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The greenhouse was always Emma’s favorite place to hide.
When she was little, it was a refuge from the monotony of the house, with its very specific rooms and their very specific uses. The greenhouse could be whatever Emma wanted it to be; a magical forest, the Garden of Eden, an escape.
She escaped there again one day, a week before the wedding. The late summer heat was an oppressive presence during the day, but the early morning hours were clean and crisp, a whisper of fall lurking around the corner. She tended to the hydrangeas, bursting with a bright orange that would do nicely with the soft pink roses she had set aside for her bouquet.
“Are you hiding?”
Mr. Knightley’s voice was as cool as the morning; soft and low, as if it was the first time he’d used it that day.
She smiled at the flowers when she said, “You ask as if you already know the answer.”
“True. A better question would be, from whom are you hiding?”
There was the usual teasing lilt to his voice, but Emma--so very well versed in all of his subtleties now that she was free to notice them--sensed a note of hesitation, a small fear that the answer might be him.
“Not a whom, but a what.” She turned to find herself mere inches from the corner of his smile. “The wedding. Well, the planning of it, to be precise.”
“I thought all the arrangements were made. We have the church and the guests; what else could there possibly be?”
“Ah, you are already an excellent groom, Mr. Knightley, if you believe that is all it takes.”
“I’m so very glad to hear I’m meeting your expectations.” He looped an arm around her waist, pulling her close until she was flush against him.
“We are not chaperoned,” she whispered.
Mr. Knightley gave a mock gasp before he smiled, lowering his mouth to meet hers. These stolen moments had sustained them since the engagement; a quick meeting in the library here, a dark hallway there, each more fervent and prolonged than the last. Now, with his hand in her hair--all that hard work for naught--and their bodies pressed close, Emma was reminded of other expectations concerning their wedding. Or, more precisely, their wedding night.
“How can I help?” he murmured just as she asked “Have you been with a woman?”
Mr. Knightley pulled back, alarmed.
“Sorry?”
Emma forged on, past the heat in her cheeks and the thump of her heart.
“If we are to be married--”
“If!”
“--I would like to know if there is...precedent.”
“Ah.”
His hands moved from her waist to take hers, his thumbs sweeping over the backs. Many moments passed in this way, until Emma grew restless.
“Well?”
“I’m thinking.”
“For so long?”
He gave her a wry smile, but still said nothing. She huffed.
“Let us forget that I asked--”
“No.” He looked into her eyes, all playful humor gone. “This is important to you.”
It was not a question, but she nodded anyway.
“Yes, is the simple answer. I can elaborate, but I wonder if it will ease your mind or cause you more distress.”
“I am hardly distressed,” she muttered, even if there was truth to his words. But she straightened and lifted her chin. “Go on.”
He began to pace around the greenhouse. Immediately she felt his absence; this would be a much easier conversation if she could hold on to him, remind herself that regardless of his full answer, her feelings were no sooner to change than his. But he was sorting through something-- the right words, she supposed--and all she could do was let him find them.
Finally, as Emma pondered whether the potted ficus or peace lily would hurt more should she throw it at his head, he said, “Do you remember when I went to Paris?”
Emma had a vague recollection of a trip abroad some years ago. He’d brought her back a box of French chocolates, a silk handkerchief for her father.
“Oh.”
“Yes. It was for educational purposes and I learned...much more than anticipated.”
Emma braced for jealousy, but none came. There was a pang of something though; disappointment, perhaps. An unexpected loneliness, as if she were on the outside of something looking in. She was reminded of Harriet, who had only been Mrs. Martin for a fortnight, but had come back from her modest honeymoon a wife beyond her years. Emma had not pried, of course, but she hadn’t needed to; Harriet’s shy smile and quiet confidence spoke volumes.
“Well,” she began. “Thank you. I appreciate your candor and--”
She was abruptly cut off as he strode toward her, taking her face in his hands. She thought he might kiss her, but he simply gazed into her eyes with such intensity, all thoughts of Paris swiftly left her head.
“You spoke of precedent, Emma, but it is only in that one, single instance. In love--its depth and its trueness--you are the first in every regard.”
It was precisely, annoyingly, the right thing to say.
She fought a smile.
“You were honest with me, so I suppose I should be honest with you.”
He swallowed, grave, and it was all Emma could do not to laugh.
“I kissed Simon Jennings underneath the horse chestnut tree when I was eleven.”
Mr. Knightley scoffed in mock indignation.
“Our tree?”
“It’s Simon’s tree, really, seeing as he was there first.”
He pulled her close, laughing in her hair.
“Simon, indeed. The first to win your heart, was he?”
“Not for long. And not the last.”
She gave him a true smile at this, and he took her hand once more, pressing his lips to her knuckles.
“I don’t suppose that makes us even.”
“Hardly.”
“You know that I intend to make up for that inequality in a week’s time.”
“I think it will take more than one night,” she mused, her breath growing ragged as his mouth moved to her palm.
“Many, many nights. Forever, most likely.”
It was a long while until they left the greenhouse, longer still until the wedding.
But Emma did not mind the planning after that morning.
It was a small price to pay for forever.