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It was Christmas Eve, the night of the Westons’ dinner party, and the Knightleys were running late. Mrs. Knightley was not pleased about it.
Her father was fretting about the road to Randalls, the light snow on the ground, the fact that James was suffering from a bad cold and would not be driving them. Mr. Woodhouse was not attending the party himself, having only recently recovered from his own minor indisposition, and he urged the Knightleys to stay with him, safe and comfortable at Hartfield. The Westons would not be offended by their remaining home, he argued, even as they prepared themselves to leave.
But Mr. Woodhouse, despite his fussing, could not be blamed for their tardiness. The true culprit, most unfortunately, was Emma.
Pregnancy had done what two decades of privilege and natural prettiness had not, and made Emma vain. She had never truly appreciated her looks until she had lost them. Well, lost was not quite the word, but her looks were diminished, and she was not taking their fading with grace. Her hair, formerly so shiny, was now dull and lackluster; it was thinner at the temples, and it hung around her face, lank and limp. She could swear that her nose was bigger. Her skin was marked, the red and pink and purple lines fading slowly to white. She still felt heavy and cumbersome, months after her son's birth.
She felt dissatisfied by her appearance now, but she felt dissatisfied in general these days, harried and irritable and exhausted. It was a relief to be going out this evening, but she was guilty about that too. She should not want to leave Little George, should she? She adored Little George! And yet, she was aching to get to Randalls, to have a few hours to herself.
Not that she would actually enjoy them. For all of her eagerness to go, she was wracked with anxiety over the thought of leaving her baby in Agnes's sole care. Their nurse was competent and capable and kind, but she was not Little George's mother. What if something happened while they were gone, something only Emma could have prevented? She could not imagine what this vague calamity would be, but that was all the more reason for her to stay on hand, wasn't it?
And wouldn't it be worse , somehow, if everything went smoothly, if Little George was perfectly safe and happy without Emma and did not need her at all?
It was a dreadful thought, this suspicion that she was a terrible mother.
She just felt so overwhelmed lately, forever in two minds, torn by contradictory emotions, never sure that she was doing the right thing. Perhaps she should have sent word that she was unwell, incapable of making even the short journey to Randalls. If it were not the Westons, she might have still done so.
"We should have left a quarter of an hour ago," Emma said, casting one final look at her reflection, displeased by her slovenliness. This gown did not fit properly anymore; she should have tried it on again before this evening.
"The Westons will not mind," said George reasonably.
" I mind!" she snapped. "It is so abominably rude to be late!"
He did not answer as they climbed unto the carriage.
"I wish we would have departed earlier, after all. The extra time has done me no actual good.”
"The Westons will not notice anything amiss."
This was not at all the answer Emma had wanted to hear. She turned to face the glass with a huff. "But Jane Churchill will be there."
"Why should that matter?"
"Because she will look as lovely and elegant as ever, and I will look so... so... matronly !" she spluttered.
The look George gave her would have been comical, had she been in any fit state to enjoy it. "You look beautiful. You always look beautiful."
His voice was filled with such indignation and insistence that Emma found herself suddenly, mortifyingly overcome. She broke into tears– and not graceful, womanly ones, either. These were noisy, childish sobs, gulping and desperate, her nose running freely. George instantly gathered her close to him and she pressed her face into his shoulder, weeping messily on his coat.
Perhaps this was not solely about her appearance. Perhaps this was a culmination of many things. All her stress, all her anxiety, all her agitation of the last several months seemed to spill out of her as she cried, the knot in her chest untangling, the dam breaking free. Life was different now than what she was used to; she needed to give herself time to regain her bearings; she needed to show herself mercy; she needed to breathe . She was not alone. She had a husband who loved her and friends aplenty. All was well.
Emma felt as though she had needed this cry for a good four months. They ordered the carriage to drive on, waiting for her emotion to subside, taking the time simply to hold each other close.
They were quite unpunctual now, Emma thought once her tears had dried; she hastily fixed her hair, George helping as best as he could. But no one at Randalls said a word about their tardiness or her sloppiness, greeting the Knightleys with cheerful good humor, and Emma's heart felt lighter than it had in months as she looked around at them all, the memory of her husband's looks and words warming her, the prospect of good company brightening her countenance, and the thought of their little boy safe at home giving her something to look forward to later. Her life was an incredibly good one. She hugged Mrs. Weston and Mrs. Churchill and allowed herself to enjoy the party.