Chapter Text
Chapter 1:
Emma Woodhouse sat gracefully in Hartfield’s grandest drawing room, sipping tea from her delicate china cup. Great windows on the wall behind her swept from floor to ceiling, allowing the warm sunlight to flood in and light up the entire room. She felt its heat on her like a gentle embrace and found she could use its light to dance rainbows off her cup, and she thus amused herself with shining them on the people that surrounded her. It was Emma that had invited the small group together for tea; organised the servants to provide the best china and the freshest treats. Her father often allowed her these indulgences, so long as she occupied the guests with the vast majority of the conversation, as he was stoutly averse to being subjected to needless chatter with strangers. So it had surprised her then, that she was not presently engaged as the centre of attention - though too, there was a distinct sense of relief that underlay this surprise, as she had found herself to be more and more distracted of late.
Seated around her were few of her closest acquaintances; to her right sat her dear Mrs Weston, and next to her was Harriet. The two were engaged in some conversation - they were discussing their choice of gowns for the coming evening, Emma presumed, though in fact, it was true that she herself had not been paying much attention, having distracted herself with the comfort of the warm sunlight. Further to her left, on a seat not far from her own sat Mrs and Miss Bates, with the latter of the two loudly praising the quality of confectionery that surrounded them.
“Simply exquisite,” she heard her exclaim, “and such delightful company too, don’t you agree Mother?”
Opposite her, sat her father, Mr Woodhouse, conversing with Mr Knightley with what seemed to be great vigour. He spoke animatedly, his frantic gestures to the grand windows behind her suggested he was yet again consumed with the threat of the chill draft that so often occupied his thoughts. She smiled secretly to herself, lifting her cup once more to her lips in a feeble attempt to smother it. Mr Knightley glanced over to meet her gaze, and while his lips remained impartial, his eyes betrayed his own mirth at Mr Woodhouse’s ridiculousness. His notice of her served as the jolt back to reality she needed, she set down her cup on its saucer and turned to tune in once more to the conversation at hand.
“And you, dear Emma, what are your plans for your attire for this evening's events?” asked Mrs Weston, turning her head slightly to include Emma more in the discussion.
“I don’t imagine I will wear anything too splendid,” she replied, “ ’tis only the Cole’s after all.”
Their neighbours, the tradesman Cole and his wife, were holding that night dinner to welcome Mr Frank Churchill into Highbury society. Usually, Emma would not have been bothered by such an event, yet her intrigue in the mysterious Mr Churchill had won over her reluctance to leave Hartfield, and so she had accepted her invitation.
“Well, I’m sure you must have something perfect for such an occasion,” remarked Harriet, “I myself do not have many such fine things as you, but indeed that does not concern me, for I will have the pleasure at marvelling at your own choice of attire!”
Emma’s heart sank slightly with Harriet’s flattery, for her young friend so often had cause to feel envy, but chose kindness each time - something Emma was not quite convinced she could replicate.
“My dear Harriet, you must come up with myself and Maria later, for we shall find you something splendid for you also.” Harriet’s responding flush of excitement and hurried onslaught of thanks settled Emma’s own discomfort.
“How lovely! How generous you are Miss Woodhouse! Such kindness you show!” exclaimed Miss Bates, who had been following the young ladies’ exchange “I myself am trembling with excitement, for my niece Jane Fairfax is also to be introduced this very evening! This very evening I say, I find I can do nothing but shiver with excitement!”
Emma found this remark incredibly difficult and resisted the strong urge to roll her eyes. It seemed she would never not be taunted by Jane Fairfax and her excellent countenance. As much as Emma hated to admit it, she couldn’t help but be jealous of the young woman, despite their being unacquainted.
“What say you, Mr Woodhouse? Will you be joining us for this evening’s festivities?” Miss Bates was continuing, her voice carrying even louder as to account for Mr Woodhouse’s supposed deafness. The room quieted, exchanging humorous glances at Mr Woodhouse’s shock. He was, in fact, capable of perfect hearing.
“Ah, I-, er, well. No, quite frankly.” he stuttered in reply, looking helplessly to Mr Knightley.
“I suppose Mr Woodhouse would much prefer the comfort of his armchair and the warm fire.” Knightley offered.
Miss Bates smiled understandingly and took this opportunity to launch into an enthusiastic retelling of Jane Fairfax’s love for the quiet and reading, much like Mr Woodhouse, giving Mrs Weston the opportunity to turn once more towards her young friend. “Are you quite well, my dear?”
“Yes, yes. Very well of course, why should you suppose otherwise?”
“I suppose you do not seem your usual self. You’ve been awfully quiet. Distracted even.”
Emma, who up until now had found herself gazing absent-mindedly at Mr Knightley while he spoke in earnest to Miss Bates, blinked herself out of her reverie and turned fully to Mrs Weston, who was sporting a look of gentle concern.
“I am terribly sorry, I have neglected my duties. I must confess that I am concerned slightly for tonight's dinner,” she spoke softly while smoothing the silk folds of her skirts with her palms. It was true, she had noticed the bubble of nervousness that was fluttering about her stomach and chest, but could not herself name the reason behind it. Stealing a last - perhaps reassuring - look at Knightley (one that inadvertently caught his attention), she patted her friend's hand and focused her attention back towards her. Emma could see Mrs Weston’s honest concern for her grow the longer she hesitated, so resolved to find the most logical explanation for her anxieties.
“I suppose it is only since I know there are many that may believe that Mr Frank Churchill is intended for me, and only that I do not wish to be forced into any sort of expectation. I also daresay that I am anxious for the arrival of Miss Jane Fairfax, for I wholly do not wish for comparisons to be drawn between us both.” Emma lowered her voice slightly, aware of Miss Bates’ presence behind them. “I fear if I hear much more of Jane Fairfax’s perfection, I shall expire!”
The two friends giggle conspiratorially, catching the attention of the others in the room.
“Such laughter we hear from the two young ladies!” exclaims Miss Bates, “Pray, tell us the joke or we should all simply tremble from the mystery!”.
Unbeknownst to Emma, Mr Knightley had watched her face closely since noticing her glance at him. Catching his eye now, and with him reclined ever so slightly in his armchair, Emma felt at once as though she was being warned - prematurely scolded for sharing private jokes. Although it was not especially at Miss Bates’ expense, Emma still felt the embarrassment creep into her face like a hot vine, crawling up her cheeks. Knightley tended to have this effect of late, she thought.
“Oh ’twas nothing I fear, my dear Miss Bates,” Emma began. “we old friends must be allowed our few secrets, must we not?”. Pleased with what she considered a diplomatic and inoffensive response, she went to pick up her cup from where it rested but halted as Mr Knightley’s sarcastic shrug of a voice cut across Miss Bates’ awaiting reply.
“You must ignore her.” he addressed Miss Bates, but his condescending tone spoke directly to Emma. Turning almost lazily to look at her once more, he added: “Perhaps if Miss Woodhouse so desires to giggle like a child, then she should remove herself to the old nursery.”
Emma’s face truly was flushed now, and her heart raced to match. His lectures were not unfamiliar, but to address her with such a look and tone, he seemed almost scornful of her. Usually, his words of reproach were accompanied by a forgiving gaze. Emma averted her eyes in embarrassment, glancing at Mrs Weston, who - like the room at large - seemed surprised by Knightley’s rebuke.
“Come now, Knightley,” she said. “it was not just Emma that laughed. We women must be indulged our sillinesses every so often. It reminds us of simpler times.”
“Indeed, my apologies ladies.” Was Knightley’s reply, along with a charming smile directed towards Emma and Mrs Weston. His apology seemed to placate the room, yet Knightley noticed that Emma still would not meet his gaze. Perhaps he had been slightly too harsh, he thought. Usually, she seemed to detect his banter and equal his jibes. He had noticed she had not been quite herself, and only wished to reassure her with his familiar and gentle teasing.
As the room resumed its normal chatter, Emma found herself reeling from Knightley’s words. Only minutes later, the group dispersed in order to begin preparations for the dinner that evening. Knightley thought he could pull Emma to the side to try and puzzle her mood, but she quickly made herself scarce after the usual pleasantries, escorting Harriet upstairs to find her a suitable dress for the evening. As he walked across the hills back home, Knightley frowned to himself and resolved to speak to her later that evening. Emma watched him walk from one of the large windows, the sun seemed to follow his strides as he strolled up and over the rolling hills.