith is a fine girl." His mouth snapped shut as if such a statement were the height of incivility, and Knightley's urge to laugh was countered by his sympathy for the painful embarrassment patent on his face. He turned the conversation and, if he did not misinterpret Martin's sudden enthusiasm for cornhusks as fertilizer, earned his eternal gratitude for it.
Knightley prepared for bed in a humour so contradictory to that of the night before - and was it only one day since that horrid night? - that he was astonished at Jenkins' lack of comment. Not reluctant, however, at letting bygones be bygones, he slipped into bed and lay with his crossed arms pillowing his head, contemplating all the different opinions on Harriet Smith. Miss Taylor - Mrs. Weston, rather - considered her rather harmless overall and was hopeful of her intimacy with Emma. And Martin - well.
He had left Martin at the mill, where it had taken but a little while to rectify the small problem, and had thought about his assessment of Miss Smith on the way home. He had never been in love himself, nor could he lay claim to the title of matchmaker as Emma was eager to do, but he knew enough about hearts to recognize the signs a man in love, especially when they were writ as plain as in Martin's face and manner. If it was so obvious to him, it must be doubly so for his family, and, by the looks of his sisters and mother, must also be approved by them. And, if the whole family approves of her, she could not have nearly as sinister an effect on Emma as I was afraid. He paused. Sinister? The idea of poor timid Harriet acting the part of a sinister villain was so incongruous that Knightley went to sleep laughing.
Chapter 6: Reconciliation
Over the next week, Knightley felt that he must be cursed. Why else would he, two months after the harvest, suddenly become inundated with work, forcing him to postpone his intended visit of apology to Emma?
He was sorry, now, for having walked out so suddenly that night after dinner. He had not even waited to see her reaction. Was this fair? His conscience prodded him that it was not. Even if what he had heard and seen had not been as much in support of Harriet as it was now, he would not have been justified, he felt, in acting so harshly. Any little liveliness - he hesitated in calling it impudence now - was natural to her, a part of her character, and he no more wanted her weak and diffident than he wanted to be so himself. No, Emma had been in the right, though a little defiant, and he needed to apologize.
And so it was that the sudden onslaught of business was seriously incommoding, especially as the work was too gruelling to allow him to appear at Hartfield any evening. His days were spent either in his study with Larkins, who grew happier (or rather, a trifle less morbid) as the profit increased, or on the fields, overlooking the last of the season's work and travelling to and fro in his visits to various tenants. True, this meant that he would be freed from his obligations sooner this year, but it was holding him back from overcoming the only remaining impediment in his contentment.
Of course, it did not help that no summons issued from Hartfield in this interim. Part of this silence on Emma's part was surely due to the fact that Mr. Woodhouse considered venturing out in the changing season an invitation to every horrible disease imaginable and could not bear to have anyone asked to risk the myriad dangers of the increasingly chilly weather. However, whether it was prescience that hinted he would not be welcome or whether it was only his conscience whispering to him that Emma had a right to be angry with him, he grew somewhat uneasy as he prepared to descend upon Hartfield after a week's absence.
It was with a preoccupied mind, therefore, that he asked Hodges, the Woodhouses' butler, about his family, and entered the cosy parlour with more nervousness than was his wont. The scene that met his eyes was, perhaps, one more familiar to him than any in his own house, and for a moment it seemed that nothing had changed. But Knightley could not miss for long the fact that Emma was not looking at him, first deliberately folding up the backgammon board, then unnecessarily tidying up the small, round tea-table. Her greeting, though it did not appear to lack any of its usual cheeriness or warmth, was conveyed rather to the wall behind him than Knightley himself.
Pulling his attention away from Emma's lowered eyes, Knightley forced himself to answer Mr. Woodhouse's questions patiently, all the while his unease growing, feeding upon the guilt that he had been feeling over the past two weeks and Emma's reception of him. As he talked about Miss Bates' light touch of 'flu, he vigorously clamped down on the welling disquiet and compelled himself to think sensibly. Well, true, he had been wrong in judging her friendship, and it was also seemed that Emma did not look ready to forgive him in the light-hearted way he had imagined, but would not his repentance, if sincerely expressed, soothe her pique? His fault had been one of disproportionate caution, and would that not argue in his favour?
I should know better than that by know, he thought dryly, but felt somewhat calmer as Mr. Woodhouse talked (at a length that he felt the circumstance did not merit) about the 'frightfully large number of severe colds this autumn.' Perry's opinion was duly considered and the suggestion, first timidly forwarded by the elder, then enthusiastically reverted to on encouragement, that the incidence of colds could not exist in South End provided some relief to the grandfather.
"For poor Henry is so very delicate, Mr. Knightley, and the sea gives as little benefit to Emma and poor Isabella as to myself." Knightley resisted pointing out that since the former three had never been tested, Mr. Woodhouse could surely not know. As for Emma, the very idea of her being out of health seemed impossible to him. He heard Mrs. Weston declaring her "the complete picture of grown-up health" and could not but agree. And, he thought, one must admit that her temperament agrees with that - a healthy bloom of spirits.
Not that she was displaying any of that 'healthy bloom of spirits' at the moment. She did not look sad or dejected - that would require a true catastrophe - but she was silent, as she had been since her tentative greeting.
Slowly the conversation died down, giving way to a comfortable silence, as did Mr. Woodhouse's urgent concern for his grandchildren's health, and the elder gentleman seemed to draw himself down for his customary nap. Knightley went to the window, watching the sun set in a splendor of color, the clouds stained a deep red, as he gathered his thoughts to begin a conversation with Emma. He turned as the last amber stains darkened to deep purple, and returned to his customary place by the fire, facing Emma.
"I was hoping for a chance to talk to you, Emma," he began.
Emma started, then looked at him with a something he could not name clouding her usually clear eyes. Her face, although it had her customary smile, was less brilliant, less open than was her norm. "I expect you do," she said, and his eyes narrowed as he recognized a trace of nervousness agitating her voice. Surprised but determined, he elaborated.
"I would like to apologize."
Here, she turned her gaze fully at him, astonishment writ clearly on her face. He considered for a moment how transparent her emotions could be sometimes, how fully they could be reflected in face at such moments. Her next words came almost hesitatingly. "Apologize? What for?"
He sighed, half frustrated, half amused. You will not make this simple, will you, my dear Emma? Seeing, however, that she seemed genuinely confused, he continued. "I wanted to apologize for being so severe on you about your friendship with Miss Smith. I have reflected on the topic and," here bowing exaggeratedly, "have seen the error of my ways." But when it became apparent that instead of smiling his listener was biting her lip, he frowned and became serious. "I do apologize, Emma. My harshness, though I hope not my concern, was unjustified and I know it seemed so to you that evening. But come, dear Emma, surely we can put that behind us?" he queried, taking one soft hand in his.
Hazel eyes looked up at him uncertainly for a moment, before they brightened with amusement. Knightley scarcely had time to register the change before Emma replied. "What a dilemma! You are apologizing to me, Mr. Knightley, and all this time I have been wondering whether I ought to apologize to you!" She turned away slightly, bending her head over the table to rearrange her work-basket. When she spoke, her voice was lower and uncertain, all traces of amusement gone. "I have thought over that evening myself, often. I - I have not forgotten the look you gave me before leaving." Knightley winced. He was rather certain that was not a memory to be clinging to. "I should not have provoked you when I knew you were tired. It was - it was an ill-judged, uncompassionate move." She looked up now, and behind her eyes there was a hint of that spirit that taught her to laugh at herself. "You have tried to make me compassionate towards Miss Bates and Jane Fairfax, but you have never taught me as well as well you did this fortnight." She turned away again before resuming. "I did not listen to you and was mean-spirited and unki-"
Her speech was cut short as Knightley took her hand again. It was just as well, he thought, that she was not looking at him, or his face would quite change her ideas about her old critic. He was sure that there would be more tender pride in his look than she could credit in him, but he could not, at the moment, conceal the glow her words had cast on his spirit. "Now I must confess another sin, Emma." He waited till she looked at him. "I underestimated you, and as you have shown me numerous times in the past, that can be a dangerous thing." He grinned and was rewarded with an almost amused smile. "I will only say this, Emma: if I have taught you all the compassion you possess, I must perform miracles."
He wanted to continue, to say how he could not have expected such mature, critical self-knowledge in her, that she had surprised him so pleasantly that he felt that he could forgive all future sins, but not only was he unable to break out of his long-continued role of detached mentor, he was also unwilling to take from her this time to think, as her quiet, concentrated gaze on the fire showed her to be doing. And, he thought, it was soothing to be able to sit next to his Emma in this shared silence. His Emma.