Chapter Text
“Oh!”
He’d heard the not so muted gasp revert softly throughout the large expanse of an otherwise empty hall—almost like a siren call—as he slowly stalked on her side of the west wing of his Donwell Abbey.
Her rooms stood just two doors away now, yet the corridor had been eerily quite—much too quiet.
“Shh!”
George Knightley, town magistrate, landowner, and the grand master of this large, illustrious home, simply knew that his mischief loving little ward must certainly be up to no good.
The mystery of her questionable absence had alluded him for far too long when she had failed to barge into his study—as she was want to do almost daily—at the sake of tearing him away from his due diligence for some frivolity or other.
No housekeeper had disturbed him to warn that she had yet again refused to follow any of the many, yet tedious, house rules that had been strictly set in place for far, far longer than she’d been born.
In fact, as far as Mr. Knightley was aware, even her loud, boisterous laughter—charming as it was—had not once penetrated through the walls of any of his parlors for better more than an hour or two.
Or has it been three?
Prominent dark brows knotted together in puzzlement at the thought.
It was rather peculiar indeed.
Almost rarely had the girl ever calmly kept to herself, much less hidden away at her chambers.
Positively droll and empty, she’d called them to his face, in more than one frustrating occasion.
In fact, even in those most frightening periods when overcome with sickness and fever, never could a single soul persuade her to take the bedrest required of her on the behest of Mr. Perry.
And anyway, as master of his domain, Mr. Knightly had it on very good authority that at present his ward was nothing short of in very good health as it was.
Especially on such a happy, bright day like this one.
No, the gentleman agreed with himself—something was not quite right at all.
After all, Emma Woodhouse had been placed strictly under his care at the tender age of nine, when her poor father had passed of some illness or other, and it was due to the years spent watching over her since, that he prided himself in knowing the girl very well indeed.
That is not to say, however, that at some point or other, he had not already thought himself to have known her well enough those nine years prior.
Ha!—and how wrong had he been.
He was more than foolish then, and yet, something deep in the pit of his stomach told him he was just as foolish now.
But then again…
It was this very foolishness that had lead him to accept, when in his deathbed, Mr. Woodhouse had begged him to show kindness for his two pitiful young daughters so that they may remain close to Highbury, precisely where they belonged.
He had felt valiant then, selfless even, and charitable—others certainly called him so.
Though already quite long established as a gentleman and a prominent land owner at the age of five and twenty—after the death of his own father—George Knightley had to admit that he had been nowhere near ready to be charged with a task of such responsibility and care.
He would slap himself silly for it now, if only he could.
…Perhaps he still should.
Having no children of his own, nor a wife to claim them, what was he to do with Isabella, a girl fresh into the throws of blooming youth, and her little sister of seven years her junior?
He was not a parent—and still even now—doubts he would ever cut the fine and imposing look of a father figure.
It was, however, due to the respect he had for his father’s oldest friend and the very strong, very long standing intimacy between the Knightley’s and the Woodhouse’s, that George had swallowed the burden and agreed to honor his promise to dear, poor Henry.
After all, he had already been placed in charge of his own younger brother’s care—so to be fair, how much more trouble would two more little mouths to feed could possibly cause?
Thin masculine lips dropped to a scowl at the thought.
Apparently, quite a lot indeed.
Not only had George to deal with a then twenty year old John Knightley, whom was freshly and obnoxiously out of University—with little else to occupy himself with—but he had to worry over making sure Isabella was properly chaperoned at all times.
And of course, there was the matter of little Emma, whom although the oldest Knightley brother had always been very fond of from the time of her birth, was as sharp and as trouble inducing as she had always been.
If it had not been for his successfully acquiring the help of saintly Miss Taylor, the Woodhouse’s loyal governess—who proved herself vital in the raising of the girls— George was sure to have been doomed from the start.
With just helping look after Emma alone, Anne gave him more than enough respite to channel the will to wake up every morning and live to scold the child another day.
Even if it did very little to reel her in.
Yet it had not been until Miss Taylor was sent away to accompany John and Isabella to one measly season in Bath, when George Knightley had at last gotten a real taste of what life as Emma Woodhouse’s guardian would truly entail.
—And he has perhaps never had one single restful night of sleep since.
Though to be fair, to expect any more from the likes of Emma Woodhouse, would be nothing short of a fantasy at best.
In truth, and to no secret at all, George had always carried the very high hopes that she would one day soon grow to be the perfectly accomplished young lady she should be, and has since made it his own personal duty to see that it shall be so.
It certainly should not have been so far fetched a goal, then or now, as even at only nine years old she had already proven to be very clever indeed.
Then again, the gentleman sighed as he contemplated the steady stream of years that have already come to pass, he did suppose Emma had always been a lively girl.
Perhaps too lively.
With her bright, illuminating hazel eyes that shined impishly despite herself, unabashedly so, and an almost angelic physical loveliness that only proved to enhance her spoiled nature.
—and spoiled it was.
Most days she was happy and fanciful, but other times when provoked, had a bitter temper.
And throughout those years, almost eight in fact, her mentor and protector had come to notice that above all else, she had a shameless mischievousness about her that prove itself to be very troublesome indeed.
—and shameless it was.
As if to drive the point, a sudden burst of not-entirely silent giggles fluttered somewhere behind her bedchamber door, just as a grimacing Mr. Knightley slowly approached.
What could she possibly be up to now?
Ever so gently he rapped on the handsome wood, waiting patiently for a response that never came, and was instead blatantly taunted by the sound of more soft giggles and muffled sighs.
The pure delicateness in which these little noises were uttered—the almost secrecy of them—somehow made his blood want to run cold.
Briefly wondering who could possibly be keeping her company and what could possibly be enticing such sound out of her, the gentleman spread his heated palm against the cold, solid wood with one hand and grasped to turn the large door knob with his other before promptly, and without any further preamble, pushing open.
The next gasp that assaulted his ears was the loudest one yet and unlike the playful little noises she had been uttering seconds before, this one was nothing short of surprise and horror.
Oh—
Mr. Knightley was sure that for the whole minute it took him to realize the scene before him was well and truly happening, his heart had momentarily stopped…
Only for it to just as rapidly thud back to life seconds later—pumping out blood and something else—something dark—and with a sudden breathless gasp of his own, he could do nothing but feel as it merely plummeted mercilessly down to the very bottom of his stomach.
No—even lower still.
There she was, Emma as lovely as ever, in her bed, with some boy shamelessly pressed on top of her.
Everything seemed to move excruciatingly slowly for George and it was as if a deathlike silence enveloped the room, penetrating—suffocating—for just one more seemingly endless instant.
Before he could possibly process anything more, however, it was as if that suffocating tension just as suddenly snapped and recoiled.
Much as if a piece of string, tightly knit and tightly pulled, was torn apart by soft, gentle fingers—thin, pale ones that might as well reach forward to dig and claw through what was left of his heart.
Perhaps just as stunned, the young man before him flinched as well—and in attempt to extract himself at once, clumsily rolled and fell daftly onto the floor bellow his speechless paramour.
A frightened shriek, for her part, was ripped out of Emma’s throat just as she reached forward to press one of her elegantly dressed pillows against her gasping chest.
No doubt, the gentleman assumed indignantly, to cover her lack of modesty.
“Mr. Knightley!”, she exclaimed, petrified.
Well, she seemed petrified, George observed her bitterly, but he should not delude himself into believing it.
No matter how much he wished to.
And then—well, then he saw red.
Hands clenched at his side, breaths shallow and rapid, he worked his jaw as he zeroed in on the young man—one of his own stable boys, no less—and watched him scramble to his feet, warily clutching the few articles of clothing he had disrobed in whatever heat of the moment this catastrophe was.
Naturally, like a scattering fawn, the boy attempted to flee, and he was almost successful in barreling past his seething master—but not quite just.
Emma cried out again when Mr. Knightley reached out and grab him, though the older man was relived enough to see that the boy had not been entirely naked that his grip loosened if only slightly.
“Get out!”, he all but gritted at the youth, who desperately tore himself away from him and ran out the room like the scared, wild anima he was, “Get out!”
It took everything within George not to chase after him.
—Bitterly, he made a mental note to deal with the scoundrel later.
He then turned to face Emma, who sat up on her duvet, still embracing the pillow to her chest, and was reassured if only momentarily to see that she too was almost fully dressed.
Thank the maker.
Impossibly dark and stormy eyes shifted from the lightly skewed collar of her dress, to the flush of her long neck, her redden cheeks, and finally the soft trembling of her swollen, bruised lips.
An inexplicable force of anger hit him then and he felt himself grow more and more furious with each step he took towards her.
He was practically seething by the time he reached her, and in one swift move, grabbed her by her slight arm and dragged her off the bed.
She landed on her knees at his feet but Mr. Knightley swiftly pulled her up, and so intense was his ire that for the split second that she warily watched him lift his hand up to strike her, Emma felt true fear.
He made to hit her—to hurt and burn her like she had just done him—but then, gathering what wits remained about him, he quickly stopped himself half way and slowly dropped his hand.
“M-Mr. Knightley I—
“Why?”, he interrupted, and Emma noticed he was no longer looking at her as he spoke.
His face was resolutely turned away from her and was instead fixated towards the direction of the wall opposite them.
As if he could not bare to look upon her—the thought of it made her flinch, despite herself—as if facing her would only make him sicker to his stomach then he already seemed to be.
The coldness in his regard struck her far harder than any slap ever could.
—And for once in her short life, Emma Woodhouse, well and truly felt ashamed.
“Why—Why do you do this?”, His voice was thick with anger and pain.
Emma shuddered, feeling it as plainly as if it had burrowed deep inside her skin and soaked down into the very marrow of her bones—and there was something else as well, something she couldn’t quite taste.
She suddenly couldn’t find her own voice either.
“ANSWER ME!”, he turned to look at her then—at last—roaring the command in the harshest tone she had ever heard him utter.
“I-I…I—
Her whimpering made him chuckle softly, but it was nothing like the light, harmless sound he’d make whenever she rarely pleased him and it certainly wasn’t accompanied with his usual half smile like when he’d find her little quips amusing—this was low and dark, almost taunting.
“Don’t look so demure”, Mr. Knightley muttered, his furious face inching closer to hers while his large hands snaked up her arms until his long fingers pressed against the skin of her shoulders, “don’t you dare look demure!”
Emma moaned, perhaps in pain—perhaps in shame—but her guardian only seemed to hear the red, pulsing heat of his blood as it rushed to his ears.
“I have had enough of your games!”, he hissed, stopping himself before the urge to shake her overcame all his senses, “What exactly has been going through this little head of yours lately?”
His dark eyes lowered just in time to catch as his panicking, trembling ward nervously bit her lush, bruised lip so hard it drew a small bead of red blood.
Unconsciously wetting his own dry ones, George’s gaze hardened all the more.
“Have I not given you everything you have ever wanted?”, he asked, “Have I not taken good care of you—looked after you well?”
Emma nodded her head, unable to muster little else—for that desperate look in his eyes frightened her so.
“Did not your Miss Taylor raise a respectable child?”, she winced as he gritted his next words, “Where did you get it in your mind that you could do something like this!”
What had been going through her head? For the life of her, she couldn’t seem to remember it now…
“I—we…Mr. Knightley I—
But he would hear none of it.
“You are playing with fire, little girl!”, her guardian all but spat, turning his hard glare away from her once more.
He still could’t believe it—any of it!
Within the confines of his hold, Emma seemed to flinch violently in response, as if he actually had dared to strike her then and with enough force to reel her back.
For his part, the impact of such a pointed recoil forced George to wince.
“I am not”, she suddenly spat back, seeming to recover herself at long last and recapturing his wary attention, “a little girl!”
Mr. Knightley immediately snapped his eyes back to her face, and if he hadn’t already been so angry and disappointed, he would have been amused at the indignant look in her lovely down-trotted gaze.
How dare she?
The callous words left his mouth before he could think to stop himself, “Yes. You most certainly are.”
Emma balked, angry tears blurring her vision as she attempted to push and pull away from his unforgiving hold with what little strength her slight figure allowed.
“I am a woman!”, she cried, desperate, “you want to refuse it, sir, but it is the truth! Despite the fact that you insist in treating me as nothing more than a silly child!”
“What you have shown me here today is nothing but silliness and childishness!”, her guardian countered with an outraged laugh, his large hands pressing tighter still against her flailing arms.
In the face of how his towering and hulking form so easily subdued her own much smaller one, Emma’s efforts weakened and her eyes averted.
Despite the small victory, Mr. Knightly somehow still felt as he was both very heavy and yet very hallow.
“It is your wish to be treated as an adult—I know”, he muttered, loosening his grip but only slightly, “but you do not act accordingly—ever—and now you do this?”
“It was nothing serious!”
“This is very serious, Emma!”, Mr Knightley snapped, already worn, “the mere fact that you fail to comprehend the severity of it, is exactly why you are not a woman!”
“Enough!”
Despite his ire, he could not help but feel a tightening in his chest at the sight of the tears that spilled from her burning hazel eyes.
I am sixteen!”, Emma sobbed, breath ragged, “you have given me everything, sir, I do not deny it—but I have no freedom here!”
Outrage overpowered George once again and his hold on her hardened.
“Because you treat me like a child, everyone must follow in your lead and I’m sick of it—I. Am. Sixteen!”
Her gasps were loud and her hands trembled despite her effort to remove them from his ever tightening grasp.
Shocked out of his enraged trance, Mr. Knightley pulled back immediately, removing his much larger and stronger hands from their grip around her wrists as if he’d burned her.
At the sight of the slight bruising on her much too pale skin, he then forced himself to retreat a step back as well, from the absolute shame of it.
And despite himself, he looked back down to the palms of his own hands, only to find that they too were trembling.
Mr. Knightley forced himself to swallow bitterly only to find that his throat was bone dry.
Even in contempt of his restless ire—the loud and unpleasant gears inside his throbbing head making quick work of attempting to reorganize the jumbled mess laid siege in his mind at her pitiful words—he found little choice other than to contemplate and make what little sense of her he could.
For George would certainly think himself very daft indeed if he could not rationalize—at least partially—what may have been going through his bratty ward’s silly, little mind.
—and what might have transpired here.
Emma was the essence of mischief, true, but despite her naturally flirty nature and her easy to come by charisma, she was not a wanton girl—surely?
She was not a—a…well…a whore.
Certainly not!
But she was cunning and while he might now seem to comprehend that her actions might have been powered by her spite and desperation in getting her own way, as was her norm—this time by attempting to demonstrate that she was certainly not a child—he was still very displeased.
Very, very displeased!
It could never change the fact that she was reckless and wrong.
Nor could it change that had he not found her out in time as he did—despite her silly belief that nothing serious would have transpired—she would have been ruined forever!
George would never have forgiven himself if she had been—perhaps, he feared, he could never have forgiven her either.
“…as a protest then…you find yourself fit to do this..?”, he finally responded, rolling his tongue on the wall of his cheek as he contemplated such a notion for what seemed like the tenth time that minute, nodding his head stiffly and staring down his ward with a cold, hard look.
As if it were possible, his eyes hardened to steel when she averted her own.
“Emma, this was badly done.”
Such a phrase was not so rarely said by him in her presence—it was a first, however, that he would mean it without some trace of fondness to cushion the blow.
And now he must resign himself to the notion that it may not be the last he’ll speak it.
The thought of that made him even more restless, the words turning to ash in his mouth.
“You have completely tarnished your reputation, even before having been granted one!”
Emma’s little shoulders shook with a pitiful sob and he should stop now, he knows he should.
“And now—” he steeled himself anyway and soldiered on, “I am left here, blindsided no less, with having to fix your transgression—as I am forsaken to do with all your other blunders!”
His ward, much sobered now, ignored the slight stinging of her limping wrists in favor of further lowering her gaze, her golden head practically bowed in shame.
Properly chastised, it seemed, and decidedly silenced for once.
And if one might posses a keen enough eye to dare look closely, just as Mr. Knightley found himself discovering, they may find a collection of tear stained tracks marring the contours of their owner’s fine, white, satin slippers.
Such a sight was enough to thaw the coldest of hearts, or break it.
George knew it well enough.
Emma, for one, had only wanted to prove to Mr. Knightley that she was no longer a child.
That and only that!
Though not only had her ridiculous plan backfired royally, it had, thereupon, scarcely been executed properly.
She had only meant to flirt with William—and that was all.
Hoping, she admits, to capture his attentions so that whenever Mr. Knightley was nearby, he could finally realize that if others no longer saw her as a little girl, then perhaps—perhaps just maybe—neither would he.
But then—well…
Curiosity had gotten the best of her in the end and before she knew it she had just as quickly given away her first kiss.
And that only served to lead strange new warm feelings in the flutter of her stomach which lead to more kisses—and soon they were in her room somehow and it all seemed so clever to her at the time—so very clever.
She thought that maybe, if she continued to kiss and touch William as he did her, then perhaps there would be little doubt in anyone's mind about her being nothing short of a woman.
And they’d all think, surely, what a shame it was that she wasn’t treated so—to have to resort to such drastic means.
To a very horrible extent, even—deep down inside, she had indeed wanted someone to find her this way.
Find them both like this and by the very man who now seethed before her no less.
Because Emma was tired of being treated as a little girl—of being trapped in the Abbey while other young women her age were all allowed to attend balls and go on seasons.
And worse still—her opinions, as merely a child in the eyes of polite society, less than relevant!
She had been desperate—beyond so—terrifyingly so—and now she was forced to display her shame.
“Emma…”
She looked up to find the almost impossible blue hue of Mr. Knightley’s dark eyes staring back at her, and noticed with the most desperate and meagerness of relief that they were not nearly as cold and angry as they had looked before.
Though Emma’s humiliation heightened when she realized she had never once seen them quite this sad and hurt before.
They were so haunting—almost suffocating enough to drown in, even—and the girl found that it truly ached her heart to look upon them so.
“…Dry your tears…”, Mr. Knightley muttered, not as gently as she knew him to be capable, but in a much more appeased manner than even she understood to be deserving of.
And even less deserving—the sudden feel of his large, warm thumb ghosting against her skin, gave Emma the barest of consolations, when he gently attempted to wipe away the long, wet trail marring her left cheek.
George clenched his jaw and swallowed at the minute wince his action induced, and returning to himself, quickly replaced the forwardness of his touch with the more appropriate offering of his handkerchief.
He attempted to clear his throat, though his voice remained soft, “you are not so much a child any longer, this I know…”, he expressed at last, “but you certainly are still very young.”
At the pointed look of desperate complaint in his ward’s eyes, he held his hand up—the pads of his fingers still wet with her tears—to stop her from interjecting lest he hears anymore of her suffering injustices of his own doing.
“—young enough to be acceptably folly and make mistakes you may, god willing, still learn and grow from”, George articulated, or otherwise attempted to anyway.
“We have all been in your place”, he added, hoping to be understood, “those of us who have already come before you, and…it—it is our duty to secure your future and your well-being…”
The gentleman then frowned as he gathered his thoughts—for how was he to convey that which he wished to say without compromising that which he should say?
—How was he to comfort without validating any part of her recklessness?
“And in doing so”, he pressed, despite his visual discomfort, “we must strive to oversee that those who come after learn and improve themselves accordingly.”
There now, wasn’t that a good place to end it? Mr. Knightley thought to himself, and he would have patted his own back if he could for mastering the temptation to turn what he believed was an adequately thoughtful speech into a lecture.
Even Emma, still miserable despite his attempt, seemed to be caught unawares, for once.
“—your duty”, he added, his baser instincts getting the best of him after all, “and the only thing asked of you, is to simply impress upon those teachings—to become someone who will make your family and your standing proud.”
George did not feel this was in any way unjust to expect from anyone, let alone someone under his direct care and guidance.
Was it ever really so erroneous and farfetched of him to impose this one, simple will?
Emma, as if she’d heard his wordless pondering, nodded.
Though in her case, for once, she only seemed to express compliance with his teachings.
That, however, did little to quell the copious, melancholic tears still welling in her eyes.
“…I’m so sorry, Mr. Knightley…”, she whimpered wretchedly.
Whether she had truly realized the dire severity of her daunting actions enough to regret them or not, George could never know for sure—but he so very desperately wanted to believe she did.
—And he would believe it.
He’d believe it as blindly and as foolishly as he could, for the sake—at least—of his own sanity.
“Shhh…”, the gentleman hushed, conceding to his ward at last as he pulled her towards him once more, only this time he held her against the warmth of an embrace meant to comfort.
“…No more crying…”, Emma heard him mutter as she greedily pressed her face against the fine, delicate fabric of his lapel—and those simple words, crooned to her just as softly, made her sob all the louder, “…what is done is done…”
“—So sorry!—I am so sorry!”, the little blonde wailed, very sullen.
Her thin, pale fingers trembled even as she clutched his coat through her grief.
Mr. Knightley must have trembled too, for he let out a deep, slow breath as he laid his cheek atop the golden crown of her hair.
Finding himself, it seemed—much to his envy and better judgment—contemplating just how long it has already been since anyone had once held him this close.
Had coddled him this earnestly.
“…No more tears…”, he hummed.
The issue still stood, however, that no matter how much Emma refused to be seen as a little girl —and George knew he must at some point convince himself that she had in fact grown up—he could not help but want to keep her this way for as long as it would be possible.
Forever, if it were an option.
But what he now knows to merely want so selfishly, should have never clouded that which he must resign himself to accept as the natural progression of life.
Much as she might believe otherwise, George had long recognized that she was overdue for her come out—her balls, her parties, her seasons in wherever she’d deign to prance away to—and he could no longer delude himself into stalling it so much further.
However—
However, Emma was precious to him. Infinitely so.
At least more than he could ever expect to admit, to himself or otherwise.
And selfish as it was, this one and only claim to any part of her, as her sourly guardian—as her defender—as her friend—would cease the moment she was granted the freedom to wander far enough away from him.
There was no doubt in George’s mind that once she was out in good society, it would take very little for any man to come in and take her from him.
He had always been there for her all of her life—from the very time she was but a little, fussy infant, to the moment she was completely orphaned, up until now and to this nightmare of an instance in which he could have almost lost her.
That knowledge frightened him, beyond capacities he had not known himself to posses.
This has been all too real.
The simple truth of the matter laid in one fact he may never surpass—in that, for all the years of his life, he had yet to remember himself as anything other than her protector—and therefore, he could not fathom himself in a world where he no longer was.
Of course, George was no less any angry with her, and he would continue to be for quite some time.
Though he could also not help but notice that apart from upset and disappointed, he was more so distressed by her actions—and more injured than he should abide to.
—In fact, his heart had yet to still.
So as he stroked Emma’s long hair self soothingly, George Knightley could not help but set his jaw and clench his teeth while coming to the sudden realization that he had never, ever wanted to hurt another human being more than he did that no good, treacherous stable hand.