Chapter Text
It was clear to see that Frank Churchill in some way unsettled Mr Knightley.
In a similar way that it was annoyingly evident to him that Emma herself was ill at ease around Jane Fairfax, Emma knew this to be true. Mr Knightley was for all intents and purposes a very amiable man, and even of the people he didn’t warm to (overwhelmingly those possessing questionable natures or outright unsavoury characters), he always treated them with the utmost polite civility and kindness. To the extent that it was quite taxing to deduce based on body language or public conduct alone when he genuinely didn’t like someone. If he did express his distaste, it was always in private conversation (oft with her ), and communicated in the most diplomatic manner.
But for some reason there just seemed to be some aspect of Frank Churchill’s character which irked him greatly enough to abandon these tendencies. And to be truthful, Emma found it highly amusing to watch Mr Knightley get so worked up. Before Mr Churchill actually arrived in Highbury she had found Mr Knightley’s judgements irritating. It was like he had been casting judgement on her for merely showing interest in him, which in turn in some way made her feel small. Like a child being scolded for their choice of playmate. Admittedly, hidden away and repressed by her stubbornness was a flicker of doubt in Mr Churchill and his flightiness, only fueled by Mr Knightley’s judgements. But since he’s arrived in the flesh and seemed to be living up to every estimation set for him by the people of the village ( particularly the women, it must be said), the criticisms of his character put forward by Mr Knightley just seemed… petty.
In all the preparation for the Coles’ gathering, Emma had been pondering what exactly Mr Knightley holds against Mr Churchill, and why his comments strike her this way. The only reasonable explanation she can conjure is envy. But envious of what exactly? They were both men of fortune and favourable circumstances, both physically handsome, highly eligible bachelors, and both witty and charming in conversation. Perhaps Mr Knightley had gotten too comfortable being the big fish in their small, insular pond.
It was then that Emma realised for as much as she’d always looked upon Mr Knightley as being in a complete league apart from other men, with his kind, highly obliging and agreeable nature, at the end of the day he was still a man with a masculine ego to manage.
And it just so happened that the management of said ego in relation to Mr Churchill had become highly amusing to watch in action. Rarely was anyone or anything able to fluster Mr Knightley or cause disruption to his gentle manner - so to see it happen was a treat in itself.
“And yet he spent a whole day going to London just to get his hair cut. Sixteen miles, twice over. He’s a trifling, silly fop” .
The scoff of amusement escaped her before she had any chance at all of stifling it.
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“Ladies and Gentlemen;- a duet!”
Mr Cole’s announcement cut Emma’s conversation with Mr Churchill short, though she was not adverse to the interruption. She’d gotten what she’d sought from the exchange, her mind having been put at ease once more regarding the nature of his acquaintance with Jane Fairfax. The whole matter of the pianoforte had made her natural suspicions arise once again from the moment she’d been privy to gossip, immediately suspecting Mr Churchill himself to be the anonymous sender. The both of them had been far too coy about their existing acquaintance with each other and far too unwilling to divulge anything at all about it for it not to be suspicious.
But by all accounts now, he seemed (at least to Emma’s eye and ear) rather dismissive of Jane altogether in a way that she assumed one could never be regarding someone they held affection for. From how he’d cast her aside in Ford’s before, bringing up her unfortunate situation, to implying insult to her appearance tonight. So Emma chose to lather herself in the reassurance, relaxing and laughing with him as they gossiped further about who then could have so generously sent the instrument.
She crossed the room to take her place for the performance, a hint of a smile and renewed sense of poise about her, but was quickly intercepted before she could properly place herself.
“What do you say to this, Emma? I have made a match between Mr Knightley and Jane Fairfax” said Mrs Weston, looking very pleased with herself.
The statement caught Emma off-guard and gave her momentary pause, leaving her briefly unable to process it. As if on auto-pilot however, she quickly managed to correct herself. “Mr Knightley and Jane Fairfax?” she choked out in reply, briefly forcing a curious smile as if to offset the unease in her response.
“This pianoforte has been sent to her by somebody, and she’s always been a favourite with him…”
Just as Emma’s eyes rose to focus on Jane, she turned her own to Mr Knightley at her side. Emma’s gaze is just quick enough to catch her flashing him a smile which, in Emma’s opinion, looked… adoring? It couldn’t possibly be; perhaps Mrs Weston’s comments made her read into the look what wasn’t there. In any case, whatever manner it was intended in, it heightened her unease.
“...tonight, he sent his carriage for her as a courtesy, and walked himself. Was that not gallant?”
Of course, it was gallant. Mr Knightley was a very gallant man. He would have done the same for any one of their friends, would he not? Emma continued to reason with herself as Mrs Weston took her leave to find her husband, wholly unknowing of the upended state she’d left her former charge in.
Emma’s back held rigid, the cogs now turning in her mind at a frantic pace. The convivial cacophony of the room dulled around her as she rushed to re-piece together her worldview in a way that would validate (or invalidate) Mrs Weston’s assertions. She suddenly found herself second-guessing every interaction she had witnessed between the two of them; every look, every comment he’d made at Emma’s expense about Jane’s talents and accomplishments (which Emma herself had always taken as being more primarily a criticism of herself rather than an admiration of Jane)— but had that been self-centred of her to assume? Had she again been mistaken all this time? And if so, how could she have been so blind to this relationship between them?
Also, why did it bother her so?
She’d been so wrapped up in her considerations she hadn’t even noticed the music start; light, skillful piano keys accompanied by the chords of a violin. Emma implored her gaze upward and towards the front where Jane and Mr Knightley stood.
Suddenly, conjured from God knows where, Emma felt something akin to panic flood her veins. Her heart leapt into a hammering beat inside her chest and a flush of warmth rushed to her cheeks, the panic churning in her stomach like sour milk and making her feel sick. In that moment she’s overcome with the very childish notion that she was losing a long-standing and much beloved companion in Mr Knightley; or that he was in some way being taken away from her, and that of course Jane Fairfax was the reason for it. Though Emma had never once thought of Mr Knightley for herself, never in any other way than as her closest friend and confidant, somehow, the thought of someone else actually taking him as their husband was something she hadn’t seriously considered. Of course at some points in time she’d had abstract notions of him one day probably taking a wife, but with how little he spoke of the prospect or anything in that realm of thought she had been allowed to stay willfully ignorant.
The lyrics of the duet as Jane started it were heartfelt and painfully romantic, and both her skill on the piano and singing abilities were reliably sublime. Watching her perform with him, and how enraptured their audience appeared to be, Emma swallowed back this fact like a dose of bitter medicine alongside the reminder it dredged up of her own sense of lacking. Insecurity wasn’t something she felt overly often, or the feeling of inferiority which accompanied it, but when she did it was almost always in comparing herself to Jane. These feelings sat heavy in her chest, but it was a familiar discomfort, often characterised by ornate drawing rooms and the whispers of gossiping society ladies, an ache that burned for a while but was quickly soothed by the flattery of either her father, Harriet, Miss Bates, Mrs Weston, or someone else of the like. Somehow though, only tonight, there was a lingering sting of… something edging the sensation.
Jane Fairfax really was very talented and very accomplished, that Mr Knightley hadn’t been wrong about. Begrudgingly, Emma could admit that with her gentle, accommodating manner these qualities made clear that she would make a very good wife. And Mr Knightley deserved the very best of wives, more so than any man she’d ever known. So should she not then approve of such a match between the two of them? Perhaps she ought. But whether it be down to her own ill-feelings towards Jane or her selfish attachment to Mr Knightley, or maybe a combination of the two, she resoundly did not.
Her gaze must have wandered away, for the masculine lilt of Mr Knightley’s own singing voice drew her eyes instantly back to awareness of where she stood. But only to look upon him . She watched; silently implored for him to look back at her, feeling as if she’d been cast adrift and that his mere notice would buoy her and serve to reassure.
But he did not.
Vexed, though employing every effort not to appear so, Emma switched gears and desperately fixed her gaze upon Frank Churchill across the room. Though she consistently expressed aversion to the idea of marriage, claiming she had all she needed as mistress of Hartfield and wanted for nothing that matrimony could bring, she was of course every now and again tempted into imagining the different versions of what her future could look like. In terms of who she could potentially share it with, Frank Churchill was the physical manifestation of all that she expected to desire if she were to desire any man. He was handsome, witty in conversation, charming, already closely affiliated with whom she considered her family, and with a respectable social standing of his own. She’d let herself be intrigued by the mystery written into his every letter shared with her by Mr Weston, and carried away with flights of fancy. For all intents and purposes, she should fall head over heels for him. They made an unavoidable amount of sense.
But when she looks to Mr Churchill and he returns her gaze, she feels… precious little. Apart from confusion as to why she feels nothing, the thought of Frank in that moment inspired no great depth of emotion or sense of yearning, and immediately exposed to herself just how lacking in substance their connection was. What she felt for him in that moment was but a mere drop in the ocean compared to… to what she possibly felt...
Realisation curled its way into the pit of her stomach like a beautiful but exotic and possibly dangerous bloom, and all but consumed her as the performance drew to a close. She did not meet Mr Knightley’s eye for the remainder of the function, unsure of herself around him for possibly the first time ever. Maybe she could eventually reason herself out of such affections (perhaps she would even have to), but in this moment, on that evening, the ground she tread on was far too uneven and her emotions far too raw to even try.
Such ruminations plagued her for the remainder of her time spent at the function. It wasn’t long before she politely but swiftly took her leave not long after dinner was eaten, as soon as she deemed it socially acceptable to be excused. With Emma’s mind clearly elsewhere she was uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meal, and her appetite flimsy as she picked nimbly at her food and prodded it around her plate. As distracted as she was she did not catch Mr Knightley watching her covertly across the table, having noticed her peculiar mood. He approached her as she readied herself to leave, enquiring with worried glance and cautious tone.
“You do not seem yourself, Emma, are you unwell?”
She painted herself an agreeable expression for him, however much the burden of one-sided realisation weighed heavy on her consciousness.
“A mild headache, quickly onset. No need to concern yourself, rest assured. Though I thank you for it.”
He even saw her to her carriage, gentlemanly as he was despite how they’d bickered earlier. This was not unlike the usual dynamics of their friendship, quick to quarrel but also to resolution, but she couldn’t help but feel entirely different about the gesture now suspecting what she does about her feelings for him.
Later on as she prepared for bed, finally free from the invasive eyes of society and tucked up in the comforting dimness of her bedroom Emma ruminated further. It was all she’d done since she’d left the Coles’, and at this rate, she feared it was all she would continue to do at this rate. With her thoughts too occupied to attempt sleep she changed course and sat herself down at the table.
Was it really possible that she could want Mr Knightley for herself? The memory of just how wickedly the jealousy burned within her earlier made the possibility unavoidable. Emma closed her eyes and, as if dipping a toe in the water to test the temperature, she let her mind conjure images of Mr Knightley and herself stood toe to toe. They often ended up in such a position when caught in the midst of one of their famous quarrels, but in this instance all was calm. His eyes, bluer than the summer sky she longed for in the depths of the colder months, looked upon her with such a tenderness even the thought of it made her heart flutter. He was so close she could practically feel the heat from his body, saw his chest move with every inhale and exhale. With a smile threatening the edge of his lips he brought a hand up to cup her cheek. The thought of it was most entirely welcome, so much so the intensity shocked her back into reality.
Emma’s eyes fluttered open, her heart thumping in the most telling manner. She groaned quietly and threw herself forward into her hands, heaving the heavy sigh of someone completely resigned to the inconvenient nature of their own emotions.