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Emma found Harriet crouched down at the edge at her fiancé’s garden, thankfully far from the chickens who had been left to roam free. The woman was talking to herself, and Emma slowed her steps to give her enough time to recognise that someone was approaching and stand.
But she did not.
She did lament the state of Harriet’s dress, no doubt stained by the dewy grass, and then realised she was also wearing pale blue gloves on, fingers brushing around amongst the flowers without picking a bloom. By the time she was closer, there was still no understanding for the sight before her, only a better look at the bumblebee hovering in between a clump of butter yellow pansies that Harriet seemed to be focusing all her attention on.
"What are you doing?"
“Emma!” Harriet stood awkwardly, “I was...talking.”
“Talking?”
“To the bees.”
“The bees?”
“Mr Martin’s sisters explained it to me.” Harriet said, with a soft smile, no doubt thinking of her fiancé again. “They bring good luck.”
"That is, by far, the most ludicrous thing I've heard." Emma declared, leaning away as the fat bumblebee rose and zigzagged lazily through the air, pollen drunk.
"Really?" Harriet asked, face downcast, but then they watched the bumblebee twirl and touch down on the next flower, and it brought a smile to her face again. "I thought it was sweet."
In the early morning, she cut her flowers, selecting the most perfect blooms. She brushed a finger across the softest of petals, snipped away at delicate stems, and tucked them all into her basket. Each movement was precise and poised, all the while knowing how her housemaid watched her every step, anticipating where the basket should be next for the easiest reach.
Yet when Emma snipped a dark woody stem of purple orchid flowers, rich and vibrant, and placed it into the basket, she happened to look down at her engagement ring, and suddenly found it too quiet inside the greenhouse. Yet, without faltering she dropped the next cut flower, a pretty pink rose, into her basket and turned towards the window while continuing her elegant non-dance with the housemaid.
Outside, dawn was breaking, and the sky was turning a blend of blue and pink that was only ever matched under the greenhouse’s roof or the tailors’ reams of imported silks. She tipped her head to stare for a few moments, and her focus changed from the far-off horizon to a small ladybug steadily crawling on the other side of the glass. It was making short work of the windowsill, moving onwards to the outer brick wall. For a wild moment, she could feel the lure of walking across the damp grass, barely touched by sunlight, and into the mist-curled air at the back of the garden where it merged from grass that was meticulously kept to that which was ingratiated with wildflowers and weeds.
Drifting forwards, Emma followed to open the door to the garden, and ignored a confused, "Miss?” from the housemaid.
The spell was broken when a bumblebee thunked into the closed window above her head, and the fresh air turned cold against her skin and transformed it into gooseflesh.
Emma paused in the doorway, before stepping back inside and took hold of the basket herself, draping it across her forearm. She quickly added two more orchid clippings, which would be tucked into her hair, and then walked back into the house, resolutely ignoring a second soft thunk on the glass as the bumblebee hit the window again.
Emma was in the town, and although the sky above threatened to pour down on her head, new bonnet or no, she was quite determined to finish her list. New ribbons had been selected and new shoes bought and boxed to be sent home. But when she stepped into the bakery, she happened upon Jane Fairfax and her aunt collecting some supplies for their afternoon tea.
This had not been on her list.
But it was too late to walk out of the shop, especially since the little bell above the door had heralded her arrival, and Miss Bates had already turned around to wave enthusiastically at her. "The strawberry tarts are wonderful Miss Woodhouse, just wonderful!" The woman called with her usual exuberance.
“Indeed.” Emma nodded along, stepping in to queue up behind the pair.
They waited in line and from the set of her shoulders, Miss Bates was holding her breath, itching to say something, so Emma took the plunge to say something, anything, first. “Jane, you're rather well read-"
"She is, she reads everything. My niece is terribly clever."
Emma gave Miss Bates a gracious smile, even if it was forced. To her surprise, Jane blinked back, and the feeling of amusement seemed shared.
"That's very kind of you, dear aunt. But I see that there are only a few strawberry tarts left, perhaps you'd like to speak to the baker and see if he's willing to sell them to us?"
"Astute as ever!" Miss Bates responded and bustled off to the counter, leaving the two young women beside the door.
The truce between the two of them still felt a little fragile, and Emma was loath to admit she wanted answers from Miss Jane Fairfax, however, it seemed that the woman would be happy to provide them, albeit in earshot of her aunt. They had mended some ways since Box Hill and her apology, yet Emma still felt acutely aware of her poor behaviour.
"I had a question to ask.” She paused and restarted, “It’s something that Harriet mentioned to me. Well, rather she heard it from the Martin sisters-”
Jane looked thoroughly perplexed which only served to make Emma more uncomfortable. But in her ever-saintliness, the young woman sought to be polite. “I’m afraid I'm unsure what you mean, Miss Woodhouse?”
Emma lowered her voice so that her next words were for Jane’s ears only, “Bees...I mean to say, have you heard anything about talking to bees?”
The frown puckering Jane’s forehead deepened, and then smoothed out. “Oh, I think I know what you mean.”
The bee hovered over some lilacs, and Emma bent down to take a closer look. It wasn’t like she went out searching for one, but when she heard it, she couldn’t help herself. Her mouth parted, as it struggled to take off, and her breath stilled when its humming increased.
"I have something to tell you," she finally whispered. "And I've been informed that you bees are supposed to bring good news. By Jane Fairfax, of all people, so it must be true."
The bee's buzzing quietened, as if it were offering her the chance to speak.
Emma took in a deep breath, and then exhaled loudly. "No, I can't do this, I feel an utter fool."
And with that she stood and headed back into the house.
Lowering her book, she sneaked another glance at Knightley.
He carried on reading, and her attention shifted to where his hand edge rested on the sofa, fingers splayed on the fabric, just out of reach. He had left his book in his lap for ease, turning the pages at a leisurely pace while engrossed in the history of something or other.
"I can feel the draft! Move the screens." The servants complied with her father's demands, but it didn't seem to be enough, and minutes later he snapped again, "It's blowing straight through me, chafing the skin from my bones. Can you feel it?"
Emma watched as he jumped up and pulled his jacket tighter around himself, "Oh, never mind, I'll read upstairs! Goodnight Emma."
She stood up to plant a kiss on his cheek as he passed, "Goodnight father."
When Knightley stood too, book closed between his palms, she was disappointed that their evening had been cut short. "Goodnight, Mr Woodhouse."
"Yes, yes. Enjoy your walk back." He gave the young man a smile, "Although, finish off your book before you head out, if you can stand the draft inside as well as out."
Smiling back at the good humour in his voice, Knightley moved out of the way and ended up standing beside Emma. They both watched her father head off upstairs with the two servants following him, and after a moment, she settled back down in her seat. Knightley copied her, sprawling out a little more and resting back on the cushioned support, with both legs slightly extended outwards in a half stretch.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that his hand had moved a little closer too.
She rested her own hand on the sofa, feeling the fabric’s coarse threads under her fingers, and there was a gap between their fingers. It was a comparable chasm of at least four hand widths apart, a gulf as wide as the world. Yet it felt somehow enough to know that his was there, in reach, and he was reaching out for hers. There was a bitter sweetness to it at the same time because somehow it also didn’t feel enough.
Emma continued reading. Her eyes tracked lines and glossed over words, but there was a peculiar feeling trapped between her shallow breaths, like she was being watched.
When she lowered her book again to turn the page, she was unsurprised to find Knightley watching her.
"You seem engrossed in that book."
"I am."
"I believe it is a new one?"
"It is." She turned the page and then tried to carry on reading, but she could still feel his gaze on her. After reading the same paragraph thrice over without reading it, she lowered it again and gave the most briefest of explanations, "Jane Fairfax lent it to me."
"Really? What topic sent you to Jane Fairfax's bookshelves?"
"Bees."
"Bees?" He repeated dumbly.
She blinked back at him, "Yes."
There was a short pause where Knightley's surprise allowed her to lift up her book again, and carry on reading with one hand, and surreptitiously reach out for his with her free one. Her fingertips brushed the back of his, and Emma didn’t bother fighting the smile that rose to her lips.
Then he was tracing her palm with his fingertips, light like the brush of her greenhouse flower petals, and she rolled her hand over, knocking her knuckles against his as their fingers entwined. The warmth in her palm spread, and the blush travelled up her wrist and onto the pale skin of her inner forearm usually well covered by her gloves.
Emma resumed her reading, and when she found the need to turn the page to continue, she copied him by resting the book back on her lap and turning the page over with a finger.
A little while later, she finished the chapter and looked over at Knightley. Although he didn’t look up, she saw the corner of his lip curl up into a smile, and his fingers resting under hers shifted to wrap comfortably around hers, fingertips brushing gently the back of her hand with the distance between them utterly vanished.
She found she quite liked it.
The next morning, Emma stood in the cooler greenhouse and clipped each stem and stalk in her usual manner, and then dumped the filled basket into her startled housemaid's arms. "Go take these through to the parlour, and I'll arrange them there."
"But Miss-"
"Go on, I'll be there shortly."
Emma gently shooed her away and then turned towards the greenhouse doors. She took a deep breath in, whether to brace herself about her next move or to wake herself up a little more, she wasn’t sure. And then she opened the doors to let the crisp morning air in. Adjusting her jacket tighter to keep the chill from hitting her neck and wrists, she headed off to the far edge of the garden, past the shrubbery. She walked along the neatly swept path lined by the rose bushes, and further down where it became bracketed by sweet smelling flowers which preferred the sunshine and the wild wind.
There on the borderline, where the neat stone edges gave way to unruly grass dotted sporadically with dandelions and daisies, Emma hesitated. But only for a moment. Then she stepped into unknown territory, gardener-territory, with the vegetable patch and the raised herb garden. It wasn’t unruly, but she felt more out of place here. The hem of her dress brushed the dewy grass and sent puffs of dandelion seeds drifting into the air as she neared the squat-looking row of wooden hives.
Feeling a little foolish, she announced herself, "Well, here I am.”
She took another quick glance to confirm that she was indeed the only living soul in earshot. It was still quiet, and the farthest edges of the garden melted into the morning mist. It made her shiver, and when she looked back at the house, she was glad that she was out of sight. If anyone were to look out of the windows, perhaps they would see a shimmer of white, but there was no one nearby to recognise her.
Edging a little closer to the closest wooden box, Emma untucked the house key from her belt, and her hesitation returned. The low-level buzzing within the hive was soft, as though the bees were sleepy themselves. Still, it was better to approach now, before dawn broke and the flowers unfurled to invite them in.
"My name is Miss Emma Woodhouse, which you may know, since you live on my father's land, and sample all the flowers here in our garden."
She looked away, feeling the blush rise in her cheeks, and cleared her throat. A small, fat bee crawled out while upside and paused on the threshold before lurching into the air.
"I've been informed it's a custom to announce news to the local bees.” She frowned softly, "By Jane Fairfax. She lent me a book too about it all, so it turns out it wasn't all nonsense that Harriet heard from the Martin sisters."
After adjusting the warming key tighter between her gloved fingers, she edged a little closer with the intent to use it without a matching lock in sight.
"What I mean to say is, in Jane's book, I learnt you're supposed to bring good luck, if you've been appropriately informed of good news."
She tapped the top of the beehive with the key, and the metal thunked gently against the wood. "So, I would like to inform you that Mr Knightley has proposed marriage to me, and I have accepted, and we'll be wed, I should imagine, by the end of summer. We’ll be setting the date with the vicar soon."
Another bee crawled up the edge and then took flight, buzzing lazily in a circle in front of her before orienting itself and heading off into the world.
She gave a little nod as she stepped back, "That’s all,” and then headed back to the house with the key tucked into her pocket.
After the wedding and the breakfast, Emma slipped past the maid hovering by the food laden table and quickly spooned a leftover, small slice of cake into a cloth napkin. With her back to the room, she hastily covered up the slice, and headed down the narrower corridor towards the servants quarters and the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” George asked, following after her.
Although she slowed down, Emma didn’t stop as she called, “I’ll be back soon.”
He picked up his stride and caught up to her just as she walked into the empty kitchen, empty tureens and plates stacked up all around. She hesitated at the door, and then turned around primly, hands covering the wrapped cake slice. “Fine, fine, but now that we’re married you must keep my secrets as your own.”
“Naturally.” Her husband gave a mock bow, despite his curiosity and together they left the house.
Together they walked up to the edge of the garden, where the bees were lazing in the late afternoon sunshine. They had traipsed up and down the paths countless times before, only this time it was different, and yet she found that even though everything had changed forever, she was content.
Emma paused at the closest beehive, the same she had struck with the house key, and opened up the napkin as George leaned backwards when a bee buzzed closer towards the scent of sugar syrup and jam.
“Wedding cake? You never cease to amaze me."
She elbowed him with a smile as she stepped forward, “I have a good book on it.”
“You do?”
“I’ll have to read it.”
Emma unwrapped the cake slice and set the napkin on top of the beehive, and looked over her shoulder to grin at her husband - and thought the word was as sweet in her mouth as the desert. “But not today.”
She took his outstretched hand and they ambled back indoors hand in hand.