Beginning, Section II
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. 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 called recently to convince her 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, Papa, 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, Papa---"
"No big deal is not an answer, Emmanuella Mae Woodhouse."
"It's an hour away, okay?" She admitted. And I don't even have to drive. Public transit is very convenient, Papa. 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, Papa. 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 term, Papa. 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 love you and 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."
The family of her late American grandmother, Julia Woodhouse---ne 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 Sea 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.
"And Selena wants to meet you," her father continued. "All she's seen of you are pictures."
Selena. Her father's newest paramour. From everything March said about her, Selena 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 Selena 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... She hung up the phone with a sigh.
"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.
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 Knightley can bring her."
Knightley. Emma's saving graces as of late were threefold, and he was one of them. Since Emma had settled in Hartfield, Knightley 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 Knightley 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 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 Knightley. 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. "Knightley 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 Knightley 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, Knightley. Heaven knows we have plenty of rooms here at Hartfield, and the more the merrier."
But Knightley 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 Knightley's best friend. He held a special place in Emma's heart as well. John was the first of Knightley'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, Issy had 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 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 girl named Bella.
"I haven't seen Bella in ages," Emma mused wistfully. She gave Knightley a measured look. "And remember, Knightley, 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. "Knightley was nice enough to bring you here."
Harriet perked up at the topic of Knightley. "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. Knightley 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, Knightley 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 Knightley, 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 Knightley 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. 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. Knightley's ex-fiance."
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 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--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 fianc 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 unusual. 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 Knightley bring you?"
Emma opened her mouth to answer, but a hand touching her bare shoulder stopped her.
"Celia, Elton." It was Knightley'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!"
Knightley'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, Knightley!" 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. "Knightley and I saw her talking to you from across the room. I was going to go over to you over---"
"But Knightley 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?" Knightley 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 fiance. "They looked like a pair of vipers swarming on a solitary cub."
"More like a solitary lion," Knightley 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. Knightley 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 fiance wanted him to say something as well to Knightley, 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 fianc 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, Knightley?"
"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. Knightley 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 Knightley'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," Ian cleared his throat awkwardly, "a game of billiards boys?"
Celia's laughter echoed over the swell of the orchestra. She was coming towards them. Knightley 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 Knightley. 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 Knightley!
Gratitude rushed through her. Harriet's class with Knightley 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 Knightley, 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. Knightley 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 Knightley was the best looking man in the place.
Emma grinned. She was so proud of him! Knightley, who had never professed much interest in the life of Harriet Smith, was being positively charming. When their dance ended, Knightley 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 Knightley 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," Knightley quoted the Casablanca into her ear. His voice low. "You had to walk into mine."
"Happy I did, she squeezed his hand. "Thank you so much for dancing with Harriet. 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. Knightley'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 Knightley'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 Knightley had made her blush. She didn't know quite how to respond.
"I should've given your friend more credit," Knightley 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 Knightley.
"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, Knightley. Sorry you have to deal with having her here with him."
Knightley 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. "Knightley, 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 Knightley'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 Knightley 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 Knightley?"
Knightley 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 Knightley exchanged a rather relieved smile.
"Come on, Emma, you have a long 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 Knightley a rueful glance.
"She's had too much to drink," She declared. "Becca always gets loud when she's drunk.
"A little," Knightley 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?"
Honestly, sometimes where Knightley 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."
Knightley small smile turned into an honest grin. He looked at her for a long moment. Then, taking a slow step to bridge the distance, Knightley 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.
"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 Selena, 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 Selena (though no doubt her father footed the bill) was a strange one. Selena---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.
"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. It was a dress, delicate and soft.
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. The giver possessed a good appreciation for her grown-up proportions. The dress was 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 Cambridge. Cambridge? Who did she know in Cambridge?
No one. Did she know anyone who'd recently gone to the city of Cambridge 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 Knightley.
But no sooner had she thought the name then she instinctively crossed it off again. Knightley 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," Knightley 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, Knightley." Emma tiptoed to kiss him lightly on the cheek. "Merry Christmas."
She told herself she was silly to blush after kissing Knightley 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, Knightley. 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." Knightley 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," Knightley 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 Knightley'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 Knightley'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, Knightley. 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 Knightley. 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 Knightley 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."
"Emma! We're here! Emma, wake up!" If Rebecca's excited voice wasn't enough to rouse Emma from her deep sleep, her car lurching to a violent stop certainly did the job. Emma braced herself and opened her eyes. She was doubly grateful for buckling her seatbelt when the brakes squeaked and the wheels skidded on the icy path.
Rebecca put her car into park and sat back with an air of triumph. "We made record time."
"Thanks, Speedracer." Emma laughed. "But if I hitch a ride with Frank on the way back, don't be surprised."
"I won't argue with your choice in escort." She dug into her purse. "Speaking of the man himself, Frank gave me these. They're our pass to pretty much everywhere on set." Rebecca held up a pair of bright orange passes. "Can you believe we'll meet Durant Dixon and Andrew Campbell while we're here? Andrew Campbell! Oh! Put some of this on." Rebecca handed her friend a tube of lipstick, then reached over to fix the girl's scarf. "Too bad it's so cold and rainy in the Cotswold's right now. Else I would have told you to wear a skirt today."
"A skirt? It's freezing outside. And what do I need lipstick for? Becca, I've got gloss on."
"Just a little, Emme? Please? It'll bring out the color in your cheeks."
"Rebecca," Emma stayed her hand firmly. "I appreciate a well-timed makeover as much as the next girl, but I'm sensing an ulterior motive here."
Rebecca Weston put down the lipstick. "Andrew Campbell!" She'd known Becca for years, and had never seen her act like this.
"Andrew Campbell? The actor?"
"No, the prime minister." Rebecca rolled her eyes. "Yes, silly. Andrew Campbell the actor. He's single now.
"Says who? The Mirror?" Emma tugged stubbornly at her jacket as she unbuckled.
"Vanity Fair. By whom he was just declared the sexiest man in Britain," Rebecca pushed onward. Skepticism lined Emma's face. "Why not try to make a good impression while we're here visiting Joceline?" Her friend paused devilishly before adding, "Frank will be there. I'd like to see how he reacts if Andrew Campbell gives you the once over."
"Rebecca!" Emma had to laugh. "Knightley would say you're getting worse than me when it comes to matchmaking."
"Knightley won't say anything," insisted Rebecca. "Why wouldn't he want to see his best friend settle down with someone who will love her and take care of her? In fact, he'll probably help me."
Emma sighed. "You're getting as bad as Mrs. Bates, Becca---determined to see me married off by my next birthday."
Rebecca's answer came stubbornly. "Well, Rob and I want to see you happy. You've had a lot on your plate lately, Emme, what with caring for your grandfather and law classes and everything else. Wouldn't it be nice if someone was there to care for you when you come home?"
Emma remained willfully silent.
"And as for Frank Churchill," Rebecca continued, "Rob thinks---and I agree---that it's time he settled down, too. More importantly, we think he wants it." She eyed her friend knowingly. "And if you flirting with Andrew Campbell makes him a little jealous, he might finally start acting on his feelings." Emma didn't want to talk about Frank, hear about Frank, think about Frank. Instead she chose to address the issue of Andrew Campbell.
"If the famous Andrew Campbell decides to set his cap after anyone, it would be Joceline Fairfax."
Rebecca shrugged. "Joceline says she never dates her costars. And why wouldn't Andrew Campbell take notice of you? Every other man around does."
Emma's eyes widened in protest and she folded her arms in tight defensiveness. "That's not true!"
"Sure it is."
"No, it's not. I can name quite a few who, on a very regular basis, seem wholly unaffected by me."
"My husband does not count."
"More than just him."
"George Knightley doesn't count, either!"
Emma blushed, pinning the tag to her woolen coat as they got out of the car. "Well, whatever. You should just forget about it---about Frank
Churchill or Andrew Campbell or anyone else." She slammed the car door shut, giving her friend a pointed look over the hood. "I'm serious, Becca."
Rebecca sighed. "At least meet Andrew Campbell with me, will you? Harriet's dying for his autograph. Shame she couldn't come. But she'd kiss the ground we tread on if you get Andrew Campbell to sign something for her."
Emma looked up only when she could no longer dawdle with her orange 'Set Visitor' tag. "Fine." At last she fluffed her hair and placated Rebecca Weston with the smile she knew would be expected of her.
"Andrew Campbell, here I come."
The scenes between young Heathcliff and young Cathy were being filmed at a stately home just north of Herfordshire. The outside of the house loomed large---very gothic and appropriate for Wuthering Heights. Emma could imagine how it would look on the big screen. Impressive. But she was more than a little taken aback once she saw the inside of the historic house. It had been completely dismantled and rearranged for the needs of the set. False walls had been set up to change the shape of the rooms.
Curtains and tapestries were jury-rigged by cords, and sound recording equipment had been snaked along the floor rugs. Most people there looked hassled, running back and forth, holding clip boards or talking on cell phones, maneuvering equipment on carts, working on lighting and marking where the actors would stand when the cameras rolled.
Emma felt a flutter when they passed the door with the name "Andrew Campbell" taped to it. Don't be silly. He's just a person like any other. She tried to keep her heart from beating at the thought of Andrew Campbell popping up around the corner. She wasn't as ignorant of the entertainment world as she'd led Rebecca Weston to believe. Like any other red-blooded woman, she'd oohed and aahed over Andrew Campbell in whatever film guise he took. But actually meeting the man was something else entirely.
"We need Joceline on set in ten!" someone shouted across the way.
"Oh my g-d," Rebecca squealed.
A hand gripped Emma's shoulder. "What?"
"Durant Dixon," breathed Rebecca. "Right over there, in the flesh. Can you believe it?"
She followed Becca's pointing finger. The famous director was talking with one of his camera men, pointing and gesturing to the lights above him.
And that infamous 'Durant Dixon' scowl was clear behind his long, shock-white hair and bushy white eyebrows. The gossip columns always said Dixon had a temper; it looked like there was some truth to that rumor. Emma was beginning to marvel at how shrinking-violet Joceline could get through a day's work with the so-called 'Abominable Showman" of Hollywood.
"Excuse me, ladies?" The security guard was motioning them. "Miss Fairfax is nearly finished with her interview. She'll be out in a minute." He gestured to the closed door.
"Joceline's getting interviewed by Vogue today." Rebecca informed her. "I doubt she'll fit much of us in her schedule. I can't believe we're here. Can you believe we're here?!"
"Vogue?" repeated Emma dryly.
"Yeah, can you believe it? She's going to be their cover for February." Rebecca shook her head.
Emma nodded, thinking to herself that Joceline Fairfax could go to the moon for all she cared. At least until a masculine laugh coming from the closed dressing room.
That sounds like--- Emma grabbed Rebecca's arm. "Why is Knightley inside there with her?"
"Ow! Emma, let go. That hurts." Rebecca chided as they stood outside the dressing room. "Where else would Knightley be? He's agreed to be Joceline's dialect coach in his free time. Not that he ever has much of it." She snorted. "But we can't have our 'Cathy' with a French accent, now can we? Knightley and Joceline are becoming good friends. She asked him to help fine tune her English. And as Knightley is getting his doctorate, it seemed the obvious choice." Rebecca shot her younger friend an odd look.
"Knightley didn't tell you?"
"No!" Emma exclaimed, completely unaware that she suddenly looked like she'd been struck in the face. Emma could just imagine what skills Knightley was busy 'fine tuning' with Joceline Fairfax.
"Well, I think it's wonderful, Emma. And you should think so too. If anyone could help him get over the whole Celia mess, it's Joceline Fairfax. Never mind that she's one of the most beautiful women in the world, she's also kind and genteel, intelligent and sweet, and charming. What would be Knightley's objection to her?"
Emma was about to form a terse reply, but a low masculine voice beat her to the punch. "What would be my objection to who?"
She could never decide if he had the worst or best timing of anyone she'd ever met, but there he was. George Knightley. She saw him stepping into the hallway looking casual and relaxed, with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and the sleeves of his black knit sweater rolled up. His cheeks and chin were shadowed, as if he hadn't shaved in a day or two. He gave them both a smile, though his gaze lingered on Emma.
"Joceline Fairfax, of course," Rebecca piped up. "We hear you've taken a fondness to certain company lately."
The momentary falter on Knightley's face was obvious. "I'm helping her with her English accent."
"Volunteer work." Rebecca continued, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "You're quite the altruist." She gave Emma a pointed look.
Knightley's face looked suddenly pinched. "We're friends."
"Friends?" Rebecca demanded with a sly laugh. "You honestly expect me to believe you think of Joceline Fairfax the same way as you'd think of someone like Emma here?"
Knightley seemed very keen on examining the laces of his shoes. "There's no reason not to, is there?" He gave them a smile that didn't reach his eyes, while Emma tried to remember how to breathe. "Don't tell me you two are looking to make a match of me and Joceline?"
Rebecca looked delighted. "She seems perfect for you, Knightley."
"Joceline is a beautiful girl," he said, carefully. She'll be the making of a very lucky man...But she lacks an open nature. It's something I've come to look for in relationships. When I'm with her I'm just being friendly. Nothing more."
But-
You shouldn't read into things." He looked to Emma, and then to Rebecca quickly, and then straight ahead, as if to avoid them both. "Is that Frank?"
Rebecca smiled sweetly. "Yes."
"I'll go say hello." With that he rubbed his fingers together briskly and was quickly gone.
"Well," Rebecca gave a sly look to Emma. Emma's expression had transformed from utter stillness to minor triumph in the span of a heartbeat. "What do you think now?"
"I think you're totally wrong. Joceline Fairfax is too...too...boring for him. Too perfect. He said so himself." Her brow creased, though, seeing Rebecca was far from deterred. "Why? What do you think?"
"I think he's been so busy insisting that he's not falling in love with Joceline Fairfax," she gave a brief shrug, "that I'm certain he already has."
Emma did get a chance to meet Andrew Campbell, though the meeting didn't go quite as Rebecca Weston had hoped.
Rebecca was off touring the set with Joceline. Frank looked busy chatting up the Vogue interviewer---a pretty young redhead. So much for being ready to settle down, Emma thought with amusement--- and Knightley was...well, who cared what Knightley was doing. Apparently he hasn't thought fit to tell me anything in his life anymore, she mused with a hint of youthful petulance. And if he wants to gallivant around with some air headed actress, he can go to it. I won't stop him.
There she stood, in the middle of a half-built set, drinking a cup of tea and dwelling new ways to convince herself that she didn't care who George Knightley associated with when he wasn't around her (though all her internal arguments thus far had proved less than successful at convincing herself of anything at all) when a more-than-friendly hand touched her waist.
Emma nearly choked to see the face that went with it. Emma would know him anywhere. The slight curl of his hair. That aquiline brow. Those rugged cheekbones. Andrew Campbell himself.
"Hey, Natalie, baby," Andrew drawled. "it's been awhile. What gives? I told you to leave your number on my nightstand."
Emma blushed. "I think you're confusing me with someone else."
The blue-eyed actor looked quizzical. "You're not Natalie?"
"Not the last time I checked, no." Emma replied.
"We didn't meet at Club 41?" He continued.
"Definitely not."
"We've never met at all?"
Emma laughed. "Nope."
"Well then," he gave her a smile. "That is a situation I can remedy. Andrew Campbell, at your service."
"I'm Emma Woodhouse. Nice meeting you." Emma extended her hand, raising a brow as he bent to kiss her fingers.
"The pleasure is mine, Miss Woodhouse," spoke Andrew, his Shakespearean voice lowering to a whisper. Emma arched an eyebrow and suppressed a giggle. Andrew Campbell was just as handsome as his image looked on screen, but the man himself was putting it on a bit thick. In fact, he could probably give Frank Churchill lessons in cultivating debonair airs.
"Emma?"
The best timing or the worst timing of anyone she'd ever met? The answer, Emma decided then and there, was both at once. Knightley had rounded the corner just in time to see Andrew's lips graze her hand.
"Knightley!" She gave him an amused grin. "Imagine seeing you here. Andrew, do you know George Knightley? Knightley, this is Andrew."
"Yes, we've met." Knightley's face was pinched. "Emma, can I speak with you?"
"But-
Now. He practically growled it.
It was nice meeting you, Andrew."
"Hope we meet again!" Andrew Campbell called after her.
"Yeah, I'm sure," Knightley muttered beneath his breath.
Once they were a fair distance away, he spoke more audibly. "Be careful, Emma. I've seen him around women enough during my trips here. You'd be nothing more than an appetizer for someone like him."
"Is that supposed to make me feel special?" she demanded.
Knightley scowled.
"Look, I'm sure he is quite the ladies man. I got that when he mistook me for someone else. Thought we'd met before. Thought my name was Nathalie. Embarrassing. But a simple mistake."
"Mistook you for someone else?" Knightley rolled his eyes. "Emma, that's the oldest trick in the book."
"Used it yourself, have you?" she goaded him.
"Emma!"
"I'm kidding! I know he was making a move on me. And it wouldn't have gotten far. Don't worry." She paused, secretly pleased that he cared enough to be so irritated with her. "Besides, I was just...what was that phrase you used earlier about Joceline?" She gave him a wink. "Being friendly?"
He opened his mouth to say more, but she stopped him, putting a hand on his cheek. "Shhh--- Knightley. I can take care of myself. Don't worry so much. You'll give yourself a migraine.
Knightley's grey eyes softened.
"Considering the fact that you've been taking the weight of the world on your shoulders lately, you might want to take that lesson to heart yourself."
"Well, don't they say those who can't do, teach?" She smiled back before adding absently. I'm not used to you with a five o'clock shadow on your cheeks. And you've got such a nice face. Why hide it?"
"Emma," Knightley rubbed his dimpling chin, looking chagrined and amused despite himself. "Sometimes I think you say and do these things just to get a rise out of me."
"Of course that's why I do it." She laughed at him, happy they were back on familiar footing. "I'm off to find Rebecca again. I can't wait to tell her I met Andrew Campbell, and he tried to chat me up."
"Cut! Cut, cut, cut!" Durant Dixon roared as he moved from behind the camera. "That's rubbish! Absolute rubbish! Can we get someone from the prop department over here, now, please! This *&Y$% sculpture in the background is driving me nuts. It keeps bringing the eye left when we're supposed to be focusing right. Andrew, for *&#@'s sake, stop being so grabby with Joceline! This is supposed to be the &$#@ 19th Century, not a *#A@ night club."
"I'm trying to be passionate and seductive," Andrew protested, pulling at his collar.
"Well, use your eyes, not your hands. Think Lawrence Oliver here, not Robbie *#@ng Williams." Dixon took off his hat and rubbed his scalp. He looked at his lead actress, Joceline Fairfax, and his entire expression softened. "That was beautiful, Joceline. Speak your lines a little more slowly this time, if you please, angel. Okay, take ten. Quiet on the set!"
They began the scene again, and Emma sat back in her set chair with a sigh, wondering how long she'd be stuck here. She couldn't leave until one of her friends decided to go, and everyone here looked so enthralled, even as they started the scene for the tenth time. Even Knightley, she realized with more than a hint of irritation. What was the big deal about hearing the same lines over and over and over?
Time spent around Joceline Fairfax was like taking an overdose of Ipecac. Unpleasant as that was, it was worse suffering all day watching her friends and everyone on set---including Durant Dixon---faun over the young actress.
"Amazing how the old Boar Dixon calms down when he speaks to Joceline, isn't it?" She'd know that voice anywhere. Frank Churchill.
"Yes, it is amazing. She really does calm him down."
"Fancy that's all she does for him?" asked Frank with a playful raise of his eyebrows.
"Frank!" Emma giggled, then whispered. "Did you see that her dressing room is filled with roses?"
"Apparently they're delivered to her every morning." He mimed an impression of Durant Dixon. "An 'anonymous' gift for the angel of the set."
"That is amazing," Emma whispered back. "And what have you been doing milling around peoples dressing rooms?"
He gave a sly grin, and then slung his arm companionably around her shoulders. "Oh, this and that."
"Cut!Cut!CUT!" They heard Dixon scream. "Andrew, please don't kiss Joceline so thoroughly that it looks like you're giving CPR. Passion with subtlety, please. One more time. Quiet on the set!" Emma looked up again at Frank, only to notice how his face had settled in a stormy glower. "You're not a fan of Andrew Campbell, I take it?"
"He's a hack of an actor," muttered Churchill. "Joceline's been doing all the work in this film."
Emma giggled, looking at the pair of actors who were kissing in the mist of filming their scene. "I don't think you're being quite fair. It looks like he's doing his fair share of work now. Although I'd venture to say this particular part of the scene probably comes naturally to him."
The whole set held their breath, suspended as they watched Andrew Campbell slowly break off what looked like the perfect kiss. A deep blush dusted Joceline's face as he broke away, and she spoke her last line as if summoning her voice was suddenly difficult. It was the perfect touch to the scene. Emma wondered, with an interior laugh, how much of it was acting.
"Cut!" Dixon waved his hands when the lines were spoken. "Print! That was perfection! Perfection! We're done for the day. Get out of my face before I change my mind."
Frank gave another would-be-casual glance in the direction of the actors, both of whom were now looking towards them.
"You think he's really something?"
"Uh-huh." Emma nodded. "We might argue over his skill with line reading, Frank, but Andrew Campbell looks like an amazing kisser."
"Emma?"
"What is it, Frank?"
Before she could even think to react, Frank Churchill leaned in, found Emma's lips and gave her a sound, passionate kiss.
Caught in the force of Frank Churchill's kiss, a number of thoughts ran quickly through Emma's head. She wondered how long it would take to get the taste of his cigarettes and morning coffee out of her mouth. She wondered how many people were watching his sudden Casanova-ish turn. She wondered why she wasn't enjoying being kissed.
And lastly, she wondered what he was trying to prove.
George Knightley could arguably call Emma nave at times, but he could never call her stupid. With that very thought, rationality---a force momentarily paired with the image of that tall young man with his silver-gray eyes---overcame Emma's senses. She pushed Frank off and took a rapid, if unsteady, step backwards against a towering set lamp.
"Frank---" Emma managed with a ragged breath, "what---what do you think you're doing?" She didn't need a mirror to know how she looked. Her cheeks were hot, and her hair felt mussed.
She also didn't need to look around to sense every pair of eyes fixed firmly on them. The red-haired Vogue interviewer was no doubt watching. The French beauty, and the world-famous heartthrob. The volatile Director and his beleaguered crew. If not a welcome witness to the incident, in Emma's mind, at least they were endurable.
There was only one gaze in the room she felt acutely. Only one who made it feel like the blush on her cheeks had spread to her whole body. The tall dark hair young man with quicksilver eyes. George Knightley.
It took every inch of willpower in her to keep from turning to Knightley. Instead, she kept her imploring gaze on the man before her.
"Emma---" hedged Frank, tugging at his pressed white collar. "Can't have some toff of an actor like Andrew Campbell outstage me, right?"
There was an unpleasantness beneath Frank's smile--- bordering on a wicked jealousy that she hadn't thought him capable of. Could Andrew Campbell truly inspire such a need for display? Whether it was the emotion itself or the thought that she, Emma Woodhouse, could inspire it in Frank---the thought made her feel ill. Emma had wondered months ago, in an ephemeral sort of a way what it would be like to kiss Frank Churchill. Or, more specifically, what it would be like to be kissed by him. She'd never had any set notion as to how it would be like, but the thought had seemed pleasant enough. After her grandfather's heart attack, when Frank hinted at deeper feelings, the notion had surfaced again.
But she hadn't enjoyed Frank's kiss. She didn't love Frank, and she never had. In fact at this very moment, she didn't even like Frank. She needed to tell him. They needed to talk. Not with all those people around, obviously, but soon---
"Frank," she began, hesitant. "We have to talk---"
"Emma," Frank interrupted her with a weak smile. "Just consider it a late Christmas present." His eyes skittered left. "Please, no questions now, okay? I promise I'll explain everything to you soon enough."
"Frank---"
"I think I've caused us both enough trouble." A look of pain, quickly concealed, marred his face. "We'll talk soon, I promise. I'm sorry. But I---I think it's time I leave."
Emma pressed her hand to her forehead as he walked away. She felt dizzy. But, much to everyone's shock, it was Joceline Fairfax who hit the floor seconds later. The set, the crew, the spectators, everyone lunged for the actress. Even standing on tip-toes, head still spinning, right-hand gripping the set-light, it was hard to see the scene properly.
"Room! Give her room!" A low, strong, masculine voice growled. That voice meant business.
Immediately everyone, from the formidable Durant Dixon to the Vogue writer and the wardrobe people, took a step backwards.
The sick feeling in her stomach turned to a block of ice when Emma realized it was George Knightley who'd yelled at the general masses, and Knightley who'd rushed to the fainting woman's side. Emma clutched the metal set apparatus, watching his tall, lean frame as he moved, ministering to her.
It was really easy to hate Joceline Fairfax at that moment. With mussed hair and a flushed face, Emma felt about as elegant as Attila the Hun.
Joceline Fairfax, on the other hand, had toppling down to the very floorboards, but with George Knightley at her side she looked like Sleeping Beauty incarnate.
And Knightley at that moment looked every bit a handsome Prince Charming. Albeit a somber one. He'd rolled up the sleeves, kneeling beside Joceline, and Emma noticed how his jaw set when she tried to sit up. They spoke softly. At last he lifted the young beauty in his arms and carried the actress away from the crowd.
"Emma!" Rebecca Weston was pushing towards her. "Emma, you're white as a sheet." She eyed her friend critically. "Do you need to sit down?"
"No...no, I'm fine."
"I imagine Frank's kiss would make any girl's head spin."
"I don't want to talk about it," whispered Emma. It was probably because she'd skipped lunch, but she really was feeling dizzy. "Let's just go, Beck. I need some fresh air."
"Are you sure, Emma?" Rebecca asked her for what felt like the tenth time.
"Very sure," Emma spoke firmly. "Yve's message says she needs to talk with me. I'll just eat dinner at her and Harriet's flat. Thanks for the ride there, Becca."
"No problem. But I could pick you up when you're done. You could eat dinner with me and Robert."
And Frank, Emma added mentally, remembering that Frank lived in his cousin's house. "Seriously, Emme, it wouldn't be a problem to add another place setting to our table tonight. You and Frank could talk things over. I can't believe he didn't say more then---"
"Rebecca," Emma interrupted her, opening her door. "I don't want to talk about it. I can't handle Frank right now, and I doubt he could handle what I had to say."
"Won't you even---"
"No!" The answer was sharp for the usually cheerful Emma, but Rebecca needed to know she meant business. They said their goodbyes, and Emma fled the car, grateful to be escaping the Weston Inquisition.
Emma looked at the apartment building she'd once considered her home. It was only three flights up the step to the old flat she once shared with Yve and Harriet. But that was before her grandfather's heart attack. She'd been so busy these past months; she hadn't been back here since moving to her grandfather's estate. Emma jogged them, eager to see her friends. But the message on her cellphone was a strange one, and Yve had sounded upset.
The front door to the girls' flat was ajar. Strange. Emma's brow furrowed. She looked to see if any other tenants were around. Yvette, for one, was compulsive about locking the door. Maybe she'd left it open for her friend, or maybe Harriet was the culprit.
"Yve?" Emma pushed open the door, walking cautiously into the entryway. Seeing the kitchenette was in fine order, Emma moved to the living room.
Yvette Lorraine was curled on the sofa with a box of tissues. Emma's old roommate, the pretty med-school student with wide eyes and sweet face, was sitting on the couch sobbing.
"Yvette?" Emma was cautious in touching her friend's trembling shoulder.
"Oh, Emma---"
Uh oh, Emma thought with a hint of dread. Did her fianc break up with her? Yvette and Ian had gone together for as long as Emma had known Yve. They were engaged to be married in late summer. They were a matched set, really. She couldn't imagine him dumping her. But what else would cause this reaction? Why would he break up with her? How could he break up with her? He's madly in love with her, and she with him---
"I got your message," Emma spoke cautiously.
"I know you are busy." Yve blotted her eyes.
"It's fine. Totally fine. I always have time for my friends." Emma handed the girl another Kleenex. "What wrong? How are you, Yve?"
Yve broke into a wavering smile before tearing again. "Pregnant."
It took a cup of tea, another box of tissues and a carton of chocolate-caramel ice cream, split between them, before Yve calmed down.
"You're absolutely sure you're pregnant, Yve?" Emma asked once they were settled with the ice cream on the couch.
"Yes, yes," Yve nodded, taking a sip of her tea. "Very sure. My gynocologist told me this afternoon. I'm nearly two months along, she said." She looked into her cup meditatively. "I know Ian loves me. He'll get his engineering degree at the end of this term and go to work after that. We were going to get married in June as it is."
"I know," Emma said with a soft smile. She shivered, shifted on the sofa, settling the throw-blanket more firmly around both their feet. She'd forgotten how cold this flat got at night.
"He talked about having children." Yve gave a shy, embarrassed smile. "I just hope we're both ready for one a bit sooner than we thought." She paused, taking a large scoop of ice cream, before passing the carton to Emma again.
"So you've told him?" asked Emma softly.
"Oh, yes." Yve nodded. "I love him, Emma. I had to tell him, as soon as I suspected. I tell him everything. You'll understand when you fall in love, Emma. That'll be the first person in your mind. The first person you want to tell things to. When you fall in love---really in love. It's not really a question of 'should I spend the rest of my life with him or not?' The question becomes irrelevant because there won't be a question. It'll be just...a statement. A truth in your heart that says 'him.' He'll be all you want." Yve's nails ran absently across the weave of the blanket. "Anyway, that's how it was with Ian. But maybe we're just lucky." She gave Emma a long look before continuing. "So I told Ian I'd missed my last cycle. And that I was going to visit my doctor. He knew pregnancy was possible. He was very calm about it. We talked on the phone before and after my appointment. He's driving down from Cambridge tomorrow."
"He's a good man, Yve," Emma said with a reassuring smile. "He'll make a good husband and father."
"He's a wonderful man," Yve agreed. "He's been really strong for me, which is good. I've needed it. He says he wants to move the wedding up. Perhaps the beginning of February." She managed a smile. "I was just crying because, well, it's a bit overwhelming to think about it all and...and I know it's silly to think of this, of all things, but I don't want to walk to my future husband looking like a...what is that phrase you said about how Celia Edwards-Fitzgerald looks now?"
"A beached whale?" Emma said with a laugh, passing her friend the carton of ice cream. "Well, unlike gauche Celia Edwards-Fitzgerald, I'm sure you'll make an elegant beached whale."
"Emma!" Yve giggled, reached for the nearest throw-pillows, chucking them at her friend.
"No fair!" Emma squealed, shielding herself. "You're pregnant. I can't defend myself!" A giggling fit ensued. Emma would stay here for the night.
"Emma! Oh, Emma!" An excited hand shook roughly at her shoulder. Emma lifted her head tiredly from the sofa-pillow, blinking to discern the face before her in the darkness of the flat's living room.
"Harriet?" she guessed sleepily, pushing long hair out of her face. "Harriet what---what's the matter?"
"Emma, it's been forever since I've seen you!" Harriet spoke excitedly, settling down cross-legged on the floor. "It's only one in the morning. Are you really that sleepy?"
"Yes." Emma sat up and reached for the table lamp. "It's good to see you honey, but can we get caught up tomorrow? I'm dead tired."
"Yeah, you do look really bad," Harriet agreed with her usual lack of tact.
"Thanks," Emma spoke dryly.
"I just have some really excited stuff that's been going on and I wanted to tell you as soon as I saw you. But I guess it can wait."
"What kind of stuff?" asked Emma sleepily.
"Boys. What else is there?" The teen giggled. Hearing this, Emma collapsed back onto the sofa-bed and gave Harriet a look of tolerant amusement. "You can talk for as long as I stay away, Harriet. But I'm pretty tired so I'm giving you fair warning for when I do nod off."
"No prob," Harriet agreed casually. "Oh, Emma---well, first of all I wanted to let you know that I'm over Elton. Totally over him. The winter dance and seeing him with Celia really closed the book on it. But he doesn't matter anyway."
"That's great, Harriet," Emma spoke sleepily. "I agree."
"He's just a boy. Not a proper man. I mean, I know he's a bit older than me. He's like early twenties, your age or something. But he acts like a boy, still."
"Uh-huh."
"What I need is a man."
"Uh-huh." Emma tugged at her blanket. What had she been dreaming of before Harriet woke her? It had been something nice, peaceful...
"Besides, my feelings for Elton Fitzgerald now seem...what's that word he always uses..." Harriet paused. "Infantile?"
"Wow." Emma spoke into her pillow. "Elton says the world infantile? I didn't know he could spell it, much less use it in a sentence."
"No, no, no!" Harriet gave a laugh, delighted to correct her. Her round cheeks were pink. "I'm talking about my new man. George Knightley."
Now that woke Emma up.
"What do you mean?" She asked sharply, sitting up.
Harriet blinked. "Well, I mean it's George that I like. And he likes me, I'm sure of it."
Emma actually laughed. "But---you...he...you just can't."
"Why not?"
"Because," Emma took a breath, to calm her laughing. "Well, you don't seem like his type." Judging by the look on Harriet's face, this was perhaps not the best answer to give.
"I'm not his type?" Harriet repeated. "Oh." Her small, rosebud mouth set. "Oh, I see. I see. I'm not good enough for him, is that it?"
Emma shook her head. "That's not what I mean---you're misunderstanding me."
"And I'm too stupid?" Harriet demanded, standing up. "Look, Emma," the girl took a breath, picking up her bag again. "I thought I should tell you. I thought you were my friend. But I have other friends at Kingston now. I know you're here for the night visiting Yve, but---I'll go stay tonight in some place where I'm more wanted."
"Harriet, don't leave. It's late. I'm tired, that's all. You're being absurd." The words were out of her mouth before Emma could censure them, but they stopped Harriet cold.
"Look, Emma...I wanted to tell you about George Knightley and me because...because you've been so nice and all to me, I mean. And you're so close to him. You've been so busy, there's no reason that you'd know anything was going on with me and him, and I just...I thought a real friend would tell a real friend something like that." She turned to go.
"Harriet," Emma pleaded. "Harriet, I'm sorry. Please come back." Harriet turned. "I'm sorry. I just---you caught me at a bad time. I've had a really stressful, really long day and---I'm sorry I reacted badly."
Harriet nodded quietly, chin to the floor. "Really, I am sorry. And...you're right. If something was going on with Knightley..." she took a humbling breath, "I wouldn't necessarily know. I'm really sorry for what I said."
Harriet nodded, and gave a small smile. "I believe you." She paused. "But what would you think, Emma? Of me and George Knightley. I really want your opinion. Because I don't want to end up with a repeat situation with Elton, you know?" The girl's voice dropped to a whisper. "It was hard to get over."
Emma gave Harriet a steady look. "Harriet, George Knightley would never give a woman a false impression about his feelings or intentions. If he's honestly given you any indication, then it's not impossible."
Harriet seemed to consider this for a moment. "Thanks, Emma."
"Your welcome. Goodnight, Harriet," Emma said quietly.
Emma lay in the darkness for a long time after that, thinking over the day's events and everything Harriet had said.
Exhaustion had been enough of a sedative earlier, but now she couldn't sleep. The thought of George Knightley with Harriet seemed so awful. Worse than the thought of him with Joceline Fairfax? No, both were equally horrid for different reasons.
Emma groaned into her pillow.
I'm a horrible friend. The thought kept repeating in her mind. Why don't I want him happy?
She wanted to talk to him. She didn't just want it. She needed it. When was the last time they'd talked for any length of time? Before her grandfather's heart attack? That was ages ago. For all that she was loathe to admit it, Harriet's remark wasn't all that off the mark. If something was going on in Knightley's life---if he'd fallen in love with Joceline or Harriet, or anyone else---Emma wouldn't necessarily know anything about it. Not anymore.
That realization hit her psyche painfully. So painfully, in fact, that Emma half-expected a jolt of actual, physical pain to accompany it. Rightly or wrongly, she'd always thought herself one of the most important people in Knight's life. If not...well, the most important. His opinion meant everything to her.
She'd always wanted to assume that worked both ways. Even if she didn't agree with what he was saying---and she usually didn't---she still wanted to hear it. She still wanted him there. Yve's words from hours before echoed in her mind.
"You'll understand when you fall in love, Emma. He'll be the first person in your mind, Emme. The first person you want to tell things to. When you fall in love---really in love. It's not really a question of 'should I spend the rest of my life with him or not?' The question becomes irrelevant because there won't be a question. It'll be just...a statement. A truth in your heart that says 'him.' He'll be all you want."
It was then that she realized the truth---truly, consciously, honestly realized---the Truth. She wanted him. George Knightley. She didn't just love him. She was in love with him.
The realization that kept playing like a record on repeat. She was in love with him.
For years and years she'd told herself---and anyone else who'd inquired---that her love for George Knightley was probably similar the love that a sister would have for an adopted brother. Or perhaps how she would feel for a favorite boy-cousin.
Maybe that had been true once, long, long ago. But now it was most certainly a lie. It had been a lie for a long time. Years. Maybe---deep down, it had always been a lie. She'd just been too...too what? Too foolish? Too young? Too blind to recognize how she really felt for him?
No, said her mind, not blind to loving him. Just...too scared to think about it. That, she knew, was the truth of it. She was terrified. Scared to hear he wasn't in love with her. Scared of ruining things.
Changing things. Emma turned her face to her pillow, soaking it with her tears. If I told him how I feel, I could loose him forever. If she hadn't already lost him. This last thought accompanied Emma to her dreams.
The more she tried not to think about him, the more often memories surfaced.
And they weren't just any memories. They were some of the most important, intimate, defining moments of her life. Emma could recall, with pinpoint accuracy, all the stories about George Knightley and herself that she had never breathed to anyone. And now she knew why. Those moments, when they were added together from childhood up through her teenage years, revealed an adult who was so deeply in love with George Knightley that it was just foundational to who she was.
She kept remembering the story Celia had pressed her about once. The story about the day her mother had died. It was something she'd flatly refused to recount at the time.
She remembered it now as though it were yesterday.
It was early February, and storm cloud gray that afternoon. Appropriate. She hardly said two words to anyone that day. Not even to Knightley. In fact, she'd avoided Knightley since the funeral. She didn't want to see him. The pain in his eyes was too sharp, too similar to how she felt.
Her mother's burial felt...unreal. She was glad when it was over. But when people filed into Hartfield afterward, telling her words of condolence that sounded so empty, and giving her cards with pictures of flowers, as if that helped, or could ever make her feel normal again---Emma felt ready to choke.
So she ran away. She pushed past the crowd of people, unlocked the back door and bolted out of Hartfield estate and into the massive fields beyond.
It would be warm in Savannah by this time of year, Emma thought as the cool air soaked through her black dress. Every other February of her thirteen years had been spent in Savannah Georgia, with her father. Not this year. Of course, remembering this served as a sharp reminder as to why her stay in England had been extended in the first place. Her mother's cancer. Her mother who was dead now.
Which meant Emma would be going back to Savannah soon.
This was the first time she hadn't felt at home in Hartfield and she hated it. She was cold, too. Freezing cold. But at least she felt something. It was better than how she'd been feeling. Completely empty. Like her insides were nothing more than an ashbin swept bare in one fell swoop.
"Emma!"
With his long legs and lean form, it hadn't taken him long to catch up with her. Four years meant a lot between thirteen and seventeen. More than it had ever meant before. Age, height, strength, Knightley had all these things to his advantage.
She didn't slow down. Emma wasn't sure if she wanted to talk to him or not. She'd already reached the tree line.
"Emma?" he reached her, taking hold of her arm.
She turned quickly, slapping him hard on the cheek with as much strength as her small frame could muster. "Don't touch me right now."
Knightley let go immediately, taking a surprised breath and big step back. "Fair enough," he muttered quickly. "Sorry. I---I saw you run and...it's raining, Emma. No good if you get pneumonia."
Emma was like a firecracker, all stuffed with emotions. Something about Knightley's presence lit a fuse.
"What's it matter?" she burst out. "Why can't you let me alone?" Her angel-face fierce, she wheeled around in a desperate attempt to hit something, anything. Him. Simply because he was there. She knew he cared and somehow that made it worse.
"Why can't anyone leave me alone! You and Mr. and Mrs. Knightley, my father, my Grandpa, doctors, lawyers, teachers, counselors---since the first day my mother got sick, it hasn't stopped! And now that she's dead, it's like I've run into a brick wall! I just feel so trapped, and I can't...Knightley, I can't," she was starting to hyperventilate, and her blue eyes swam with tears. "I can't breathe."
He took hold of her, trying to keep her from running away again.
"Emma," he whispered in her ear. "I'm sorry." His voice had turned brusque in the moment, sliding into soft, velvety gravel. "Shhh...Emma."
He held her in an effort to subdue her, but it wasn't long before strength failed her. She wasn't screaming anymore, simply burying her head against his shirt, wrapping her arms tight around his neck, and sobbing her heart out.
"I shouldn't have hit you," she whispered into his chest, not quite sure if she was all that sorry or not. She'd really wanted to hit something. Shame that something had to be George Knightley.
"Oh that?" He gave her a weak smile, and touched his offended cheek with his right hand. "But I can't wait to tell my school mates I was roughed up by a thirteen year old."
This clearly was not the proper topic to bring up. "Oh." Emma's expression darkened. "I forgot. You'll be abandoning me too, soon enough. Gone forever, like everyone else."
"I may be going away to college, Emma," Knightley spoke in a low and earnest voice. "But I'll never abandon you. Never. I promise you that."
She pushed out of his embrace, staring at him for a long moment to see if he was serious.
"You're shivering." He shrugged off the black dinner jacket he'd worn to the funeral. "Put this on."
She didn't move to take it. They simply stood in the rain, Emma shivering in her dress, Knightley managing to look not the least bit cold, despite the fact that his hair and button-down shirt were just as rain soaked as she was.
Impossible boy.
At last discomfort overcame pride. Emma reached out to take his dinner coat and slip it on. She was too tired to try to stare him down further.
Satisfied, he stuck his hands in his pockets. She watched him pull out the keys to what she'd jokingly called his baby, the sports car he adored. He jingled them before her.
"You want to hit something, Emme?" He asked. "What do you say we hit the road?"
She stared at him. Again, he was being serious.
"Where would we go?" she whispered.
"Anywhere you want." He gave her a quicksilver wink, placing the keys to the sports car in thirteen year old's grip. "You're driving."
It was her first driving lesson.
That evening she slept at the Knightley's home. She always marveled at how wonderful it was there, in a home that had two parents who loved one another. Emma had never lived in a house with both her mother and a father.
Apparently, as a very little girl, Emma had asked her mother if Mrs. Knightley was actually Snow White. It was an embarrassing story to have recounted now, but it was an understandable guess. Mrs. Knightley was very beautiful, with unstudied grace and a warm, demure smile. She had passed on her innate self-possession and knowing gray eyes to her son.
Mr. Knightley was an equally familiar figure. He was simply an older version of George, though with a silver streak in his hair, and a smile that came a bit more quickly then George's usually did. Emma's favorite thing about tall navel officer was his laugh.
George's family cooked her dinner, just the way they always had since she had visited as a little girl. They showed the teenager to a guest room---one of many in the Knightley family's roomy estate. And they left her alone for the night, knowing that she wouldn't really use it.
Unable to sleep, thirteen year old Emma had wandered the halls of the Knightley estate. Her feet took her---by instinct, as always---to George Knightley's room. The light was on and the door was unlocked. She slipped inside quietly and easily as she had done at age five.
The lines of fatigue around George Knightley's eyes were clear, even from a distance, but he still was awake. For her, no doubt. He held a book in his hand, but he wasn't reading. He was sitting perfectly still in an arm chair. His eyes were fixed on the window in front of him, watching rain fall from the dark sky. He was waiting for her.
"George," Emma whispered his name, then stopped abruptly, putting her hand to her mouth.
Emma would never remember the act of running across the room to him. She simply remembered being curled up on his lap, and held close as she cried.
At thirteen, she was well aware that her childhood was slipping faster and faster away. The gap in their ages would never seem quite as big as it seemed at 13 and 17. She knew George Knightley was almost grown now. She also knew that adults generally weren't given liberty to hold one another like this. But couldn't have mattered less. She could have been eight years old, or eighty. It wasn't strange or awkward, and it certainly wasn't sexual. George Knightley held her that night because Emma needed to be held.
Knightley whispered many things to Emma that night, waiting for her to cry herself to sleep. He told her he would always be there for her. He said he would never let her run away again. "Unless," he added in a soft, low breath that tickled her ear, "you were thinking of taking me along and have planned accordingly." He told her that after all these years she couldn't simply decide to get rid of him, because by this point in their lives, like it or not, they were two halves of the same coin. And there was nothing anyone could do to change that.
He didn't say anything further. He didn't need to. She fell asleep, safe in his arms. She didn't have a single dream.
In the present day, four weeks had passed since Emma had realized the depths of her feelings for him. But despite all her memories, Emma refused to speak a word about her newly realized feelings for Knightley to anyone. Because it was either all or nothing. Saying one thing to one person meant everything saying everything to the one man that counted. And she wasn't ready for that.
If she had to choose between loving George Knightley in silence and keeping him in her life, or declaring her feelings and having him gone forever, she would always choose the former. Always, always, always.
But it was hard. So hard, that she had to still herself from calling him up on the spot multiple times in the day and saying something utterly stupid like, "Hello, Knightley. Calling to see how your day's going. Just wanted you to know that I'm desperately in love with you."
This was not a feasible option.
The thought of Knightley was a distraction from her law classes. At night she kept dreaming about him. They were the sorts of dreams she'd never had about any man before, and she woke up blushing more than once, grateful she didn't talk in her sleep.
She wanted to talk with him desperately. And it was getting worse with every passing day. So she did the only thing she felt she could do. She avoided him at all costs.
The instant he sees me, he'll know, she thought. She felt too miserable and too heartsick for her misery not to be obvious. Particularly to him, who knew her so well. Until she could at least pretend to act like a normal person around him, she would keep their interactions brief and to the point. Emma simply wasn't prepared to jump any emotional ledges just yet. He'd been a part of her whole life; she wasn't ready to loose him by confessing feelings he wouldn't return.
By the time February rolled around, he sought her out.
Emma was scribbling the last her notes and putting a reminder in the margin of her planner to rewrite the last paragraph of her essay for Dr. Domborski's class. Her class on UN treaty and convention law had just ended, and the class had filed out. All except her. She hadn't slept well the night before, and hadn't gotten much studying done on the trip up to Kingston. She had a lot of work to do today.
She also hadn't eaten breakfast, and her stomach was growling. In her mad dash to catch the bus to Kingston on time, she'd chosen to thrown on a pair jeans and one of her grandfather's big wool sweaters. She heard the lecture hall door open behind her, and pulled the over-sized sweater closer to her frame, shivering from the draft.
"Emma."
For a second she thought she'd heard him call her name. She was probably imagining it. She hadn't gotten much sleep last night, and she'd been dreaming about him a lot.
Emma kept her eyes to her paper, rubbing her neck with her free hand. She must have slept on it strange, because she had such a stiff neck now.
But when a strong hand gently touched the offending part of her neck, sending shivers to her core, Emma knew she was very much awake. No dream has felt that good.
Emma looked up at his steady, silvery eyes. She suddenly felt like nothing more than a deer caught in a brilliant pair of headlights.
"Good morning." Knightley greeted her, taking his hand away. "You hurt your neck?"
She stared at him. "What are you doing here?" Emma blurted out at last. It was the only thing she could think to say.
"Don't look too enthused." He sat down beside her. "I might think you're happy to see me."
"I---" she cleared her throat, blushing. "Sorry. I was working. You surprised me, that's all."
"I noticed." He reached into his backpack, removing the Starbucks bag. Digging into it, he handed her a cup of coffee. "Have a sip."
She took it, drinking deep.
"Taste good?" He asked softly.
"Very."
Knightley gave a faint smile. "Keep it." He pulled out the last of the Starbucks bag's contents. A croissant. "And this, too. You haven't eaten yet, have you?"
"How could you possibly know that?"
"Don't look so indignant." Knightley laughed, seeing her face. "There are worse accusations I've laid at your feet over the years." He cleared his throat, adding in a very different tone, "Emma, are you sick?"
"No." she spoke quickly.
"Are you sure?" he added softly. "You look pale."
"No, I'm fine."
He placed his hand over hers. Ridiculously, she could feel her cheeks warming at the contact. He didn't seem to notice.
"That's good." Knightley nodded. "I've been worried about you. I stopped by Hartfield a few days ago, but you weren't there.
I've been busy.
I noticed. He frowned. Your grandfather said you've been taking good care of him."
She looked down. "I try. And he has a cook to boss around. That makes him happy. Plus he has Miss Justine, and that makes him even happier. It's cute, seeing my grandpa in love."
"Emma," Knightley started before hesitating. He was wrestling with quite how he wanted to phrase whatever he said next. "You know I want you to be happy, right? You ought to know by know how much I...You ought to know how much I care about that. Your happiness. Just as," he paused, obviously unsure of how to say this next part, "I know you'll always listen when there's something...when I have to tell you something. Even if you don't like what I say sometimes...you'll still listen..."
He was blushing. She'd never seen him look so embarrassed. It would have been a marvel if she hadn't felt so miserable. She felt like a troop of elephants was dancing on her rib cage. He's talking about his feelings for Joceline Fairfax! Or his feelings for Harriet... Either thought made her nauseous. She could just see it: Knightley and his happy bride. Mystery Woman. They'd live happily ever after and have fondant cake at their wedding and drive around in his cherry convertible and...
"I know we'll be busy with Yvette and Ian's wedding this weekend," he was still talking, "But I was hoping, after that, we could talk. Just the two of us."
She almost choked. "Okay. Yeah, sure."
You promise?
I promise.
When they'd gone their separate ways, Emma pulled out her cell phone, near tears. She couldn't stand this anymore. She knew Yve was frantic with wedding plans, but she needed to talk to someone about this. As soon as possible. She called up her friend. They arranging to meet for breakfast at Yve's flat the next morning.
"I'll buy the food," she told Yve. "But I have something to discuss and I don't want Harriet to overhear."
Emma took an early bus the next morning from Hartfield to Kingston in order to buy what she needed to make breakfast at Yve's flat.
Little did Emma know that when she got to the cash register, George Knightley's face would be there to meet her. She stopped cold, grabbing the first three tabloids she saw. There, on the cover of three prominent tabloids, was a picture of him with Joceline Fairfax.
"Emma? What's wrong?" Yve demanded the moment she entered her flat. "You look terrible."
Emma took a ragged breath.
"I'm in love with George Knightley."
"Yes. I know."
Emma was too miserable to be shocked by Yve's statement.
"But he's already in love," Emma shook her head, sniffling. "With Joceline Fairfax."
Yve set down her cup of tea, her eyes narrowing. "Says who?"
"Him. Everyone. The world."
"George Knightley told you?"
"Well...no. But he's going to, Yve. He's going to tell me all about her. He said that we have to talk about something after your wedding." Emma took another breath.
"It could be about anything."
"Well, I swear I'm not imagining things where he and Joceline are concerned. It's all over the front page of every tabloid this morning."
Yve clutched her stomach. "I'm going to be sick."
"I know." Emma sniffed. "Just reading it makes me---"
"No, Emma. I am going to throw up."
Yve had turned a rather unusual shade of green, and her brow looked sweaty. The medical student rushed out of the kitchenette and past a sleepy looking Harriet. She hurried into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
Harriet yawned into her coffee. "What's up with her?"
"Morning sickness."
"Hmm...well at least she doesn't look pregnant yet. Good thing she's getting married next week. She's so small. She'll probably start showing sooner than most." Harriet paused and gave Emma a quizzical look. "And what's wrong with you?"
Emma didn't have time to answer. Beyond that, she didn't want to. Clutching the tabloids she'd picked up that morning and filling a glass with water, she followed her pregnant friend to the bathroom.
Yve had just finished retching into the toilet bowl when Emma entered. Yve leaned against the latrine, pushing back her long hair tiredly.
Emma pressed a hand to Yvette's sweaty forehead. Though her mouth formed a tired grimace, Yve's eyes were calm. Emma set the tabloid on the floor and handed her friend the glass of water.
"Drink this."
Yve drank as Emma sat cross-legged next to her friend on the bathroom carpet. "Are you okay?"
"Oui," said Yvette softly. "Just...a little dizzy. This happens a lot." She gave a small smile. "It is a very good thing Ian and I aren't having a morning wedding. I'll feel better soon enough."
"When's soon enough?"
Yvette gave an ironic laugh. "Two months, according to the doctor." Beneath her tiredness, Emma could sense her friend was watching sagely. "You said there are pictures of Knightley in the paper?"
"I don't know who, but someone got a picture of him carrying her, Yve---" Emma spoke through watery eyes.
"And it says they are dating?"
"Engaged," Emma corrected miserably, holding up a stack of tabloids.
"Let me see those pictures." Yve paged through the magazine.
"Emma, she looks miserable in all of these."
She held one up to Emma's eye level, a grainy newsprint photo of Joceline Fairfax shopping in downtown London. Yve was right. Joceline Fairfax looked miserable.
"Does this look like the face of someone happily in love?" demanded Yvette, pointing to Joceline's picture.
"No." Emma paused. "But I'm in love with George Knightley too, and you don't see me singing on mountain tops. Maybe Knightley has that affect on the women who love him."
"That is doubtful," Yve spoke dryly. She shut her eyes tiredly. "Read me these articles."
Emma cleared her throat and read aloud.
"Actress Joceline Fairfax has found herself a new man. Miss Fairfax, the French beauty who supposedly refused marriage offers from men as varied as Italian filmmaker Bernardo Santorini, award winning actor James Bradley, and Danish prince Johan Hannesburg---"
"She has said no to James Bradley?" Yve interrupted. "Is she mad?"
"I'm more impressed by the Danish prince. Yvette, I don't have a shot at winning Knightley back from someone who's dated royalty---" Emma continued.
"Fairfax seems to have finally found her own knight in shining armor. The actress is rumored to be engaged to George Knightley, a figure hitherto unknown to the international media. Mr. Knightley, a 26 year old doctoral student at Kingston University, has been spotted numerous times on the set of Miss Fairfax's new film, Wuthering Heights. When asked about the nature of the relationship between Miss Fairfax and Mr. Knightley, an anonymous crew member stated, "I saw her once on the set and he literally carried her to her dressing room." Set makeup artist Avril Lacosta also says, "Mr. Knightley comes around real often. He's a real dish. All the girls on set fancy him. He's smart, too." Ms. Lacosta states: "I asked him on a date once. I've never met a guy who turned me down as nice he did. He said thanks but no thanks. Told me his heart was already taken. Wouldn't talk about her, but it has to be Joceline. I do her makeup every morning. If there's a more beautiful face in the world, I've never seen it."
Emma had wanted to tear the tabloid to shreds, but now Emma made a sound that was close to a whimper.
The young actress is rumored to be on the verge of matrimony. "She's been in love for ages," says an anonymous close to the actress, "and she's planning the final wedding details now. She hopes to be married by the end of this spring, but wanted to keep it quiet because her fianc isn't in the public eye. She wants to keep her private life private." Seeing as Joceline Fairfax is settling down with her very own British Knight, is it any surprise the actress has been house shopping in the British countryside? Miss Fairfax's agent has confirmed her recent purchase of a home in the United Kingdom, but declared 'no comment' on the subject of the actress's romantic life.
After that, the words just swam together.
"Breathe, Emma. Breathe." Her friend spoke firmly.
"I can't---I just can't. It's too late. He's in love with her, Yve. I've had years to figure out how I felt about him, and when I finally do, he's already fallen for some Chanel model who's so kind and good-hearted so much better than I am that she wouldn't even step on a cricket!"
Yve, who was gaining her strength back, took her friend by the shoulders and shook her. "Has Knightley ever said the actress is what he wants?"
"No."
"Is there a picture of them together" She paused, "how do you say, in an act of love?"
"No," answered Emma weakly.
"Okay. Is there a picture of them kissing?"
"No."
"Have you ever known Knightley to go out on a date with this Joceline?"
"No, Yve. But he knows I don't like her." Emma sat back miserably. "He probably wouldn't tell me."
"Emma?"
"Yes?"
"I see that you are enjoying being miserable," Yve began.
"I---"
"But these tabloids, they are not known for always writing la verite, correct? The truth, Emma, the truth."
"Well---"
"In fact," Yve stood her ground. "Peut-etre c'est folie, but when he talks to you after my wedding, you may just ask him how he feels." She grinned mischievously before adding, "Or you could just go and kiss him on the lips before he says a word. See if George kisses you back. Then you will know."
"Yve!"
"You are American. Not always prudish like some of these Brits, non? You think this is such a bad idea?"
"Yes!" Emma declared.
"Pfft," Yve gave a very French half-shrug. "So now that you finally realize that he is the one true love of your life, why don't you just tell him that?"
She gave Emma a long look. "What is there to lose?"
"My heart," spoke Emma weakly.
Yve gave her a kind smile. "Emma, you lost that long ago."
Emma sat in stillness, soaking in her surroundings. Willows and flowering cherry trees dotted the landscape. The grasses were tall and thick, with violet and blue and yellow wildflowers were scattered throughout. She loved it here. This was a beautiful place. But she needed to go back. There was something yet that she still needed to do, even if she couldnt quite remember what it was.
Emma stood, stretching her arms. A soft wind rustled Emmas dress pale pink dress, carrying a faint scent of cherries with it on the air. She walked towards the sun, instinctively knowing that was the direction she needed to go in.
Emma! A towering figure, someone she hadnt noticed was coming in the opposite direction, called out her name on the horizon. It was George Knightley. He was coming towards her, wearing brown trousers and a white shirt that shone brilliantly in the sun.
Emma! George grinned. I didnt know youd be here.
I know, she nodded, than tilted her head giving him a steady look. How long have you been waiting?
Knightley looked at her kindly, and his eyes were warm and beautiful, as warm as the sunrise on the horizon behind him. He had a faint smile on his mouth. All your life. Putting his hands on her waist, he leaned in close to give her a sweet, soft kiss---
Emma woke up from her dream with a start. She buried her head in her pillow. The reality of her life stood in sharp contrast to the dream. Here she was, in a beautifully furnished room, a castle for goodness sakes, in the middle of the night, and very much without the man shed been with seconds before. Opening her eyes was almost painful.
Ian Henry was the son of Lord Robert Arthur Henry of Kent; his wedding to Emmas friend, Yvette Lorraine, was to take place at his family home. The home was, in fact, a castle. The entire wedding party had been invited to stay there on the eve of the wedding, and each had been given their own private room.
The accommodations were wonderful. Emma could hardly get over the generosity of the Henry family, or the breadth of their estate. It was a grand place for a wedding, and for the reception that would follow it. Shed had enough wine at the rehearsal dinner to make her sleepy and had wandered off to her bedroom in an effort to get some sound sleep.
She wanted to go somewhere. There was nowhere to go, though, short of wandering the grounds before dawn, like some heroine in a Bronte novel. The thought amused her, but the fact was it was the end of February, and bound to be cold at this hour of the morning. So Emma shut her eyes, and tried to sleep.
But thoughts of George Knightley, however, were never easily banished, and soon enough, old memories surfaced.
My father is going to kill me. My father is going to kill me...if Granddad doesnt kill me first. It didnt matter. Not the firestorm shed face for stealing her fathers credit card instead of going to the last day of her sophomore year at Savannah Prep. Not the five hundred dollars that would soon register on his monthly bill. Not even his reaction to the note shed dictated over the phone for his secretary that morning.
Hes in a meeting, Emma, her fathers secretary, Aunt March, had informed her over the phone.
Did you want me to give him a message, darlin?
Tell him Im going to visit George Knightley in Dover.
Emma tried to keep her voice casual over the phone. Hell know what Im talking about.
And she still remembered, with perfect clarity, their argument the previous night.
But Papa, I missed his parents funeral---
That was in the fall, and you had schoolwork, obligations. Being a sophomore in high school is your job, Emmanuella, I expect you to approach it with maturity and responsibility.
I do take it responsibly. Im on the deans list, arent I? And Ill be a junior by the end of the week, she countered stubbornly.
When high-school junior belies any status other than juvenile in any court of law, then well talk. Her lawyer-father answered calmly, taking a sip of his wine. You cannot vote. You cannot own property. The state agrees that you are, therefore, in no way an adult. Now finish your dinner before you have to be held in contempt and sent you to your room.
Emmas hand clenched her dinner fork. Anger would do nothing but diminish the force of her argument.
I got a letter from him yesterday, she tried to speak calmly. His grandmother is throwing him a birthday party at her house in Dover, but he sounded so sad, Papa---
Hes staying with his grandmother? Her father repeated. He wont be alone then.
Its as good enough as being alone, Im sure of it, Emma declared, frustrated that she had to concede anything. If it were cousin Leigh Ann or even Beau, youd let me skip the last day of school---the most inconsequential of the whole year---to go to them for their birthday. Particularly if their parents had died in a car wreck earlier that year.
Emma, is this George Knightley kin to us, like Beau and Leigh-Ann?
No, Papa.
And where do Beau and Leigh-Ann live?
Sea Island, Emma grumbled into her dinner plate.
Well then. I want you here in Savannah this summer. Not gallivanting after some young man. Her father pointed out, gesturing with his fork, looking at his daughter. A young man who, I might remind you, I have only met once in my life--- Andrew Hamilton Woodhouse stuck his pork chop with his fork, muttering, for all that Ive heard about him ad nauseam for ten years.
Grandfather adores him. So did Mother. Very much.
I have told you already, you are not going to England this summer. And you are certainly not going to miss the last day of school for to visit some young man.
But Papa, hes my friend---
My answer is no, Emmanuella Mae Woodhouse. And get that rebellious look out of your eyes. Ive spoken my peace. For now well finish our dinner, and then youll leave the table politely. You have one more day left in the school year; I suggest you contemplate that. If you need me, Ill be in my office. I have work to do tonight.
She was still too angry with the issue next morning to care about the parental wrath shed face once her father learned shed gone anyway. And taken his credit card to do so. But reality was beginning to hit her about halfway across the Atlantic.
He really is going to kill me.
Emma could dampen this mantra, but she couldnt silence it completely. What was the worst he could do? Ground her? Lock her in the house? Call the FBI or maybe MI5 to physically drag her back to America? Prosecute her for the theft of his credit card?
Her father was a clever man, political when it suited him. And so while these were improbable options, they suddenly they seemed...not impossible.
Oh dear. Emma began to realize more and more possibilities, all of which were probably occurring to her father at this very moment.
Nevertheless, stepping off the bus from Heathrow to Dover, and turning towards Harris Street, Emma knew shed done the only thing she could do. She needed to be here. She would accept the consequences of that.
It was past 11:30 when she found finally found Knightleys grandmothers house. Shed never been to Dover before, but the Knightley family had money, and so did Knightleys grandmother if she could afford a house so close to the beach. She didnt know what to say to him. She hadnt prepared anything.
It was a colonial home with white trim and lace curtains. Emma knocked, suddenly very nervous. She hoped the old woman was awake.
Shed never met Knightleys grandmother, but visions of a mild mannered, biscuit cooking old woman came to mind. Knightleys family was so nice and proper and kind andwell, respectable, as shed told her father. Surely the elderly Mrs. Knightley would be just as nice---
The door opened to reveal a tall, elegant, stately woman with steal hair that matched steal eyes.
Who on earth are you?
Oh, Emma blushed. Are you Hephzibah Knightley?
Knightleys grandmother? She winced at the slip, then corrected herself, George Knightleys grandmother?
Yes. Hephzibah spoke coolly. What are you doing on my doorstep?
Im here for--- Emma cleared her throat, trying to dampen her surprise at facing such a formidable woman.
For what, precisely? Have you no decency? No idea as to the hour of night? Hephzibah looked her over. Perhaps you take pleasure in showing up at this hour of the night looking like a hoyden. She frowned at Emma. I hope your not here with a notion to put my grandson in an uncompromising position. Did one of his hooligan friends put you up to this?
Indecent? Compromising? Emma was too old now not to get the reference. She blanched, quick to tug at her pleated, Savannah prep skirt, a skirt which, in the mornings haste, she hadnt thought to change out of. The skirt was barely above her knees, and she didnt roll it, like some girls did. What did this woman want? A potato sack?
Ill have you know this is standard issue at Savannah prep, Emma bridled. Im Emmanuella Woodhouse. Im here for Knightleys birthday.
The elderly womans eyes flashed owlishly behind thick glasses; they were the same color as George Knightleys, and though they revealing in their silvery depths the same quickness, they had none of his warmth.
Grandmother? His voice came from inside.
Emma remembered to breathe again upon hearing his voice. Past the elderly woman, she could see Knightleys tall, lanky figure. Whos at the door?
Knightley! Emma called out, smiling at him. Hephzibah Knightley frowned from Emma to her grandson. Emma cleared her throat. I mean, hello George, the sixteen year old corrected again, very aware of the elderly womans presence.
You know this girl, George?
If he was surprised to see Emma, the young man hid it well. Knightleys hands hung in his pockets, and his pose remained casual.
Yes, Grandmother.
Yet he still put himself between them instinctively, sensing the silent war brewing. He looked at his grandmother with even strength, and utter calm. Ill speak with Emma.
George I dont really think---
Id like a moment alone, if you please. Though his tone remained respectful, it would brook no arguments.
When the door shut behind them, he turned to Emma. The sixteen year old tried a smile. Think I made a good impression?
He gave her an assessing look. What are you doing here?
I came to...wish you happy birthday...
Does your father know youre here? That was Knightley all right. Right to the heart of matters. Darn it all.
Yes. Emma squirmed, caught in a half truth. She was never good at lying to him. ...I mean he knows by now, at least.
George Knightley stared her. He didnt speak for a long moment, and she wondered if he was going to yell.
I wanted to be here, she dared at last, impatient and unable to endure his look. Ill accept the consequences with my dad, whatever they are. If you want me to go...just tell me to go.
The young man's lean frame seemed to visibly weaken a bit. He sighed faintly and leaned against the door, a lock of his hair falling on his brow.
You know I wont do that.
Emma was unsure how to take that comment. Why not?
Dont you know, Emmanuella? His response was an unpleasantly ironic smile. Youre my weakness.
It was the first and only time in Emmas memory that he called her by her full name. Emma didnt know what it meant, or how to respond.
You werent even supposed to come to England this summer. He continued as though hed said nothing out of the ordinary. You told me yourself in your last letter; your father wouldnt let youthat he wanted you to stay in Savannah---
He hasnt wanted me to come back here since my mother died. Emma shrugged. Maybe he thinks its too hard for me, or something. I dont know, Knightley, and I dont care. All I know is its worse not coming.
Whys that?
Because it just is! she said, exasperated. You cant just stop life, and you cant push everything away. She took a breath and a step closer, taking one of his hands in her own. I wont let you do that. Its your birthday tomorrow. You should...you should do something.
I didnt feel like celebrating a year of life when the people who gave it to me are buried in the ground. Knightley spoke flatly.
I cant blame him. Hes lost both his parents...
I know what its like to lose someone. This was spoken in a whisper. I just wanted you to know that not everyone who loves you is gone.
Thank you, he whispered, and while his chin seemed fixed towards the floor, his grip tightened on hers. Knightley looked down, seemingly having difficulty swallowing. Come inside. Well call your father. And your grandfather.
Seeing him turn away to open the door, Emma floundered. She marveled anew at Knightleys ability to say exactly the right thing when her mother had died. She wished she had that gift for words. More often than not, she seemed to say the wrong thing where he was concerned.
Emma didnt follow him. In fact she didnt move. After so many years of intimate friendship, it was pretty much understood that, in most situations, Emma Woodhouse and George Knightley had a shared, instinctive ability in reading one another. When her mother had passed away, George Knightleys impromptu driving lessons had been exactly the right thing. Shed needed to escape from herself. He needed the same thing now. But what could she do? What could she say? What could she give him?
In that second, inspiration struck. Emma slipped off her shoes, dropped them on the porch without speaking another word, and turned her back to him, walking down the steps. It took only a moment for him to realize she wasnt behind him.
Emma---where are you going?
To the beach, she called back to him.
Knightley followed her down the steps, quickly catching up with her before she crossed the darkened street. Its almost midnight. He grabbed her with both hands. Your grandfather will kill me for letting you stay here tonight as it is. Emma, think seriously.
Im thinking quite seriously, she answered with a calmness that belied her sixteen years. Ive never been to Dover Beach. If I have to leave for Grandfathers tomorrow, and back to America and my father the next day, I want to see it. Now.
In the dark? He demanded.
In the moonlight, responded Emma evenly. One of us has to celebrate the fact that youre alive today, George Knightley. If you wont, I will. She paused quite deliberately, than added in a voice that sounded like a challenge, Come with me if you want.
Knightley had always possessed an amazing command for language, but for once, the right words evaded him.
She folded her arms, and not actually feeling half as calm as she was acting. For a long moment Emma was unsure if he was going to yell at her for coming uninvited, or simply drag her bodily back to the house.
At last he released his grip on her wrist, giving a self-defeated laugh. Youre the most willful, opinionated, pig-headed person Ive ever met.
She grinned broadly. You forgot to mention fast. Catch me if you can, Knightley!
The hot summer air rushed past them as they raced to the beach. Emma remembered looking up as she ran. She remembered the stars, how they rushed above them, a roof of sparks that blurred to fiery streaks the faster they went.
They raced one another along the surf, their footsteps echoing in the darkness. When at last her watch turned, Emma slowed. It was midnight.
Happy birthday, George, she said, giving him a smile that was breathless and wistful and a little sad. She took his hand, pulling him down to sit on the shore.
Im sorry about my grandmother, Knightley began after silence had set in. Shes---
Terrifying? Emma volunteered. Monarchical? Insane? George grinned at her. For crying out loud, Knightley, she could give etiquette lessons to the Queen!
Yeah. He rubbed his neck, laughing. I think she likes you.
Oh, Im sure, Emma giggled. Her heart fluttered strangely as he moved a single lock from her eyes. Im jet lagged. Do I look awful?
No. He said, giving his first honest smile of the night. She wondered, with a fleeting sense of sorrow, if it was his first honest smile since the accident. There was something akin to wonder in his eyes. Thank you. I needed you here.
You're welcome. She answered simply. She stifled a yawn. Before she even thought it through, she was curled up next to him, with her head resting on his chest. His arms settled around her.
Im happy youre here, he whispered into her hair.
She buried her cheek in his chest. So am I. Emmas gaze moved to the moon that hung above the sea line.
They stayed together on the beach, watching the tide shift beneath the moonlight, waiting for time to pass, waiting for the sun to rise.
tside and call the doctor, dearest? I'm not feeling very well."In her thirteenth year, Emma ended up losing ten pounds in a year when most girls were busy growing out of there training bras. A petite stature that belied both parents height had followed her into adulthood, a token of that period in her life.
She tried to shake off the thought as the automatic doors of St Aldate's slid open. But she couldn't keep her hands from shaking.
"George," she whispered softly. He squeezed her hand.
"I'm not leaving you, Emma."
She plenty of forms to fill out. Knightley helped her with them, searching through her wallet for the proper id information and the medical insurance card she and her grandfather shared. She signed where he pointed to and watched as he went to go find the doctors who were caring for Lucien.
He'd been gone for a good half hour. The hospital was warm. Knightley had taken off his jacket and slung it on the chair beside her. Emma picked up the blazer now, absently running her fingers along the fabric while two nurses aids cleaned up magazines and cups from the waiting area. She could see Knightley from afar, coming towards her.
One of the nurse's aids noticed him too and grinned, unsubtly motioning for her friend to look as well. Her friend, a blonde, saw him and her eyes widened.
"Gorgeous," the friend agreed.
Emma smirked and returned her gaze to Knightley. He was always so unaware of his affect on women.
The top buttons of Knightley's pressed shirt were undone. His tie was loose. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal lean, tight forear
HThe earth was shaking. Emma buried her head in her pillow and groaned, shaking the memories from her head. It was the day of Yvette Lorraines wedding to Ian Henry.
Hartford was a grand place, even by the standards of stately homes, but this was well and truly the first time shed woken up in a castle.
Mornin, Emmanuella, a lilting Southern voice greeted her ear. This was followed by a low, loud, rich baritone singing loudly. Oh what a beautiful mooooornnniiing! Oh what a beautiful daaay! Knowing those voices immediately, Emma pressed her hands to her ears. Saints alive! Scare me half to death, the pair of you!
Through the slits of her eyes, she could see two people. One was a small boned blonde girl who looked about nineteen (though Emma knew her actual age to be 26). It was her cousin, Issy Bryce, sitting prim in a lovely blue sundress. Her sweet face had vague echoes of Emmas own features. The other was a 6 foot 3 professional rugby player, Georges best mate from his undergraduate years. Standing beside Issy, with a tanned hand on his wifes shoulder, he had a big grin that lit up the whole of his rugged face.
Happy to see us? John asked her, his green eyes twinkling.
Ecstatic. Emma face scrunched up comically, though in truth she felt a rush of happiness at the sight of the pair. After all these years its a small wonder I havent gone deaf yet. Emma flopped back onto her pillow. Do I have to get up?
No time like the present, no day like today, Sweetpea. He moved to sit on her bed. Dont think I wont picked you up, blanket and all, Emme---tiny little thing like you.
Emma squealed as he put his hands on the bed, shaking it again.
John! Chevalier, I swear--- She picked up her pillow and whacked the tall rugby player with it, I dont know how my cousin puts up with you.
Bribery. Johns grin loomed over her.
Of course, Emma winked at him. Dont tell me Im the last one up?
Yes, maam, said Issy. Emma smiled at her cousin. She was used to hearing British accents and usually forgot about her own Southern drawl unless it was noted upon, but it was such a comfort to hear a hint of home. Issys Southern accent was even thicker than Emmas. I told George to wake you up a half hour ago, but--- Issy hesitated, and there was a twinkle in her eyes. George said we should let you sleep a bit longer. He said you looked too peaceful to wake up.
Yeah, the softie, John interrupted. Me on the other hand, Im a terrible person so I had no problem waking you up--
Knightley was in here? Emma interrupted him.
Yeah, John Chevalier nodded. He took his wifes hand. She watched them walk to the door. Get yourself dressed and meet us in the kitchen, Emme. I have a surprise for you.
A surprise from John Chevalier? Emma didnt like the sound of that. Heaven help me, she muttered once the door was shut.
Emma was slow in dressing that morning, mostly on account of her nerves. She pulled on jeans and a sweater, tugging at both fastidiously. She would shower and change into her bridesmaid gown after breakfast. For now her hair was awful and her skin seemed blotchy, even if it wasnt. Oh, and Knightley was here. Knightley. And hed seen her. Like this. With blotchy skin and bad hair, and apparently so dead to the world he hadnt wanted to wake her. The very thought of it made her blush with embarrassment.
Which was absurd. Hed seen her in worse states too many times to count since she was five years old. s going to get. For the first time
Emma walked down the hallway, trying to shake of an impending sense of doom. John had a surprise for her? What did that mean?
Well of course he was. He was one of Ians groomsmen. And John had told Knightley to wake her up this morning? That was John though, always causing trouble...
It was hard to say what surprised her more when she walked through the Henry familys spacious sitting room to get to the kitchen---the fact that every bit of it seemed covered with some of the most beautiful flowers shed ever seen----or the fact that Martin Christopher was the one arranging those flowers.
He was hunched over one of the larger floral arrangements. His sleeves were rolled up and a cap covered his hair, but it was definitely Martin.
Hullo! He spoke warmly. Emma smiled at him, her curiosity piqued. She would have politely called his Liverpool accent rustic before, now seemed really quaint. What was the Kingston groundskeeper doing here in the middle of Mr. and Mrs. Henrys sitting room?
This place looks amazing. Did you arrange all these? Emma asked, gesturing to the veritable Eden surrounding them.
Surely did. Martin nodded, smiling proudly. And a devil it was, getting it all to stay fresh in the van up here. But I promised Miss Yve Id find the best for her wedding, and I meant it.
Emma nodded, overcome with a mixture of emotions, not all of which were pleasant. What were the words shed said to Harriet all those months ago? the pert exprHes just a groundskeeper? Her words had been something along those lines.
Its beautiful. It was all she could think to say. You should be very proud of your work. Youre very talented.
Thanks, Martin gave her a humble nod. Shame I wont be able to stay for the service. My Saturdays are usually spent at Blenheim Palace.
Oh, do you tour it often?
Martin gave a small laugh. No time for touring, he admitted, scratching his head. Though I do offer personal tours to...friends. Emma remembered fleetingly how hed offered to take Harriet there. No, actually, Im Blenheim Palaces Master Gardener.
Emmas eyes went wide. Along with working at Kingston?
Martin shrugged. Oh, I just put in a few hours at Kingston for the fun of it. Why not, right? I thank God every day Im not stuck in some office building. I get to work with the earth, get some sun in me. Like my da did, and my grandda before him. Were a family of farmers, you see. I like what I do. Besides, there are lots of good folk there, you know? Like George Knightley and---and Harriet Smith--- he tried to mention Harriet casually, but his cheeks flushed. And yourself, too.
Im a far cry from good, Emma thought, though she smiled at him and said her goodbyes politely.
This was the first conversation shed ever had with Martin Christopher and not five seconds in, shed been completely humbled. George was right. He was a wonderful man, humble, talented---he did what he loved.
Her head was still spinning as she made her way to the kitchen. Like everything else in the Henry Estate, the kitchen was spacious, and modernly furbished. But it wasnt the kitchen itself that interested Emma. It was the two people in it. The CD player was turned up loud enough so that her entrance wasnt even noted. George Knightley. Hed already donned tuxedo trousers, a pressed white shirt, and a dark grey vest, and he stood over a pan of eggs, singing while a golden-haired child danced around him.
Emma stood in the doorway, completely entranced. Knightley had a great voice for story telling, and a great voice for verse recitation. It served him well in his literature studies. But she often forgot that great voice translated into fluid singing voice as well.
He sang a blues song, with honey smooth inflection. He sang for John and Issys little girl but, Emma could tell from the heartfelt inflection and the powerful lengthening of tone, that he also sang for himself.
As the last notes of the song trailed off, so did Knightleys voice. The little girl stopped mid twirl, looking at him with open faced admiration. Sing it again!
Emma couldnt withhold her laughter at the childs reaction. Thats what I wanted to ask. I think she takes after me, Knightley.
He grinned at her, not the least bit embarrassed at having been caught singing. Knightley wasnt an exhibitionist, but he wasnt shy, either. He winked at her. Im sure we could work something out.
Struck by a tone that seemed more than a little flirtatious, Emma could hardly summon an answer. The only response she wanted to give was to grab him by the collar and kiss him on the spot. Probably not the most appropriate answer given the fact that she had yet to tell him how she felt about him, and that a small child was in the way, and that he was probably in love with someone else---
But it was so tempting.
Emma! The four year old squealed, abruptly making her presence known. Emma picked up the child as Knightley turned down the cd player.
So youre my surprise! Emma declared to the little girl, grateful for the sudden reminder of reality.
Or is my surprise Knightley here?
George Knightley cast Emma a sidelong glance. Do you want it to be?
What did that mean? Emma nearly dropped Bella. Dear sweet heaven. He knows how I feel about him. Had Yve told him? No, no---Yve wouldnt have betrayed that confidence. So what did that mean? Hes asking if I want to hear about him and Joceline. Testing the waters.
Emmas jaw clenched. If that was the case, she definitely didnt want to hear about it.
Knightley rested a hand on Bellas head. They stood there for a moment, the three of them, and Emma realized for a moment that any stranger walking in would think them the picture of domestic bliss.
Bella had enough of Issy in her to look like Emma, and she couldnt help but let herself wonder---just for a second---what it would be like to be to hold a child who was her own. She wondered this, knowing there was only one man she could picture as that childs father. And he was standing right next to her.
Impossible of course. Ridiculous.
I think Bella is a wonderful surprise, she said at last, lightlyshe hopedhe could see her eyes pleading for him to keep it at that.
Papa! Bella Chevaliers voice cut through the silence, causing her to jump. Mummy!
John and Issy had just entered the room, and John had a broad grin on his face.
Can I sit next to George? Bella asked.
I suppose. John feigned a sigh, then leaned in to kiss his child tickling her and eliciting a joyful shriek from her in the process. Go find your seat, Bella.
Emme---lets help get some of this food into the dining room. Issy picked up a plate of croissants.
Be careful, George. Bellas getting quite a crush on you. Issy teased.
Shes not the only one, Emma thought to herself and hid her sigh.
managed to shield his king with his rook. She'd have to double backBreakfast with the bridal party and the Henry and Lorraine families (everyone but for Ian; he forbidden to see his bride before the ceremony and was relegated to the east wing of the estate) proved an awkward affair.
Would you like me to put jam on your croissant, Bella? Emma asked the little girl sitting between herself and Knightley.
Please! Bella spoke, although with her lisp it came out more as pleathe. Emma bit back a chuckle and picked up the girls croissant. Knightley, seeing this procedure, helped Emma push up the sleeves of Bellas dress in an effort to keep them from getting jam covered.
Bella, Issy said from across the table, you must say thank you to Emma and George.
Thank you. Bella tried to speak primly, then spoiled it with a fit of giggles.
Youre welcome. We wouldnt want you to get anything on your pretty dress, Bella, Emma said with a smile to the girl.
It is a very lovely dress, said Mrs. Lorraine, nodding to Issy.
Yes, Mr. Henry agreed warmly, taking a sip of his tea. I dare say that apart from my sons future wife, youll be the prettiest girl in the room.
Thats not what George says, Bella spoke up, clearly puzzled. He says the most beautiful woman in the world is---
Before she could spit out the rest of the sentence, Knightleys hand clamped over her mouth. George leaned in, whispering something in the childs ear. Bella nodded.
I forgot, she said to the table with a spark in her eye. Its a secret.
Yes, well, Knightley coughed, and cleared his throat. Lets eat, shall we?
Bella's got quite a mouth on her, doesnt she? John laughed at Knightley, seeming as though he were thoroughly enjoying himself, watching Knightleys discomfort. Emma glared at him from across the table. Stupid John---whom she loved, but could be so irritating. Knightley had regrettable taste in friends.
If she does, Knightley retorted to Bellas father, theres no question where that comes from.
Emma had to take a sip of her tea in an effort to calm her stomach. The most beautiful woman in the world? He had to have been referencing Joceline Fairfax. She was the only woman Emma knew who could merit the title. Wasnt that what everyone said of her? Who else could he be talking about beyond the elegant Chanel model and accomplished actress?
Emma didnt think it could get much worse than that moment. Until, that is, Rebecca Weston arrived. Rebecca had already changed into her bridesmaid gown, and her face was flushed. Sorry Im late, she declared, standing in the doorway. Robs on his way in. Hes on the phone, actually. It took us forever to get out of the house this morning.
What happened, Rebecca? Knightley asked.
They eloped.
The whole of the breakfast table froze. Both the Henrys and the Lorraine family blanched.
Oh my stars. Issy whispered.
And those buggers made me get dressed in a tux! said John with a delighted laugh.
But-- Emma started, feeling completely dense. They couldnt have. Yve just went to get her hair done. And Ian, hes just---
Not Yve and Ian. Rebecca corrected and held up a tabloid. Splashed across the headlines were the words: French Beauty Marries Britains Own Son. Joceline Fairfax and Frank Churchill. Our house was surrounded by paparazzi this morning. I dont know how they found out. Rob didnt even know they were dating, and hes Franks cousin.
Eloped according to who? Knightley interjected. They printed something about Joceline and me in there. My lawyer called them the following day, and they're due to print a retraction.
Rebecca took the seat across from him, nodding. Well now I know how that got in the paper at all. The source for the article was Frank. It was a plant---a diversion. Hes confessed everything to Rob. He wanted to get suspicion off of him so that they could wed this weekend in peace. He says Joceline had no idea until it was printed. The idea was his.
Of course it was, Knightley muttered. Emma could tell from the sudden tension in his voice that he was angry. He looked like he wanted to say some very choice words, but the presence of little Bella was restraining him.
Rebecca shook her head. I understand why he didnt tell anyone about the engagement...I mean, hes the son of a prominent Cabinet Minister...shes a famous movie star. There was bound to be press attention, and lots of it. They met last summer, at a yacht party with his family and Durant Dixon. Dixons apparently an old friend of his fathers family, and also---catch this---Durant Dixon is Jocelines godfather.
The shock of it all was what kept her silent, but this last tidbit was the straw on the back of her morning. Durant Dixon was Jocelines godfather? And all this time, Frank was trying to imply theyd been having some kind of an affair. Her mind raced. All the pieces added up. Franks visit coincided with the French beautys arrival. The haircut in Paris and the nostalgia for his time there...allusions to wanting to settle down...the kiss hed given Emma on the movie set must have been an act spurned by jealousy.
Im not happy with him, Rebecca continued somberly, and neither is Rob. Particularly given the people he could have hurt by this. Emma immediately knew the reference was to herself, and this was confirmed by Rebeccas steady, sympathetic gaze. Beyond that, our house is swarming with photographers. Frank told Rob theyve been engaged for over a year. A year! I knew what he was like before he came to stay with us, but---I never--I just never expected him to go off and elope!
Emma looked up to Knightley. It was as if her knife had missed her plate and hit her heart. Poor, dear Knightley! Hadnt he loved Joceline, and in silence? Had she led him along the way Frank had led her? Emma couldnt even wrap her head around what he must be feeling if that was true.
Emma? Bella tugged on her shirt sleeve. Whats e-lope?
Emma had to push her plate away before answering. Shed lost all of her appetite for the morning.
The pre-wedding preparations passed by in a flurry of curling irons, wedding coordinators, tea lights and caterers, and other staff maneuvering around the spacious Henry estate. The wedding ceremony occurred in the rose garden. Yvette looked radiant in her great-grandmothers antique veil, a creation which consisted of yards and yards of lace that Emma, as a bridesmaid, was careful to handle with a deft touch.
She wore a cream empire dress that almost completely hid her slightly swollen waistline.
Ian stood with his groomsmen beneath the orchid-covered arbor. He had the biggest grin that Emma had ever seen his lean face sport, like a man whod just won the lottery.
It was a beautiful day for a wedding. The sun was bright and the sky was the clearest blue shed seen all year, perfect for an outdoor ceremony. Emma could barely get out of her head how quickly it had all gone, as she helped Yve pin up the bustle of her train and found a silk embroidered wrap---Ians bridal gift to Yve---to wrap around Yves shoulders.
That was a beautiful ceremony, Emma told Yve, settling the fabric of the wrap so it could drape around Yvettes shoulders. You and Ian both---you look radiant.
Yve dimpled at her friend, turned to see where Ian was behind her, then grabbed Emmas hand. Have you talked to him?
Though Yves hand was small and as dainty as could be in its lace-covered glove, Emma suddenly felt trapped. Who?
The Prince of Wales. Yve rolled her eyes. Who do you think? George Knightley.
I-- Emma opened her mouth, a protest about to spring forth. Well, no...I dont know if this is the place, Yvereally--
Emmanuella, Yve said, exasperated. If you dont talk to him about this by the end of the reception, Ian and I will go up to the microphone and say how you feel loud enough for the whole castle to hear.
Ian knows? Emma squeaked.
Of course Ian knows, Yve said with a laugh. I tell him everything. Its what people in love do. And its what you should do with George Knightley this very second!
I---
Theres our beautiful bride! The photographer came bounding over. Are we ready for some pictures?
Mais oui, Yve smiled prettily at him, taking his arm but not before mouthing the words 'Talk to him' in Emmas direction.
Beneath to reception tent, Emma could see George Knightley talking with little Bella. Hes telling her a story Emma realized. She could tell by his gestures and by the twinkle in his eyes. She smiling softly at the sight, seeing Bellas animated react from afar.
You too, bridesmaid! the photographer called to Emma. Group pictures!
Yeah, bridesmaid, hop to it, John Chevalier spoke behind her. He put his arm around Emmas shoulder. You alright?
Fine.
The photographs were a long, tedious affair. When the photographer declared he wanted one last photo of the bridal party---from the flower girl to the ushers---Anita Bates came bounding forward. Anita had served as an usher.
Oh, She giggled, then snorted her curly hair springing as she laughed. Oh my. Im terrible with pictures. Absolutely terrible. I never know where to look and I always seem to be facing the wrong direction or the lighting is bad or I simply blink or sneeze or cough. Not like Joceline. Nothing like Joceline at all! She gets her picture taken in some of the most exotic places in the world---places I cant even pronounce! Anita preened. But you sure look lovely, Yvette! Absolutely lovely! What a beautiful veil that is! And this house is so grand, Ian. Absolutely grand! Just the sort of place that Joceline is always going to and sending me souvenirs from and getting her picture taken in for all sorts of magazines! But thats Joceline for you! Always so beautiful and elegant, every hair in just the right place! As for me, I certainly dont know where to stand amidst all these beautiful people. No, I certainly dont know where to stand! Surely I---I dont want to spoil the picture!
Emma listened with impatience to Anitas oration. Her feet hurt and the thought of Anitas stupid, perfect-looking actress cousin, Joceline Fairfax, kept coming to mind.
Dont worry Anita, Emma spoke without thinking. Im sure theres plenty of room in the back.
Anita faltered visibly. Oh. Oh...yes...yes... she gave a awkward, forced laugh. Well, perhaps...perhaps Ill just sit these pictures out after all.
Id be happy to have you on my arm, Anita, Knightley interjected quickly. He made room for her where he stood. Come stand next to me.
The photos were uncomfortable, and everyone seemed relieved when the awkward silence amongst the bridal party was replaced by the swell of the hired band and the chatter of happy guests mingling.
Emma!
Heaven help her. It was Mrs. Bates.
Hello, Emma spoke with forced pleasantness. What else would she have to endure today?
Emma darling, its lovely to see you, as always. Emma nodded, smiling benignly and forcing her eyes to stay focused on Mrs. Bates and not seek out George Knightley. Another lovely bridesmaid dress! And your flowers, just charming with your hair.
Uh huh, said Emma, her mouth full of crme puffs. Guilt for her unthinking comment to Anita, anger towards Frank and Joceline, sorrow at Knightleys heartbreak---Knightley, who seemed to fall in love with everyone but her---and just a general state of misery, had started to sink in.
This is twice now in one year, said Mrs. Bates. I wonder that you havent found yourself a husband at that university?
Ive been so busy, said Emma, swallowing and sipping deep of her champagne. It was her stock answer, though in this instance it was spoken with a shade of defensiveness.
Well, you know what they say, Emma, Mrs. Bates chided. Thrice a bridesmaid---
Never a bride, completed Emma, forcing her tone to be light. nice as this is to chat, I should really get going, Mrs. B. My grandfather---
Seems to be doing very well! Mrs. Bates steamrolled. I hear hes dating someone now!
Yes, Emma nodded. Theyre very happy together.
A pretty girl like you should have someone! Why dont you try dancing a bit? My grandsons wandering around here somewhere. Hes wanting a dance partner---
OhI---
She already promised to dance with me, Knightley cut in at that moment.
This wasnt fair. She was completely in love with him, she didnt want to see anyone at all but him, and yet she could barely hide her cringe.
It seems youre spoken for Miss Woodhouse, Mrs. Bates inferred speculatively. Emma could tell her tone of voice. Clearly she though there was something going on between them. Emma didnt care if she did think that. Correcting her would be too depressing, and the suggestion itself allowed here the illusion that the thought wasnt too preposterous or impossible. Even if it was.
I was just about to leave--- she protested weakly as Knightley pulled her away from Mrs. Bates.
I though we were going to talk, countered Knightley.
I dont want to talk, she insisted stubbornly.
He looked as unhappy as she felt. He also looked exasperated. If you wont talk, Emma, just listen---what happened today during the photographs?
Emma glared, trying to jerk her hand away. I dont know what youre talking about---
Emma, stop it. Stupid has never been a card in your deck. Knightley insisted, standing close enough to keep their conversation solely between them. Why be cruel to Anita Bates?
Im sure she hardly understood---
She understood plenty. Shes hardly spoken of anything else since. Emma flinched and looked away in an effort to hide obvious embarrassment, though she knew instinctively how futile that was. It seemed there was very little she could hide from George Knightley.
Emma, Knightleys voice dropped a measure. If she was your equal in beauty, or status, in intellect or popularity, than your comment may have been brushed off as mere pettiness. His grey gaze burned into her.
Anita is a plain girl. Shes awkward in every since of the word, particularly socially, and shes slow to learn. Youre beautiful, Emma---and youre smart and youre charming...everyone loves you. This admission seemed almost painfully. Anita is more tolerated than she is liked. She lives vicariously through people like her cousin Joceline, and people like you, Emma. You live a life shell never experience. Her position being in every way beneath you, it should secure your compassion. Youve embarrassed her in front of people who are guided by your conduct of her, and believe me when I say she felt the brunt of that blow. It was very badly done, Emma.
There was nothing she could say to defend herself. Emma simply nodded. I'm so sorry. Her eyes shone with tears. I know I was cruel. Let me go, Knightley, she whispered at last. Please...let me go.
Knightley opened his fingers, letting her wrist through. He rubbed his cheek regretfully, allowing himself one last look at her. Sticking his hand loose in his pockets, he turned from her and walked back to reception tent.
Emma was free to go. For once he hadnt argued. Hed simply done exactly what she asked. She watched him walk away, wishing through her tears that he hadnt.
Emma stood clutching the phone in her room to her ear, speechless.
You were a young girl, her father was saying, and I wanted to keep your home life as simple and stable as possible; after your mother died, it was even more difficult. But youre a young woman now, with a life of your own and---there was nothing keeping me from thoughts of marrying again. I understand this must come as a bit of a surprise for you, Emma. Hearing her stunned silence, her fathers Southern voice mellowed slightly over the phone. But once you meet Selena, Im certain youll find she'll be a welcome addition to our family...Emma...Emma?
Im here Papa, she spoke at last. Um...whens the wedding?
Selena was hoping for next Christmas.
Emma nodded, though of course her father couldnt see her, given the fact that they were talking on the phone. She crawled off her bed with the phone in hand and tried not to trip over own feet she walked towards her closet. Keeping an absent eye to the tangled mess around her---belts, purses, heels, jeans, skirts, it was all a big piled mess---she spoke again. The weather would already be starting to turn in Georgia. Id really like to meet her.
I could fly you out for Easter, Emma.
No, Papa, she interrupted determinedly. Id like to meet her tomorrow. It would probably be smart to pack skirts and light tops.
From her fathers silence, it seemed she couldnt have surprised him more if shed announced she was joining a convent.
But your grandfather, he tried to order his thoughts, doesnt he need---
Hes on holiday with Miss Justine. She takes very good care of him. Hell be away until the end of the month, actually. He hardly needs me any more. Hes very happy, Papa. Im all alone in Hartfield, and Id like to meet Selena as soon as possible.
Tomorrow is Monday. You have classes. Emma, dont be irrational---
Ill make up the work, Emma pressed. I want to meet Selena. Shes a part of your life, Papa...and I want to be a part of it, too. I never see you.
That was your choice, Emmanuella, her father spoke coldly. England was your choice---
So is this, she answered quickly. Ill leave a message for your secretary when I get to the airport. You wont have to do anything.
Emma, I---
Emma hung up the phone abruptly. He would try arguing her out of it. And he wouldnt succeed, so the conversation was useless anyway. All she had here were thoughts of Knightley. Last nights reception had been a disaster, and shed holed up here at Hartfield all Sunday. This was something she needed to do.
It was time to go home.
Andrew Hamilton Woodhouse stroked his goatee absently, his tan brow furrowing in a strong face. It was a variation of a scene shed seen a thousand times before. Emma watched him as his long fingers flip through pages of an affidavit. Her father at his mahogany desk, surrounded by stacks of files flanked by bookshelves of red and brown and blue leather bound books. He came here every evening with a nightcap---bourbon on the rocks---and a cigarette burning in his ash tray. Emma smiled to herself at the familiarity of the scene.
Selena doesnt mind that you smoke? Emma asked softly, making her presence known by shutting the mahogany door behind her. Her father looked up from his work.
She hates it, he said with a hint of a smile, then leaned back into his leather chair.
So did I. Emma admitted.
I know. He gestured for her to sit, and so she did, settling herself and trying not to feel like the opposing counsel.
You flushed all of my cigars down the toilet once. Her father lifted his cigarette to his mouth. They were Cuban cigars, a gift from the governor. It clogged up the toilet and cost me three hundred dollars in plumbing bills. Andrew Hamilton chuckled slightly. You were ten. The most stubborn, willful child Id ever seen.
I was eight, Emma corrected him. Youve kept those cigars locked in the lower right hand drawer of your desk ever since. She gave him a faint smile. I wont flush them down the toilet again. I promise.
Andrew Hamilton tapped his cigarette into the ash tray. Old habits.
A silence ensued.
Selena seems nice, Emma tried.
She is. Her father assured her. He picked up his drink, sipping it. Shes right for me. The ice cubs at the bottom rattled. Although she does hate the fact that I smoke. That could be something you and she can bond over.
Emma hesitated for a moment in her response, weighing her options. She could continue conversing in benign pleasantries with her father, or she could be honest. And she was tired of tap-dancing around things with people.
Actually, its sort of a comfort...
What is?
Knowing that you wont quit smoking for her, either, she dared.
Her father swallowed slowly, setting his glass of bourbon down. He gave her a measured look. How do you mean?
Well, Papa, Emma pressed on. In for a dime, in for a dollar. I told you, again and again, how I hated seeing you smoke. You knew I didnt like it, you never stopped...I dont know...its silly, but I always just assumed you...didnt care enough about me to stop or something.
Her father stared at her, dumbfounded. You couldnt honestly believe that.
Emma tried to shrug casually, though her voice trembled slightly. I remember listening to Aunt March and your other pool of secretaries. Id sit on their desks as a child and listen to them tell stories about your court cases. She took a shaky breath. And you sounded like some kind of superhero. Unbeatable. I thought you were one, too. I still think of you that way. All those years of your practice, and your pro-bono work on the side. Id tell my friends at school, My father fights crime and injustice. He puts corrupt people from high places into jails. Everyone looked up to you. She shrugged. Maybe thats why I wanted to be a lawyer. I wanted to be just like you.
You used to come into my office as a little girl, he said softly. You seemed to enjoy it. My little assistant.
It was because I could win your attention, admitted Emma. Every time you needed something and I could find it, or I got the answer right, I felt like Id won some sort of prize...
Emmanuella, her fathers voice was brusque, but sincere. You never had to earn my love. I love you. I always have.
I know that. And you know I love you, Papa. But you were always so busy. You forgot my birthday this year. It was more of an embarrassing admission than an accusatory one. My twenty-first birthday.
For once her father didnt have a defense. I know I havent always been the most attentive parent. I knew youd have a strange childhood, with your mother and I divorced, and her living in England. I tried my best to raise you, Emma. I tried my best to give you what you wanted---
I wanted your attention.
And I wanted you here! Her father countered. You ran away to England. When you went to college, but before that, even. Every summer you were there. I thought it was because of your mother---a girl needs a mother---but even after she died, it was still the same. Im not blind, Emma. I could tell.
I felt...I neededthere were people there I wanted to be with.
I tried my best, Emma, Andrew repeated. Ive always wanted you here. I wish youd come back.
Im here now.
Im happy for it. His sharp eyes were bright in his tan face. Your grandfather sounds like hes doing well. He has a companion now, someone he loves and who can care for him. Whats keeping you there?
Emma shrugged. I dont know...I thought I knew...and then I didnt....maybe it was the wrong reason.
Her attorney-general father leaned forward, a light in his eyes. Emma, would you consider entering into an agreement?
Emma looked at him warily. Written? At age twelve shed signed a five year contract with her father, exchanging a 9 pm bed time for personal riding lessons. The contract wasnt binding in a court of law, but it was binding in the Home of Woodhouse. A gentleman always keeps to his agreements, her father had told her. And so does a lady. Shed grown tired of those riding lessons after a year, but was held to the contract till age seventeen. Shed been careful of accords she made with her father ever since.
Verbal, her father smiled. Simple terms.
Im all ears.
May I quote you?
She nodded. Everything I said was on the record.
Your grandfather is happy. Hes in love, and hes well cared for. You said it yourself. You also said your reasons for staying in England may have changed. Would you consider moving back to Georgia after the end of this academic year? You could transfer your credits to the University of Georgia and finish your law degree there. Emma, you may not have felt like you were a part of my old life, but I want you to be a part of my new one.
Her father wasnt attorney general of the state of Georgia for nothing. He knew how to close an argument. The thing with her father, though---the force that won his arguments---was the fact that he genuinely meant what he said. Emma hardly had to think through her answer.
She gave him a smile. Perhaps she would go back to live in England one day, but this was where she needed to be for awhile. She loved Knightley, but she needed to give him his freedom. She wouldnt impose herself on him. The realization that moving back to Georgia meant letting him go was painful, but she would have consolation in this new family. It was a bittersweet realization, but this was where her path had led her. She only had one parent left, and she wanted to know him, to find out who this man was as an adult. More than that, he wanted it too. This was where she needed to be.
You have a deal.
Andrew Hamilton Woodhouse hadnt earned his place in the world of politics or otherwise by being blind to certain truths. He saw the wane pallor of his daughters skin over the candlelight of their dinner that night. He saw the unhappiness which crept into her features when she thought no one was looking. He noted the false good-humor she summoned during conversation in an effort to put Selena at ease. And while he appreciated her efforts, her appearance concerned him.
And he saw the look on her face when Selena mentioned the wedding Emma had been to that past weekend.
Did you have a nice time? Selena asked. Your father said it was held at a castle.
Oh. Yes it was, she answered, smiling to compensate for the brevity of her answer. Clear this was not a favored topic of conversation.
I do a lot of hair for weddings, Emma, Selena continued. Lots of young ones your age thick as thieves in love.
Emma nodded. Her face remained drawn.
You have such beautiful hair, Emma. Its so long. Ill bet youre real careful who you let near it with a pair of scissors.
Seeing that Selena was beginning to feel awkward, Andrew felt the need to join in.
I remember the fit you used to give when March wanted to trim it. Andrew stopped short abruptly, a long forgotten memory surfacing at that second.
He remembered how she would return from summer holidays with her hair cut. The only person she let cut her hair was her mother, Cordelia. Shed kept it long ever since, only trimming inches off of it herself when it became completely unmanageable. He looked at his daughter compassionately. Realization dawned anew.
Emma returned his smile. She looked to Selena then, as though she had just decided something she was not quite sure of moments before.
Would you cut my hair? her voice was tentative, almost childlike, and her eyes were a completely clear blue in the candlelight.
Selena gave her a wide, pleased smile. Id be delighted!
Selena couldnt understand what a gesture this was, but he did. The fathers gaze met the daughters.
She was doing this for him, to show her approval, to show that she really did want to be part of this new life---and to make his new wife a part of her own life, too.
At last he was beginning to understand her.
George Knightley could hardly believe it. Could any one place be so bloody hot in February? Hed removed his jacket the moment he walked down the tarmac, but the heat clung to the air and to everything that moved in it. It was Tuesday. Hed hardly slept since his argument with Emma Saturday night. He was missing the classes hed been scheduled to teach today. But he told himself that, in the grand scheme of things, it didnt matter. A six hour flight and the rest of his life, that mattered.
Hed waited one day in hopes of calming down before he went to talk with her, in hopes of gaining some perspective. The only perspective that he felt hed gained, though, was greater fury towards Frank Churchill, and the empty realization that Emma had fallen in love with a scoundrel.
There was only one thing to do---find her, speak with her, tell her how he felt. But when he arrived at Hartfield early Monday morning, she wasnt there. She wasnt staying at Harriets flat, and none of their mutual friends on campus had seen her in class. It wasnt until he called Rob and Rebecca Weston Monday night that he got his answer. I spoke with her this morning, George, Rebecca said. Given everything thats happened with Frank and all, we were concerned. She said she was fine. That it wasnt Frank that was on her mind. We only spoke briefly though, George, she was on her way home--
Home to Hartfield? hed said.
Home to Georgia. Savannah Georgia. Her fathers house.
To Georgia? He demanded. Rebecca looked at him oddly, seeing his intense expression. Did she sound okay? Was she upset? Rebecca, I---
Oh my Lord. He remembered how shed put her hand to her mouth then, a look of realization stilling all of her features. She looked at him wide-eyed. Youre in love with her!
After catching an overnight flight, hed finally arrived, for the first time in his life in Georgia, at her doorstep.
George Knightley didnt think about what he was going to say. He didnt even hesitate. Telling her how he felt was something hed wanted to do a thousand times.
Hed loved her his whole life. First in a way that was very childlike, very pure. That was how hed seen her. She was simply Emma, simply herself, the most wonderful, mischievous, magical, infuriating, absolutely impossible friend hed ever had.
When her mother died, George remembered catching sight of her---thirteen, lovely, heartbroken---running into the rain in her black dress. Hed been seventeen himself, and hed had to follow her. He knowing that she was still very much a child. That was the reason he would probably always feel so protective of her. Watching her cry was a pain sharper than the worst knife point, but it was something he could push away easily enough. Emma was a child. That was how he cared for her. He was seventeen, a young man, with a beautiful, fragile child who just happened to be his oldest friend.
It wasnt until she came of age, and came into his life three years later that the way he viewed her---and the way he loved her---began to change. Her appearance in his life was after an absence of three years, and it was as magical as it was abrupt.
Perhaps it was the long separation that made her reappearance as a young woman seem all the more jarring to him. Seeing her like that, paired with the knowledge that shed defied her father to come to him, made him confront two new realities very quickly: she no longer looked the part of a child, and she no longer needed his protection. After that, he began to consciously see her in a different light.
Tell me to go, shed demanded defiantly.
Hed wanted to yell at her at that moment, all those years ago on his grandmother's porch. He couldnt, of course, because he loved her too much. Even without realizing quite how he loved her, he knew that much. But hed wanted to yell, very, very much. He remembered staring at her, trying with something akin to desperation to make the earth stand still again.
It was then, that night in Dover, that he realized, at that very moment, that the girl hed loved as a child was now rapidly becoming a young woman, a young woman whom he still loved and whom he knew he could devote himself to in entirely new ways.
He also knew, with grim certainty, that there was nothing he could do about it. She had no idea the terrible position shed put him in simply by showing up. She was sixteen. And a vision.
You cant do this to me, Emma, was what hed wanted to say to her more than anything else. You cant just arrive on my doorstep like some Boticelli muse or a prep school saint. Ive loved you as a child, but I cant fall in love with you. Youre still a child, Emma. I have to believe thats all you are to me. A child. Even if you dont look it anymore. I have to believe it or else nothing will ever be the same again.
And of course, it wasnt. Nothing would ever be the same after that, because from that moment onward---even if he didnt want to know it---he knew how he would always be in love with her.
So he simply replied. Youre my weakness. That statement was proven true then at that moment, and it would be proved true a thousand times over in the coming years.
But as for right now, even if she didnt love him in return (and he was preparing himself for the fact that she probably didnt. He was passionately in love---had been for years---but he was also a realist), it was time to tell her how he felt.
The man who answered the door was a tall, sophisticated looking man with a strong jaw and a trim goatee. Theyd met once before, a very brief, cursory introduction, at Emmas mothers funeral, but even if they hadnt, he would have known her father anywhere. Those eyes, bluer than the clear sky above him, were intelligent, assessing, like Emma at her worst.
Let me guess, the older man drawled before George could so much as open his mouth. Youre the reason my daughter looks so miserable.
Knightleys jaw clenched, a mixture of pain and frustration flitting across his face. He wanted to defend himself. He wanted to tell her father that any hurt had been the result of Frank Churchills callous treatment. The very thought of it made Knightleys blood burn.
But he couldnt defend himself. Like it or not, Emma was upset and hurting. How much of it Knightley himself had been directly responsible for through his comments at Yvettes reception, only Emma could tell him. In an effort to protect his own heart, he hadnt been there for her like he should have. Hed put limits on himself around her lately in an effort of self preservation. Because being with her and not being able tell her how he loved her, seeing her get involved with other men, it was excruciatingly painful. And instead of getting better over the years it had gotten worse. She was hurting now because of a distance she didnt understand. He felt in his heart that he didnt deserve her, but he was prepared to take the responsibility for his actions.
Mr. Woodhouse, please believe me when I say that knowledge of any pain Ive caused Emma is something Ive felt in my own heart a hundred times over. He paused, searching for the right words to express the depths of his heart. Im in love with her. She has the right to know that.
Hearing the intensity of George Knightleys statement, Andrew Hamilton Woodhouse gave George a long, steady look. The boys agony was obvious. Young people today. Did neither of them realize how utterly and completely in love the one was with the other? Were they both that blind to the truth?
Andrew imagined that if they were within so much of ten feet of one another, their feelings would seem obvious to anyone with half a brain.
She went on a walk, Woodhouse told him brusquely. Along the waterfront, two blocks down. He paused, giving the youth another measured look. Bring her back here when youre done.
I will. Knightley nodded. And perhaps it had something to do with the fact that this young man had lost both parents at such a young age, or perhaps it was simply something intrinsic to George Knightley himself, but there was a gravitas in George Knightleys grey eyes that communicated something deeply profound to Emmas father.
This was a young man who kept his promises.
Andrew hid his smile. When the pair returned, they would have things to discuss privately, himself and George Knightley.
Emma leaned over the edge of the quay. She could see in the wavering reflection of the water, a reflection of her own face. Her hair, which for years had fallen down her back in waves, was now cut to curve into a French bob just below her chin. It was a flattering cut. Selena owned one of the best salons in Atlanta, she knew what she was doing. With her hair this length, her already delicate features were brought to sharper relief.
Youre a beautiful girl, Emma, Selena had declared, giving a last fluff to Emmas locks and bringing her a mirror.
Emma thanked her politely, knowing that the comment was not untrue, and yet not able to shake off the feeling that the phrase itself was entirely hollow.
But she liked the haircut. She felt lighter now, if not freer.
Emma bowed her head, doubting she would ever be released from the love that bound her unwittingly to George Knightley. Shed only been gone from England for two days, yet she missed Knightley so much it hurt. His words the night of Yvettes wedding echoed in her mind. He was right. Everything hed said had been true. Shed spoken out of frustration to Anita, and it had come out as cruelty---something so contrary to Knightleys natural instincts.
Her heart ached further at the realization that he was probably equally miserable. Joceline Fairfax, the woman he loved, had gone off and married Frank Churchill, a man he loathed.
Emma stared blankly at the water, seeing bands of blue and white and gold reflecting from the sky to the waves. She loved it in Savannah. She missed the weather and the warmth, the landscape, and the peace of this place. But it would never be home to her unless it had the man she loved.
Emma!
Emma took her hand from the water, drying her fingers on the edge of her skirt. She must be more tired than she thought. She could swear shed heard Knightleys voice calling her name. Emma looked up. When she saw George Knightley in the flesh, standing a few feet away, she couldnt help it.
She screamed.
Knightley gave her a quick smile. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. I didnt mean to startle you.
Emma took her hand from her mouth, letting it fall to her lap. What---how---what-- she stuttered, shaking her head. What...
When hed magically appeared to her in her dream, shed been more coherent. The fact that she was now a bumbling mess proved, if nothing else, that she was definitely awake. How did you get here? Emma managed at last.
If he hadnt been so nervous, he probably would have looked even more amused than he did at that moment. In an airplane.
Well, yes. Emma felt her cheeks redden. Right. she stumbled for an answer, feeling anxious and confused. Why was he here? Why did he look nervous? Why was his gaze so wondering, like some desert man whod stumbled across an ocean quite by accident?
Maybe its my haircut, she realized, touching it self consciously. I asked my dads fiance to cut my hair. They just got engaged this weekend---same day as Yves wedding. When I found out, I thought Id come for a visit.
It looks very... he struggled for the right word. nice.
Knightley tore his eyes away, embarrassed and looking at the water.
They were quite a pair.
This place is beautiful. He tried again. I love the Spanish moss on the trees. And the smell of the air. Sweet, like perfume. Its a wonder you ever want to leave it.
Yes, its very...green. Emma managed at last. Hearing her answer, she groaned inwardly. It felt like her IQ was decreasing by the second. Small wonder hes fallen for everyone else and her third cousin twice removed, if this is the best conversation I can come up with. Feeling very foolish, she looked away from him. Theres a garden around the corner. I go there a lot when Im here. Would you like to walk there?
He looked nervous when she stood up, which again was odd. He never seemed nervous.
Id love to.
They were silent until they entered the park, but once they did, they both started talking at once.
Emma, I---
Knightley, cant we just---
They both stopped, looking at one another. Emma burst into a fit of nervous laughter.
You go. Knightley told her. She was stilled to silence by the look of sobriety in his eyes.
Im sorry, she blurted out, unable to keep it in and feeling thoroughly miserable. Im sorry for acting so strangely towards you at Yve and Ians wedding. Ive been strange in general, lately. And you were right---what you said about Anita. It hurt to hear, but you were right, and...and... Emma spoke quickly, and about Martin, too. Hes wonderful. I should never have interfered between him and Harriet. Hes a good person. Which is more than I can say for myself right now. She couldnt look at him. Instead, she focused her gaze very keenly on the collection of bluebells at her feet. Ive wanted to tell you that since Sunday. I was so surprised to see you here.
She couldnt see his face, but she could hear him let out a careful breath.
Emmanuella, he whispered her name in a way that made her look up despite herself. Only once in her life had he called her that before. That strange, sad, wonderful night five years ago. What you said to Anita was terrible. But I was in the wrong too. I had other motives beyond Anita for confronting you so forcefully on Saturday, and Im sorry.
She looked at him quizzically. I dont understand.
I didnt think you would. He stuck his hands in his pockets, looking ahead rather than looking at her. I was jealous, Emma. After learning that Frank had eloped with Joceline Fairfax, I saw you were upset. I was jealous of Frank Churchill.
It felt like a troop of elephants were dancing on her chest. Knightley had come all this way---hed appeared out of nowhere, just as he did in her dream, and what she wanted more than anything was to pretend he had come simply for her. Simply to talk to her. Not to talk about Joceline. She would listen to anything but that.
Have you ever tried honeysuckle, Knightley? Emma asked, attempting to divert him. She ran ahead of him, motioning to the fountain at the center of the garden. Honeysuckle had been planted along the fountains edge. Its wonderful.
He stood stock still, the contours of his face shadowed of the Magnolia trees. You wont ask me the root of my jealousy.
She dared to look at him then. She sat on the edge of the fountain, her blue eyes wide and pleading. Knightley, I just want us to be... she gestured helplessly. Happy. Youre my dearest friend in the whole world and I--- And I dont know how to live without you. I never want to lose that.
She would live in America, she would let him have his life in England. It would be easier, not having the constant reminder of him around. And they would remain as they always were friends. Good friends. The best of friends. I could live with anything, as long as we could remain true friends, Knightley! Her eyes looking at him imploringly, and her hands gripped the edge of the fountain.
Emma. He stepped out of the shadows, up to where she sat on the edge of the fountain. With him stand directly in front of her, inches away, made her feel acutely vulnerable. Her hands gripped the fountains edge. The strength of emotion in his face was almost painful. She couldnt look away.
You want us to remain just as we always have been. I cant do that, Emma. The way things have always been for you, and the way youve seen me is as George Knightley, your oldest friend. But the way its always been for me is...is quite different, Emma. You want me to be simply your friend, Emma, but--- His eyes, reflecting the falling water of the fountain, seemed luminous. I want to call you something infinitely more dear to me than that. I'm in love with you.
Long ago, Emma read in her earth science textbooks about massive shifts that could occur naturally the world. Things like the movement of electromagnetic fields that could alter compass readings, the heating and cooling of powerful currents that could cause the el nino effect, the movement of plates and fault lines creating earth quakes and tsunamis.
Now felt like one of those moments. The world had latterly shifted. Suddenly she felt acutely aware of everything around her. The sound of water falling from the mermaids mouth of the mermaids into the basin below. The heat of the stone as she gripped the fountains edge. The beautiful look of complete vulnerability and honesty on George Knightleys face.
You---youre in love with me? She could barely form the words. This was too incredible. Too beautiful. Like all of her favorite things in the world had been tied up in a ribbon and placed on her lap.
I could express it more easily if I felt less, but--- he took a breath and continued, bravely keeping his eyes fixed on hers, I saw how upset you were during Yvette and Ians reception. I heard your comment to Anita, and knew you were in pain. I thought it as evidence of your distress. I was angry when I confronted you. Angry because of Anita, but also angry because of the place I knew Frank Churchill had in your heart. Emma simply watched him, wide eyed, and dumb founded.
She wanted to correct him, but a little voice inside of her advised her to stay quiet. She needed to hear whatever he had to say.
Ive loved you all my life, I think youve always known that. What you havent known was the fact that Ive been in love with you since you were a teenager---sixteen. Even after you turned eighteen, I stayed silent, thinking you were too young. When you entered college and began to date, I wanted you to go where your heart led you. I didnt want you to feel pressured or burdened by how I felt. And when I broke things off with Celia, I kept on waiting, Emma, because I didnt want you to think of yourself as a rebound, or second best. Then your grandfather got sick, and again the timing was wrong. But when I saw how you were around Frank, I was afraid Id waited too long. He was your age, exactly your age. He could express himself easily, without the complications that held me back, and...I envied him, Emma. I couldnt stand it, but I...I wanted to respect your choice, Emma.
My choice? she whispered.
Ive been in love with you for far longer than I could do anything about it. He gave a hollow laugh. I quickly learned the value of self control where you were concerned. I dated---as much and as often as I could. Anything to get thoughts of you out of my system. But every interaction with you made that more difficult. No one could compare to you. You had a part of me that they could never win. He shrugged self consciously. I told myself just to cherish what I did have.
Emma sat very still, as if to compensate for how quickly her mind was moving. You could have said something when I got into college! You should have said something. You never said anything.
I nearly did, he countered. Once, at the end of your senior year. Then you started dating Brandon at the time.
Brandon. Emma winced. Brandon had been...well, very hands-on. I thought you loved him. You always seemed very affectionate in public. I came to your apartment once, early in the morning. I knocked on your apartment and Brandon answered the door. I know you well enough to know youd never be with anyone you werent in love with, Emma---
She remembered that morning, and the look on Knightleys face when shed come to the door, though she hadnt understood it at the time. Now it made so much sense.
We spent the whole night arguing, Brandon and I! I was never in love with him! Her cheeks were bright pink.
I know that now, Knightley admitted. Even if you had, it wasnt my business. But it brought home that much further why I didnt deserve you. I felt unworthy of you for even assuming, and I---I was afraid Frank would try to take advantage of you. But I heard you tell Frank something youd never told me, and hated him all the more for it. I was completely powerless. But I didnt want to run your life. If you wanted Frank in your life, I wanted to respect that. I wanted distance. To protect both of us.
So you dated everyone else in the school but me, she spoke dryly.
I never dated blondes, he corrected her with a pained smile, his gaze lingering on her hair. Shed never realized that before. It was because of you, Emma. I would have wanted her to be you. I would have thought it every moment I was with her. That was already the case, with every girl I was with. Until I met Celia.
Emma couldnt hide her distasteful expression at the mention of the redheads name, and didnt try. That was a relationship she didnt understand. Why get engaged to her?
Because instead of getting over you---instead of it getting better by the year---it was getting worse. And Celia was the first woman Id been with who could manage take my mind off of you. Probably because she demanded my full attention. I thought Id never have you, Emma. I thought you didnt love me---not the way I loved you. I thought it was for the best. You would be free and happy to live and love as you pleased. I did love her, in a way. She was intelligent and sophisticated. And she wasnt always a terrible person, Emma. You just brought out the worst in her. I could love her, but it was not a complete love. I was still in love with you. When I overheard what she said to you at the Westons, I knew I had to end it. I was angry with her, but it was more than that. It wasnt fair to either of us to stay engaged. Im in love with you Emma. I always will be. And just so long as I can live knowing Ive said it to your face once---just once---then I can go on with the rest of my life in peace. You have the most brilliant, beautiful, kind heart of anyone Ive ever met. If I felt less, Emma, maybe it would be easier to put into words, but---
Emma couldnt take it anymore. She had to speak. She felt lit. Absolutely lit.
Knightley, she interrupted him, feeling the wealth of emotions that had been inside of her threatening to burst free. Do you know why I call you Knightley?
Hed prepared himself for rejection, for shock, for a number of questions or responses. But, as usual, it seemed she had caught him completely off guard. He looked vulnerable and hesitant, but he also looked amused.
This would be how she and Knightley started off their relationship. By talking over each other, and saying things completely out of left field that left the other person completely confused.
When I was five and met you, everyone else called you George, Emma tried again.
He gave her a ghost of a smile. Thats because its my name, Emma.
Yes, she rolled her eyes. But I called you Knightley. I always have. And do you know why?
Why?
Because it was mine. Just mine. My name for you. It made you mine. I wanted you to be mine then, and I always have. I was never in love with Frank Churchill. I was always in love with you. I havent really let myself think about it until recently, but its always been true.
Seeing awareness flood into his eyes, she gave a delighted laugh. I thought you were in love with Joceline Fairfax. And stupid Rebecca nearly had me convinced of it. All these years, you hid how you felt to keep me emotionally free---but all these years I think Ive just been waiting for you to notice me. I was so relieved when you broke things off with Celia because I didnt want to lose you. I fell in love with you when I was five. And there was nothing you could ever do to stop it, despite your best efforts. Just being with you, just existing in the same place, was enough. I love you, George Knightley. With all of my heart and soul. She smiled at him beatifically. I came here to get my life in order, but also to run away, thinking you didnt want me. But Im miserable without you. I---Im completely in love with you, George!
His sober face curved to a handsome grin. Hed been standing directly in front of her, a mere inches away, while she sat on the fountains edge for this whole conversation. He knelt down so that they were now eye to eye. His hands directly on top of hers, pinning her to her place. His eyes had turned to quick silver. Could you repeat that?
Im in love with you. She twined her arms around his neck.
Though he was deliberately slow in touching his mouth to hers, Emmas chin lifted instinctively. Your skin is hot, he whispered to her with a smile. Younger both in years and in the conscious awareness of her love, she felt a rush of youthful impatience. Her skin flushed deeper in anticipation. At last his teasing mouth touched hers.
George Knightley, now a twenty-five year old man, knew the art of self control. Hed held to that art for many years. He was not about to rush through this moment. The movements of his mouth were teasingly slow and deeply felt, sending a rush of blood to her head and charging every nerve in her body. Shed never been kissed like this before in her life.
And it felt amazing.
When their breaths were spent, he touched his lips to her cheek, almost reverentially.
Tell me if this sounds familiar, his spoke and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies. And all thats best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes. Knightley touched his mouth her earlobe as he continued. Thus mellowd to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies. His lips brushed her jaw. And on that cheek, and oer that brow. So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. Knightleys face buried in her hair. The smiles that win, the tins that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent, he kissed her temple, causing her to shiver, a mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent.
Her head was starting to fog from the mere movement of his mouth. The man won by every smile.
She could barely manage the words. The letter was you.
Knightley broke into a boyish grin. The poem was Byron. He took her hands in his own. But its how Ive always seen you.
Why didnt you sign it?
The smile turned to one of rare shyness---rare because he hardly ever seemed shy. I wanted it to be from whoever you wanted it to be from, even that person was Frank Churchill. As long as you knew that someone thought you were beautiful. He kissed her hand. Even if you could never know it was me.
Emma gave him her best smile. I love you, George Knightley.
He grinned, seeing her dimpling cheeks and bright eyes, and she knew that he could wait no longer before claiming another kiss from her. This one was deeper at the start, not teasing, but intense, and sweet enough to bring tears. The touch of their mouths held a longing that communicated---as no words could quite manage---how much they loved one another.
Emma had no way of knowing that Knightley had already planned on asking Andrew for his permission to propose to his daughter.
She had no way of knowing that when he did ask, Andrew would try to frighten the boy, just a little bit---only to find that the boy could not be frightened.
Andrew would read the intensity in his silver eyes and give his consent without reserve.
She had no idea of knowing that her father would later admit that he had known Emma was in love with George Knightley long before she consciously realized it herself. The moment I learned shed stolen my credit card to fly to England for him, I knew my daughter was in love. The engagement, in his mind, was simply the culmination of a long, inevitable process.
Her father would marry again, as would her grandfather, Lucien. Lucien would travel the world with his new wife, a happy man, and freed by the hypochondria that had plagued him for most of his life, though not free of the effects of his heart attack.
All of that come in due time. For now the world was a garden of Spanish moss, the sweet heady scent of magnolia flowers, the sound of the fountain water, and the knowledge that the breath and heartbeat of the man she loved was perfectly in time with her own.
It was all she needed.
Everything in Emmas life seemed to fall neatly into place once she and Knightley returned from Savannah. And while the academic schedules of the couple picked up to such a pace that on more than one occasion Emma and Knightley would be relegated to meeting up not for dinner and a movie, but for dinner and a study session. It was enough, though, simply being together.
There were still a few issues, however, pressing on Emma, issues that still lingered in Emmas mind one early April morning when she entered the Kingston University library with a covert bag of coffee and bagels for one particular person.
She found him deep in the stacks, his work spread out on a table, up to his elbows in papers and with a furrowed brow.
Delivery for a Mr. George Knightley, she placed the bag on the book in front of him, then leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek. Her poor Knightley. He was in the mist of revising his doctoral dissertation. He would have to present the final draft to the board of advisers in two weeks.
Knightley sat back in his chair, the tension in his face immediately lessening, simply by the sight of her.
Hows the work coming? she asked, leaning over his shoulder to peak at the page number of his draft. The draft was thoroughly marked in red ink.
He answered tiredly. Im hoping to be finished with this third section by the end of this weekend. If I ever have to think another thought about Edmund Spenser, itll be too soon. He sighed, and added, At least Im already finished with the section on the Epithalamion.
Now it was her turn to have a furrowed brow. Epithalamion? Which is---
A wedding song, Knightley explained. One of his best works. A gift for his wife on their wedding day.
Sounds romantic.
I thought youd say that, he teased her, taking the contents of the bag shed given him out. I havent eaten all day.
I could make you dinner tonight at Hartfield, you know. She told him. You havent stayed with us in Hartfield in forever. We still have guest rooms aplenty, you know. You could stay the night in one of them.
Will your grandfather be there tonight? Knightley asked her.
No, Knightley. He comes back from Cornwall on Sunday. We'd be alone. Why---
How about we keep it at dinner, then?
Well---okay, Emma agreed slowly, confused. Knightley, I dont understand---
Emma, he took her hand in his own. I love you.
I love you too, Knightley, but why---
Emma, I love you, He repeated, his eyes serious and as bright as quicksilver. And more than that---or just as important, he amended, I respect you. Thats why I havent stayed the night at Hartfield since weve started dating, and thats why I wont stay down the hall from you tonight without your grandfather around. I think it would be very difficult both of us, for me to simply stay down the hall from you.
I love you so much, she spoke honestly, understanding him at last. He knew she wanted her wedding night to be special. And more to the point, he wanted it too.
Emma leaned in to give him a kiss on the mouth. And I love the fact that youre smarter than I am sometimes.
He grinned. Youre in a good mood this morning, if you can say a sentence like that.
That I am, she said, settling onto his lap.
He spoke into her hair, putting his arm around her waist comfortably. I might not let you go.
Thats not a fate Id regret, Knightley, she assured him, settling against him with a happy sigh. Guess who finally has a boyfriend?
You?
She rolled her eyes. Other than me. He stroked her hair absently, turning the page in his book with his other hand.
He answered came without inflection. Harriet Smith?
Knightley! Emma gave a beleaguered sigh. You spoil all my surprises. How in the world could you know that? I just found out...
His eyes were fixed on his book, but he was smiling. This may come as a shock, Emma but youre not always the first to know everything. Martin told me two days ago.
Youre no fun at all some times, she laughed, kissing his neck. And I have to go, she giggled. Im off to my movie date, remember?
Knightley nodded, disentangling his arm from Emmas waist and letting her get up. He looked at her kindly. I hope it goes well.
Itll be fine, Im sure. Im supposed to meet Anita at the circulation desk.
The movie Emma was going to see was part of her continuing efforts of reparation towards her unkindness to Anita Bates at Yvette and Ians wedding. While shed made a lot of progress, this weeks act seemed the ultimate peace offering.
Knightley took her right hand in his own, kissing her hand lightly. What movie are you seeing?
The movie was Anitas choice. Shed opted to see her cousin Joceline Fairfaxs new movie, the one Joceline had been filming the day theyd gone to visit her film set.
Its Durant Dixons latest film. Emma gave him her best smile, and she couldnt keep a note of dry humor from her voice as she answered. Wuthering Heights.
Knightley proposed on the night of his 26th birthday. The ring was a perfectly round moonstone, framed by a circlet of starlike diamonds.
She immediately agreed. It was only a moment of thinking that she became worried. Knightley, where will we live? I promised my father Id move back to Savannah next year. It would break his heart of I said no--
His response, however, was extraordinarily simple. I finished my doctorate in May. I can go wherever I need to now. You promised to move in September. Well move after the wedding.
She could only blink and stare, stunned at the quickness of his decision. Youd leave England for me? Knightley, are you sure?
Very. If your happiness means living in Savannah, Knightley squeezed her hand, answering as if it were the easiest question hed ever been asked. Then it will become my home as well.
Their wedding was a small affair, just as they hoped it would be. It occurred at the end of August, two weeks before they would to move to the United States. Everything was settled and in place. Emma arranged to finish her law degree at the University of Georgia, and Knightley, who received his doctorate from Kingston in May, was offered a job as head of the English department of the prestigious Longbourne Academy of Fine Arts.
The wedding was celebrated in Donwell Church, the local parish church that had been a childhood staple for both Emma and Knightley.
Her father kissed her cheek and lifted her veil and told her she looked just like her mother. It was exactly what she wanted to hear. Chevalier winked at her, and told her she was entirely too gorgeous to be married to the likes of his best mate. Knightley laughed and declared that he agreed with him.
And little Bella, their flower girl for the event, said that she was not going to toss the flowers because they were 'too pretty.'
Youre right, you know, George whispered in Emmas ear, seeing the little girl. She does take after you.
They had a small band playing for their reception, and the celebration had plenty of food and laughter and toasts and tears. Rob Weston announced Rebecca was pregnant. Yvette and Ian declared they were having a baby boy. Martin and Harriet announced that they were moving in together. And Chevalier announced that he was drunk, at which point it was time for the party to disband and go their separate ways.
In short, for Emma and Knightley, the wedding was perfect.
The first night of their honeymoon was spent in a hotel overlooking Dover beach. The suite was beautiful. The room included a balcony with sweeping windows that would let in as much of the sky as possible. Emma smiled, noting this as Knightley carried her across the threshold. He knew her very well. Magnolia flowers, placed in vases, adorned either night table. And though the dcor wasnt what the subject of utmost interest for either of them that night, the sight of it brought forth a delighted laugh from the young bride.
George put her carefully down and shut the door.
Not too tired from carrying me all the way up here, are you? she teased, loosening his black tuxedo tie.
His eyes lit up at the challenge. What do you think?
She tugged at his tie. I think Im in love with you.
Smart girl. He drew her close. George Knightley gave her a deep, sound kiss. When their mouths parted and Emma breathed something between a small gasp, and a contented sigh, he smiled. What about you? Are you tired? His warm breath was torture on her neck, sending shivers down her spine.
Ready to sleep?
Ive waited my whole life for you, George. She spoke with bright eyes. I feel like I might never sleep again.
Her husband laughed softly, and kissed her neck. Well, perhaps we should go back to our old rule.
The rule theyd enacted in childhood had never seemed quite as brilliant as it did now. See if we can stay awake until sunrise this one last time? Seeing the spark in his wifes eyes, he added, Though somehow I dont think it will prove a challenge tonight.
Will you sing to me tonight? She twined her arms around his neck. Just for me?
Everything I do, sweetheart---its all for you.
And he meant it.
Emma fastened the ties of her silk robe and stepped onto the balcony. She put her hands along the marble edge, looking up to meet the moon. It shone down at her, looking as happy and whole as she felt.
Her own moonstone ring shone in merry response. Now it was paired with a mate, a wedding band with the inscription A heart whose love is innocent on the inside. Emma looked at the moon above the shore for a long moment. The image echoed the peace Emma Knightley felt in her own heart. Emma Knightley. She could hardly wrap her mind around the title. And yet now that she had it, she felt as though shed owned it her whole life. Emma leaned back, already missing the touch of the man standing behind her. Her husband. Husband was her new favorite word.
George Knightley kissed her hair, wrapping his arms around her waist. The sky still looked dark, but the sun would begin to rise soon.
I love the sky here in England, Emma said with a whisper. People would laugh when I said that England had the most beautiful stars. My father always said, The stars are the same everywhere, Emmanuella. I told him the sky just seems even more beautiful here. She paused, turning around to look at him. Its because you were here. All my memories of the sky are all connected to you. Youre the only person I know who can weave stories in the stars for me.
Orpheus and Eurydice? George asked, touching her cheek. She nodded. Their story felt real because I knew what it was to love.
You came across the ocean for me, she said with a soft smile.
Id go further across the world than that if I had to, Emma.
I know, she whispered, because she knew it was entirely true. And then she added something equally true. This is where I want to be. Emma Knightley gave her husband a beautiful smile. Wherever you are.
That smile, George remarked, made him want to kiss her, whenever and wherever they were. Which he did, of course, sending every other thought she had fluttering to sky.
Past the shifting sea, the English night sky melted into dawn.