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Anne Weston had never been more content. Little Anna—Annie, as her father called her—was a healthy and happy baby. Mr. Weston argued that she looked more like her mother everyday, but Mrs. Weston knew that was a fond mistake. With her blonde hair and generous smiles, Annie was every bit her father’s daughter.
She was also pleased to welcome a new, fully grown daughter into her heart in the form of Jane Fairfax. While Mrs. Weston had been surprised and disappointed by Frank’s secret engagement—particularly as it had been her dearest hope that Emma and Frank might find happiness together—Jane was a thoughtful and accomplished young woman. Ever an optimist, Mrs. Weston’s mind pushed aside any ill thoughts with alacrity. The more she and Mr. Weston returned to the subject, the more grateful they were for the gentle counter Jane Fairfax would be to Frank’s restlessness.
Tonight would be her first opportunity to observe them together as Frank had finally returned from Enscombe following his aunt’s death. She and Mr. Weston were to host a small gathering—“Nothing in excess!” she had to remind Mr. Weston, “Frank is in mourning”—in honor of Frank and Jane’s impending nuptials.
However, each time Mr. Weston assured her the party would indeed be “small,” his definition of the word increased. “A mere twelve guests,” he assured her Tuesday, but then by Thursday, he had proclaimed quite merrily, “Just twenty or so in attendance.”
It was a beautiful summer evening, and they had thrown open the glass doors in their largest parlor so party goers could wander outside to take in the fragrant summer air. From the clamor downstairs she knew that guests had arrived. While Mr. Weston welcomed their friends and family, Mrs. Weston put little Anna to bed. She had spent many years caring for the Woodhouse ladies and though Mr. Weston had ensured she was appropriately staffed with a nursemaid, she would not miss any opportunity to rock her own little dear one to sleep.
After a lullaby or two, Mrs. Weston descended the stairs, looking particularly for Frank and Jane. She was anxious to see them together and openly in love, Jane’s pallor and gravity dashed away by Frank’s affection. Unable to catch a glimpse of them in the crowded parlor—“just five and twenty of our closest friends” it had become by Friday morning—she ducked out of the glass doors and into the night to search for them.
Mrs. Weston’s eyes adjusted to the moonlit darkness. As she glanced about, a motion caught her eye. Just down the slope of the garden, she could just see, silhouetted against the night sky, a couple locked in a close embrace—surely Frank and Jane.
Mrs. Weston remembered her and Mr. Weston’s own stolen moments—a few of which had been orchestrated rather artlessly by Emma. However they had come about, she had been grateful for the small, quiet minutes away from gossip and judgement. And from what she could gather it did seem that nothing very untoward was happening between the couple at the end of the garden—perhaps murmurs of sweet nothings and mostly innocent kisses. No rustling of skirts as far as she could tell. They were, after all, newly engaged and seeing each other for the first time in weeks. She thought it would be kind to give them a little while longer before they faced the prying eyes of approximately three and twenty expectant guests. Then she could call them back with a well-timed cough or two in their direction.
Mrs. Weston’s consideration was interrupted by a loud, barking laugh coming from the direction of the parlor. She smiled—Frank’s laugh. How wonderful it would be to hear it more—
Frank’s laugh. In the parlor.
Mrs. Weston’s head whirled around to look into the house where Frank and Jane stood at the center of the party, jovially accepting congratulations from what looked increasingly to be substantially more than five-and-twenty people. She whirled around again to observe the couple in the garden just in time for—as the woman’s head was thrown back in what was clearly a pleasurable state—a beam of moonlight to reflect off golden, curly hair.
Emma’s hair.
Mrs. Weston had always known that as a governess she might be put in a position where she was forced to interrupt or prevent improper behavior in her wards. When Isabella was sixteen, she was suddenly very keen to privately study geography with John Knightley in the Hartfield library, forcing Mrs. Weston—then Miss Taylor—to fake the urgent need to find a new book to read with Emma every five minutes or so.
But Emma, while showing interest in everyone else’s romance, had never had much interest in her own. When any of the local young men had tried to engage her politely after church or while shopping in town, Emma had made it clear that Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield was not interested in being courted. Now that Mrs. Weston had left her governess days behind her and Emma, fully grown, seemed so determined never to marry, she had taken for granted Emma’s safe reputation. Never had she imagined she would find Emma—independent, well-mannered, clever, Emma!—having an ill-considered entanglement mere yards from an open window with—well, with who?
Mrs. Weston began to walk determinedly down the garden path, cursing her soft party shoes for their quiet step which failed to halt the passionate embrace. She rolled through the list of young men who could have seduced her dear Emma. William Cox, Alexander Cole, I believe I heard Mr. Ford has a young nephew who is a barrister. Surely Emma must be more heartbroken over Frank that she realized—to allow herself to fall into the arms of a young man she would ordinarily consider beneath her!
As she grew nearer she could see more clearly Emma’s hands woven through the dark hair of her companion. His face was hidden in the shadow of Emma’s neck, but Mrs. Weston could deduce he was taking very ungentlemanly liberties with her chemisette. Mrs. Weston’s soft step allowed her to come quite close to the couple, still unaware of her presence. Finally, mere feet away, and hearing a most inappropriate audible sigh from Emma, she stopped short.
“Emma Woodhouse. What are you thinking?” Mrs. Weston hissed. She was careful not to be too loud so as to draw attention from the party. The couple started at the sound of her voice, and all amorous activity ceased. But Emma did not push the man away, Mrs. Weston noted. She seemed sheepish, but not ashamed to be found in such a state. Emma slid her hand to the gentleman’s chin and pulled it upward, out of the shadows.
“I do believe we’ve been caught,” Emma said to a shyly smirking George Knightley.
Mrs. Weston’s mouth fell open in shock as she turned toward Mr. Knightley, the last man of her acquaintance she would expect to find in a potentially scandalous garden tryst. Slowly, he stood back— just a short distance away from Emma, removing his hand from her waist only to interlace their fingers. All at once he looked twenty years younger—an awkward schoolboy—while maintaining a small smile on his face like the cat that ate the canary.
Mrs. Weston turned back to Emma, “You’re...?” She stopped, unsure what she was trying to ask.
Emma nodded and said, “In love,” just as Mr. Knightley said, “Engaged.” They looked at each other and laughed, their gaze still filled with the wonder that comes from finding your affection returned, your hopes shared, and your life before you. Mrs. Weston knew it well.
She found herself quite unable to say anything as she looked back at her two friends waiting for her response. Mrs. Weston’s thoughts moved rapidly, sifting through and reorganizing her memories of the pair over the past year: Mr. Knightley’s immediate dislike of Frank Churchill, so against his kind nature. Emma’s passionate dismissal of his having any romantic interest in Jane Fairfax. His sudden, badly explained departure to London, and his equally sudden return. She could see at once the pain they had unwittingly caused themselves and each other and, despite their present circumstances, her heart leapt at the happiness they had so clearly found.
Without words to fully express her joy, Mrs. Weston rushed toward Mr. Knightley who cowered a little at her approach, perhaps expecting a sound rap across the head with her fan. Instead she pulled him in for a swift hug and then turned to Emma to give her a tighter squeeze.
“My dear child!” she said to Emma, pushing her back to look her full in the face, “I should have known! I ought to have guessed.” Emma smiled gratefully as Mrs. Weston put a fond hand to her cheek.
But unfortunately for Emma and Mr. Knightley, Mrs. Weston was not quite finished being a governess yet.
“You,” said Mrs. Weston to Emma, “Are going to be appropriately chaperoned as soon as this engagement is announced.” Emma opened her mouth, ready to object—
“And you,” Mrs. Weston turned to Mr. Knightley, pointing her fan at him, “Are going to ask Mr. Woodhouse for his daughter's hand by the end of the week.”
Mr. Knightley bowed slightly in acknowledgement, “That is more than fair.”
“And we,” finished Mrs. Weston, waving her fan between them, “Are all going to have tea tomorrow while Mr. Weston calls on the Eltons so you can tell me all about this.”
She paused, waiting for assent. She could tell from the way her jaw was tightening, Emma was fighting the reflex to be obstinate to her former governess, but Mr. Knightley prodded her along. “That would be charming, Mrs. Weston. Wouldn’t it, Emma?”
“Oh yes,” said Emma, called back to the reality of her age and situation, “That would be most agreeable.”
“Good.” Mrs. Weston said, “Now get back into the house while everyone is still attentive to Jane and Frank. Their engagement is due to be old news any minute, and the gossips will be looking for something new to whisper.” Mr. Knightley and Emma looked at one another, clearly reluctant to separate. “I will walk Emma in. You go first, Mr. Knightley.”
With one last soft smile at Emma and another quick bow to Mrs. Weston, Mr. Knightley walked up toward the warm light of the parlor. Mrs. Weston straightened Emma's collar and then linked Emma’s arm in hers.
“How long have you loved him?” Mrs. Weston asked her young friend.
“Possibly for years,” Emma said, her eyes following Mr. Knightley’s long, even strides toward the house, “But I’ve been aware of it for six weeks or so.”
“Since he left for London?” Mrs. Weston asked and began to lead them back into the party.
“Since I thought I lost him,” Emma said with a grim smile, “I’ll arrive early for tea tomorrow and tell you all.”
They made their way up through the garden, each lost in their thoughts—Mrs. Weston putting together the pieces of her friends’ unconventional courtship, and Emma, for the thousandth time, wondering again at the good fortune of having a love she did not feel she truly deserved no matter how many times—and in how many ways—Mr. Knightley assured her. She felt more cheerful as she remembered that he would have the opportunity to assure her again after tea tomorrow in the privacy of their walk home.
As they reached the open glass doors and the gaiety within, Emma turned to her friend. “Will you tell Mr. Weston?” Emma asked, trying to appear unworried.
Mrs. Weston smiled, understanding the implied query. “Oh my dear,” she replied, “Not until you are ready for the whole county to know.”
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As the party drew to a close, Mrs. Weston stood at the door waving goodbye to her guests. She watched as Mr. Knightley handed Emma into her carriage and felt quite sure that no one else had noticed how long their hands lingered together and the desperate, pregnant meaning in their exchange, “Until tomorrow.”
It was strange, she thought, how once you knew of their attachment it was as obvious as the nose on their lovesick faces. Still, for most of the evening they had been as they had always been. They had bickered about some small matter in one moment—the propriety of the waltz—and then, in the next moment, were laughing to themselves in the corner about a private joke. While Jane Fairfax gave a performance on the pianoforte, Mrs. Weston realized she could not locate them among watching party goers, but during the second set— insisted upon by Frank—she had spotted the pair, sitting perhaps too angelically to the side of the room not far from the suspiciously ajar door to Mr. Weston’s study.
Mrs. Weston approached Mr. Knightley as he watched Emma’s carriage make its way down the drive and out of sight.
“Did you enjoy the party, Mr. Knightley?” she asked with a sly smile.
“Of course, Mrs. Weston,” he replied, raising one eyebrow, “You know how I always enjoy a large party.” If it had been anyone other than Mr. Knightley, she would have described his expression as roguish.
She quickly glanced around and saw Mr. Weston in emphatic conversation with Mr. Cole. She turned back toward Mr. Knightley, “Someone is going to notice that smug smile of yours if you aren’t careful.”
Mr. Knightley laughed, and his demeanor reverted to the warm sincerity she was more used to. “We will not have to be careful much longer, Mrs. Weston. I do intend to speak to Mr. Woodhouse as soon as possible. There is just the matter of our living situation that I wish to resolve.”
“And how do you plan to resolve it?” she asked, “Do you hope he will remove to Donwell?”
Even as she wished for Emma and Frank’s future—a hope that seemed so wrong-headed now as they were both so happily partnered—she knew that Mr. Woodhouse would be a blocker. He would be horrified at Emma’s engagement, even to a man he loved as much as Mr. Knightley, and would never accept living apart from her.
“No, I plan to move to Hartfield,” he said and hesitated, “If, of course, they’ll have me.”
Mrs. Weston knew then that the events of the past year could have reached no other conclusion. No other man would sacrifice his independence and privacy to capture Emma’s hand. Only Mr. Knightley, who knew Emma’s innate goodness and her entrenched sense of duty to her family, would ponder let alone propose such a plan. She also knew that Emma, who would immediately understand the seriousness of his loss, would not like it.
“Have you told her yet?”
“I have not,” he replied, waving to the footman bringing forward his mare, “Will you help me convince her?”
“Of course I will. She’ll come to see it’s the best way forward—to ensure your mutual happiness. You cannot hide in the garden forever.” Mr. Knightley laughed and thanked her as he took the reins, turned to his horse, Bessie, and began to adjust his stirrups, readying himself to leave.
Mrs. Weston felt there was still something left unsaid. “Mr. Knightley, if I had known,” she shook her head, remembering her encouragement of Emma and Frank’s flirtation, even remarking to Mr. Knightley how well they looked together, “If I had known of your feelings for Emma, I never would have so openly—that is, I never would have hoped—”
Mr. Knightley raised his hand, waiving away her concern. “If I had not felt that Mr. Churchill was such an imminent threat to my happiness, I perhaps would not have realized with whom that happiness rests.” He sighed, absentmindedly stroking Bessie’s mane. “Emma and I are both stubborn creatures, and I’m afraid that we would have been very content to carry on as we had been if jealousy and mistaken affection had not awakened us to a much more wonderful possibility.”
“You once said—” Mrs. Weston had alighted on another memory in need of re-categorization“—that you would like to see Emma in love and with some doubt as to its return.” She laughed and shook her head. “You said it would do her good.”
“Ah well, Emma does so relish proving me wrong,” he said, kicking up and onto his horse. He steadied Bessie and continued, “For I now see she is all the better for having no doubt at all.”
The almost roguish smile was back as he tipped his hat goodbye and rode off into the night. Mrs. Weston waved goodbye, and turned back toward the house, linking arms with her husband on the way.
“That was a very nice, close-knit gathering,” Mr. Weston said cheerfully, “But we should have a real party to properly celebrate once Frank’s mourning period is over. Don’t you agree, my dear?”
“Of course, darling,” she replied as she led him up the stairs for a well-deserved rest, confident that many more celebrations would soon be in order.