Blurb: When Mr. George Knightley of Donwell Abbey dies, he finally remembers Miss Emma Woodhouse.
Death's Dogsbody
George Knightley startled awake, surprised to find himself sitting on a bench and anxious to discover if anyone else had noticed his impromptu nap. The room was not crowded -- there were perhaps a dozen benches arranged in the waiting area and most of them were empty -- and he felt some anxiety when he could not remember where exactly he was supposed to be or who he was here to see.
Sleepiness was an embarrassing sign of his increasingly advanced age and had been happening with greater regularity of late: he would fall asleep in the middle of the day while reading letters or even listening to the vicar drone on, and he would awake without remembering what he had been doing. Usually, he could recall his place from context: perhaps he was seated in his armchair before the fire, or at Sunday services.
Whatever embarrassment he felt from his unplanned naps, it was the forgetfulness that actually worried him. He had wisely decided to begin training his nephew Henry in earnest when the boy reached his majority and had been able to transfer the most important parts of managing the abbey to him before Henry's own son George reached his majority. Mr. Knightley himself had been superfluous to the successful running of Donwell Abbey and its farms for almost a decade and he knew it was a good thing. Too many times Henry had had to repeat some fact or request only for Mr. Knightley to remember at the end that he'd already heard this before, that he already knew it, had just forgotten it. His nephew would nod in an attempt to humor him but Henry's smile would be tight as he offered to, "let George take care of that for us." These days Mr. Knightley rarely left the Abbey except for his daily walks and never unaccompanied. Now, however, he was alone and he struggled to identify this place. Why was he here?
He glanced surreptitiously around for clues, and studied the pair of workers at the front of the room. They were a man and a woman, both young, well-dressed, seated behind desks, and in earnest conversation with the people seated across from them although Mr. Knightley could not hear them from this distance. The man completed his interview and stood to invite his guest to do the same. The woman who had been sitting across from him -- barely more than a child, really -- rose to her feet then abruptly burst into tears. The man pressed a handkerchief into her hand and then waited patiently for the emotional storm to pass with practiced courtesy.
The woman who was sitting behind the other desk watched the situation with interest, as if she was preparing herself to intervene. It came to naught, however, as the girl began to grow resigned to whatever bad news she had received. When her tears had diminished to mere sniffles, the man slowly shepherded her to a door waiting behind the desks. With one last gesture of comfort, he sent her through the doorway and into the unknown.
After a brief pause to tidy the stack of papers on his desk, the man approached a podium, opened another folder sitting nearby, and read aloud, “Mr. Milton Stanley,” in a clear voice.
There was a shuffling as someone recognized their own name. A man who looked to be an old laborer stood up from one of the benches and came forward with halting steps. The man behind the desk greeted him more quietly and invited him to be seated in the visitor's chair.
Mr. Knightley frowned and tried again to remember what he was supposed to be doing here. He was clearly waiting his turn, but there was no one present that he recognized at all. By dress and age, the crowd was so varied that he could not imagine what business he had here. Should he too expect bad news like that child, or would his interview have a more pleasant outcome?
The woman behind the desk appeared to be wrapping up her own interview, and her guest did not fall to weeping. Mr. Knightley assumed that his turn would be coming soon. He glanced once more around the benches and realized that more people were sitting there than he'd expected. They must have crept in while his attention was diverted by the girl's tears. Out of habit, he withdrew his watch and checked the time. The minute and second hands continued to crawl around the dial at their normal pace but the hour hand swung limply as he opened the latch. He made a mournful noise under his breath. That watch had been a gift from his favorite niece.
“Mr. George --” the young woman began before stumbling over the name as she tried to call for her next interview. She looked out among the people sitting on the benches until she found him. “Mr. George Knightley,” her voice carried to him, faint over the hushed murmur of the other guests.
Mr. Knightley felt his mouth fall open in surprise. Working in this antechamber, calling him forward was none other than Miss Emma Woodhouse! It must have been 50 years since he had seen her last, 50 years since he had even thought of her!
It hit him like a migraine but he could see two competing sets of memories in his mind’s eye; one with Hartfield and the Woodhouses, and one without.
He had been born a friend and neighbor to Emma's family, and yet he had never met them before. He was as familiar with the rooms of Hartfield as he was with those of Donwell Abbey, and yet its location was merely an open field to pass on his way to neighboring Highbury. His brother had married Emma's sister, and yet Isabella had been a nameless founding. Mrs. Weston had once been Emma's governess and companion, and yet she had never come to Surrey before the wedding of her dear friend Isabella.
The dissonance only stopped in his mid thirties when there blessedly were no more memories of Mr. Woodhouse, his daughter Emma, or their home to cause conflict. Like a magic enchantment, they no longer existed from that point forward. Regardless, he knew her. He had known her. She still looked as he remembered her: a young gentlewoman of one-and-twenty at the height of her beauty and influence. But that had been 50 years ago! Surely this woman was not the Emma Woodhouse that he now remembered.
“Emma?” he said in a state of fragile belief when he at last stood before her. “Emma Woodhouse, is that you?”
“Mr. Knightley,” she said with a voice as warm as it used to be. “It is very good to see you again.”
She extended her hand in greeting and he took it in both of his own, fitting exactly as he remembered. In that moment he knew it was her. The reasons why she had disappeared and had not aged, however, were mysteries he wanted to solve.
“What happened to you? Where did you go? Why did you leave us?” He had many more questions but forced himself to be silent to let her speak.
“Good heavens, that is a long story,” she exclaimed then deftly set that line of questions aside. “But let us sit down while you tell me all about my sister and my nieces and nephews. They must be fully grown by now.”
“Fully grown and then some,” he agreed as they sat across from each other. “Four of them are married, and John and Isabella have eight grandchildren! Wherever they have gone to, we invite them back to Donwell for Christmas every year and it is even more loud and chaotic than when John and I were children. It is the best feeling in the world to have them all gathered together.” His eyes shone with happiness. “But where have you been, you and your father both? You should have been there with us.”
“My father has not been well for many years. I needed to take care of him.”
“Emma,” he said, instantly solicitous, “you should not have been the only one. Your father is an old friend of mine, and well loved in Highbury. If you had simply asked --”
“There was no time to ask,” she interrupted him. “His health deteriorated rapidly and I had to take action. But that is not what you are here to discuss.”
“Business can wait,” he said, not that he recalled what that business was; personal relationships were paramount. “My condolences over the loss of your father.”
This brought an angry color to her cheeks. “He is not dead, Mr. Knightley,” she informed him coolly.
“Forgive me!” he offered in mortification. “When you mentioned that he was sick, and so much time has passed, my mind just assumed… But I get confused more easily nowadays. It is good to hear that he is well. Your quick care of him must have been responsible for his recovery.”
Emma's brow smoothed briefly before it clouded again. “Please do not apologize. I cannot be cross with you. You are kindness itself to worry about either of us after so long an absence. The truth is that my father never recovered from that night fifty years ago. He needs constant care, but I at least have the satisfaction of knowing that he receives it.”
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked. “I may not be able to help, but I should like to understand.”
She considered it as she looked at the waiting paperwork then drew a deep breath. “I suppose I might briefly share it with you. It is, after all, related to the business that brings us together now,” said she. “As I have already told you, Papa fell ill one night. It came upon him so quickly and so severely that there was no time to call for Mr. Perry and he would have been powerless even if he was already at Hartfield. I sat with Papa all night, doing anything in my power to help him. But it was for nothing, he was fading. At that moment, I saw Death coming to collect my father and I… Have you seen Death, Mr. Knightley? Gruesome and beautiful, tainted and pristine, common and majestic. Even now, I am surprised at my boldness but I bargained for my father's life. Anything, I offered anything; Death agreed. As long as I work here, Death will spare my father. Papa will never improve but, so long as I keep my end of the bargain, he will never walk through that door.”
She looked over her shoulder at the door behind her, the same door that various people had now exited through at the end of their interviews.
“What is behind that door?” he asked with a frisson of worry.
“Do you know where you are? Do you know why you are here?” It was not a direct answer.
He cast about one last time for any clue to jog his memory. The crowd waiting on the benches had swelled further. Curiously, he did not notice an entrance to the room, or any other exit except the one behind Emma. “I am afraid not,” he said when no inspiration came to him. “I am getting more and more forgetful in my old age.”
She bowed her head slightly then reached across the desk and took his hand. “I am very sorry to say that, that you have, you have died, Mr. Knightley.” She paused and waited to see how this revelation would be received.
He sat, dumbfounded, for a full minute before uttering, “I must be dreaming.”
Emma's sincere and sympathetic expression didn't waver but she gave his hand a squeeze and he was unable to dismiss the idea out of hand after all.
“How -- ?” he wondered softly.
“You fell asleep at night and never woke up,” she explained. “It was very peaceful.”
She opened the folder at last and read through a lengthy prepared speech. She spoke about his life, the good he had done, the people he had helped, the respect and love he had earned from the community. She did not omit mention of the problems he had faced, the losses, the emotions he had felt but never dared to describe. The list included so many things that he had forgotten about, and it was that previously lost knowledge that convinced him more than anything else that he was truly dead because she recognized what no living person could know.
As her recitation wound down, he found his face was wet with tears.
“Do not cry, dear friend,” she told him as she put the paper down. “Your story has a happy ending.”
“What ending is that?” he asked after wiping his cheeks dry.
“Beyond that door is the rest and reward you have earned,” said Miss Woodhouse, indicating the only exit from the room.
He looked at the door and tried to feel calm. His heart no longer beat but he felt uneasy for some unknown reason. “I do not understand,” he said.
“Beyond that door is the afterlife,” Emma explained patiently. “It is different for everyone but I think you will be pleased with yours.”
She smiled at him and he wanted to smile back. Emma was offering him the opportunity to go through the door so surely it was a good thing.
Miss Woodhouse stood first and Mr. Knightley followed. She held out her hand to him and he took it and pressed a kiss to it. She then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and began to lead him on the short walk to the door.
“Emma,” he said as if just remembering something, “your father --”
“Papa is too unwell to receive guests right now but I will tell him about you when I see him next. But now I must let you go. Mr. Knightley, my dear friend, it was good to see you again. Think of me fondly in the world to come,” she exhorted him.
“Of course, Emma, of course.” With one last parting smile, he turned from her and left, crossing the threshold into the afterlife.
Emma rested her hand on the door for only a moment, grateful that Mr. Knightley had not taken her to task as he might have done half a century ago. She gave herself a moment to mourn for the man he once was. With a shake of her head and without a trace of regret, she tidied her desk and prepared for her next guest.
// THE END //