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For the village of Highbury and its neighbors, the arrival of any unfamiliar man, let alone one as young and handsome as the unexpected stranger, was enough of a peculiarity to occupy its denizens over tea and house visits for weeks.
For one Emma Woodhouse, aged fourteen, the news was a welcome distraction. After all, only several months previously, her sister, a genteel, elegant young lady in her own right, had been newly wed to a suitor of her own, and while the old adage that one wedding begets another need not always hold true—indeed, she would rather hope not, seeing the effects the loss of just one of his daughters to matrimony had on her poor father, its charm lingered on, in her young mind and in her conversations with her governess, alone in the drawing room where once had sat three.
“Miss Taylor,” ventured she several days after his initial arrival, lifting her gaze from the book in her lap, “what impressions have you of Highbury’s newest visitor?”
A sigh was the first of her received responses, though rather than the gentle, amused exhale of her companion, it settled over their exchange with a heaviness far more associated with her neighbor and new brother-in-law.
Indeed, the next moment came his voice, tinged with that familiar hint of sardonicism. “And here I had rather hoped that I might discover a most singular sight, having been informed that I might find Miss Woodhouse and her governess here, bettering their minds by engaging in some reading. Alas, it would appear your father is mistaken yet again.”
“Mr Knightley.” She rose enough to pay him that perfunctory courtesy he was due, as her senior and a friend of her father’s, though her attention lay as much towards his unexpected arrival as towards his mild reproach. “I had thought you would have begun your customary sojourn to London with the coming of winter.”
It was, after all, a well-established fact that George Knightley was a gentleman of habit, such that one need not consult a calendar should she happen to pass him on his way to London, and the marriage of his brother seemed to have only increased the frequency of his visits, if only to assure the perpetually fretful Mr Woodhouse that all was well with his elder daughter. It was a courtesy both envied and appreciated by Emma, who had herself rarely been out of the confines of the village, but which made the present circumstances all the more unusual.
“I had rather thought that, after these first few months, John and Isabella might appreciate a respite from my presence, and your father an increase in it,” returned he, his even tone still colored with that dry amusement, though belied by the genuine warmth in his expression as he took a seat.
He did not elaborate, but he had no need to; to his audience, his meaning was clear enough: with that rapid cooling which accompanies the seasonal change, her father had become increasingly housebound, and with such confinement came the restlessness which may only be soothed by company. And with the Woodhouse household recently finding itself short one of such company for the foreseeable future, his presence was indeed much appreciated.
All this she perceived in the space of a second, but, seeing that he had no intent to dwell on his neighborly charity, saw fit to simply thank him by the brilliance of her smile as she tapped her chin in faux consideration. “Perhaps, or perhaps you are simply unwilling to admit that you have found yourself equally enthralled by the fascination which has riveted us all.”
“You speak of the visiting gentleman, I presume. The one which has featured much more prominently in your thoughts than the teachings of Cowper.”
She made a face, heedless to the twin chastising looks she received at her impropriety. “And why should it not,” exclaimed she, “when he commands such passion about him?”
“Passion?” Miss Taylor frowned, her own book fully forgotten. “My dear Emma, to what are you referring?”
“That he has only recently found himself to be crossed in love, naturally.”
“Love?”
“Indeed, love. He has all the manners of it.” Brushing aside Mr Knightley’s skeptical exclamation, she ticked off each with a tap of the finger on her book with all the primness of a tutor instructing on French conjugations. “He moves with all the urgency of a man with so much ardor and so little for its intended audience; he has such a volatile, unpleasant disposition despite his gentlemanly appearance; and he has barely introduced himself to any young lady of the county.”
“Is that so,” returned he, amusement audible in his tone.
“Indeed. Furthermore, I have it on excellent authority that should anyone of the female persuasion dare to even attempt an introduction with him, he is so short as to be rude. Even to Miss Bolton, who is surely well-liked by everybody in England, let alone Highbury. What else could that be but spurned love?”
“What else indeed. And what, pray, has made you such an expert in this particular aspect of the human psyche?”
She gave a haughty sniff, straightening to such a proper posture that even he, chiefest among her critics, could have no complaint towards her propriety. “While others may have studied their Milton and Scott, I too have engaged in my studies, but instead towards the human heart. Isabella’s great felicity is evidence enough of that. What say you to that, Mr Knightley?”
He smiled. “Only that the young man in question is recently from Somerset visiting his brother, and is bound for London before returning to his command in His Majesty’s navy in the ongoing struggle against Bonaparte’s conquest. Unlike we idle folk of the country, he has little time for such concerns.”
“To be sure, but what would take him here, to Highbury? To London, perhaps, but he need not stop here, unless he has something of great importance on his mind.”
“Something of great importance, like a spurned love, I suppose.” He glanced to Miss Taylor, appealing to her role as governess for support, but she simply demurred, watching on the discussion with a smile.
“Yes, precisely of the sort. But I daresay you disagree.”
“You give no allowance,” sighed he, “for differences in nature. Not all may be as forthcoming or charming as one such as yourself, Emma, appearances notwithstanding. But I see we shall not agree upon this matter, so enough of this talk. Come, let us talk on something of more substance.” His eye twinkled with that amusement which leant him a far more approachable air. “On Cowper, perhaps?”
With a scowl that earned her another disapproving glance, she allowed the topic to change to other matters, but privately resolved to keep the young man in her thoughts. After all, her heart had never been wrong before, and she was absolutely certain about the future awaiting the young Frederick Wentworth.
If she were to hazard a guess, Emma was certain that there was nowhere in all of England quite like Bath. The eponymous waters were delightful, to be sure, but moreso than the attractions were the people. Despite the early spring weather, the town was full of life, young and old alike, enjoying the arrival of a new season and the newfound peace on the continent.
It was a far cry from the quiet idleness of the springs spent at Hartfield, where caution and anxiety ruled until their master deemed the air warm enough to venture out of doors once more. It was different too from the bustle of London, so crowded and full of noise that even she, charming and personable as she was, found herself more than eager to quit by the day of their departure.
In short, Bath was nothing short of perfect, and with its convenient access to the seaside, only the knowledge of her father’s persistent concern over their tour at all could prevent her from declaring her intention to extend their bridal tour by another fortnight.
Each day, so long as the weather was not so dreadful as to soak them thoroughly, found her out and about, making and returning calls during the day and attending concerts, card parties, and balls in the evenings, until she found herself quite established in her new role as Mrs Knightley and no longer glanced about for her sister at every mention of the title. Her own Mr Knightley, despite his preferences for a quiet night in the comforts of their own estate, attended her fastidiously, with all that was proper for an attentive husband, and with the unexpected addition of a journey to Portishead and its seaside, where she spent many long minutes contemplating its natural beauty and spent even more contemplating her luck in having a husband such as he.
It was one such evening, at the Concert Room for a performance of Italian airs, that found her looking about the hall. With the patronage of one Lady Dalrymple and her entourage, the attention of the room could not help but be torn, alternating between the performance upon the stage, and that which took place upon the benches seating such esteemed company.
Such a display was an opera in its own right, the hero a dashing young man, fair of face, caught between the attentions of two ladies, strong and proud against elegant and reserved. He longed for the latter, poring over the concert bill together, whispering all along, she suspected, about the romance of the lyrics, the beauty of the singer, but he must give in at the arrival of intermission, when the former entreated him to sit between her and the Lady Dalrymple’s relative, friend and co-conspirator in her own right.
But ‘lo, another man, villain or friend, hesitating about the benches and the heroine—for that was who the young lady must be, drawing from her smiles and genuine warmth. Ah, the true hero, then, older than the other and passionate, his feelings apparent on his face, unmasked, laid bare by her presence. He, the Odysseus to the other man’s Antinous, not seeing that his Penelope’s smiles, her elegant warmth, were all for him.
He, unknown to her, standing with all the proper bearing of a soldier, and yet oddly familiar…
“And what has caught your attention so? If I recall, it was your scheme to attend and here I find your mind diverted to the audience instead.” Amusement colored her husband’s tone, softening his words into that teasing manner, with which she has been occasionally graced with since the start of their courtship, as he continued. “Think of how I must feel, for if your mind should stray to any man during such a performance, should it not be your own husband?”
“Jealousy does not suit you, husband mine.” Smiling, she shook her head, though her face flushed as she turned her gaze back upon his playful expression. “I believe you know as well as I that none in all of England, let alone Bath, may so much as hold a candle to the esteemed Mr Knightley.”
“Nor flattery you, my dear wife,” returned he with a smirk of his own. “But let us say I concede. Might you console me with the knowledge of what has so captivated you?”
At the reminder, she turned her attention to the benches once more but he was not there. He had gone, gone from the unwanted suitor that once again held his love captive, ensnaring her in that most insidious of traps, a dull conversation from which good manners and propriety would not allow her a nimble escape. The young lady turned, noticed, found an opening to dart away with gentle entreaties, but he spoke, the words too low to be made out over the distance, and marched toward the closest exit, towards her.
Whatever she might have said for about her husband’s jealousy paled under the force of this man’s overwhelming emotion. She was not so ungenerous as to believe that he wore it openly, but to imply any true success in its concealment would be naught but open prevarication. His scowl, an expression clearly not unfamiliar to the lines of his face, only deepened further with each step, hooded eyes leaping aggressively from person to person as though daring anyone in the audience to comment.
It was only after his gaze met hers that she recalled she had been studying him with an intensity that he had noticed and returned, enough so that, beside her, her companion straightened, mimicking the other’s crisp military posture. Coloring at being caught, she dropped her scrutiny to her lap, though her husband had no such qualms, nodding his head in polite greeting.
“Ah, I see,” he chuckled, once the man in question had left earshot. “Although it is hardly an impressive deduction on my end, as it appears as though even the object of your preoccupation was able to discern your interest.”
She chose not to respond, instead electing to comment on a somewhat safer, if related, topic. “You seemed to recognize him.”
He smiled with all the amusement of a man who knew exactly what she wished to ask but had no intention of providing an answer without her explicit query. “Indeed. He has recently arrived in Bath but, alongside the Admiral and Mrs Croft, is a great favorite of Mr Oakley.”
“A naval officer, then.”
“Indeed, and moreover, one who was once familiar to you.”
Since their marriage, he had delighted in teasing her like such, even moreso than during her earlier years, and while she typically found enjoyment in this unexpected facet of his character, its application here was an offense that could hardly be borne, even by she who would be the most loving and patient of creatures.
“Mr Knightley,” said she, in a tone that ought to have appropriately chastised him.
“Yes, my dear Mrs Knightley?” Spying the scowl upon her face, he finally relented, at least marginally. “Very well then. Though I must admit to some shock that you appear to have forgotten him so thoroughly. Particularly after he made such an impression upon you and, indeed, all of Highbury.”
“Impression?” It was hardly the response she had been expecting but nonetheless she frowned in an effort to recall the past memories. “Highbury has such few visitors… Oh, do you speak of the officer who visited shortly after Isabella’s wedding? What was his name? Willoughby? Wembleton? No, Wentworth!” cried she, only barely remembering to modulate her tone.
“The very one. He has come on an errand for a brother-at-arms, and to visit his sister, Mrs Croft, and her husband the Admiral, as I understand.”
She looked over at him, and then glanced back to that most dramatic of theater boxes with a hint of a smirk. “Perhaps not just his sister.”
The first of her replies was a sigh, followed by his dry question. “What are you insinuating this time, my dear?”
“The Dalrymples’ companions are Sir Elliot and his daughters, the Miss Elliots, are they not? Originally of Kellynch Hall in Somersetshire?”
It was immediately clear that he, like her, still recalled their conversation from so long ago; he shook his head, even as he gave her an amused quirk of the brow. “This again? Somerset is hardly unpopulated. There is many a soul he might have visited.”
“What you say is certainly true, but why could she not have been one? The attention he pays her now is indication enough of his interest.”
“Even so, it is only for the present. It speaks naught to any sordid past you may have imagined for them.”
“Sordid? ‘Tis nothing of the sort. Why, it is nothing but what I have observed across these years, which you refuse to recognize: that they have clearly shared a previous intimacy, which is in the process of being rekindled.”
“All of which is idle, and frankly unnecessary, speculation. My dear Emma, have you not learned your lesson on treating your fellow creatures as you would your dolls?”
She sniffed with all the haughty indignation she could muster. “Certainly. I have no intention of behaving in any manner which might interfere with whatever connection they have. Surely that does not preclude this ‘idle speculation’ with my husband, however?”
“Very well, perhaps not. Never could I dare to deprive my wife of one of her enjoyments, after all,” returned he with a wry inclination of his head, and as the performance resumed, short one notable patron, that was all that was said on the subject for the rest of the evening.
In fact, very little was said about her suspicions, and indeed, very little was said about the pair in question at all. They moved in similar enough circles—he with the captain and she calling upon acquaintances of the Miss Elliots, but what more could be said, what additional points could be made, that had not already been discussed between them, had not already been analyzed by the two during the performance and subsequently dismissed?
No, even when, on the path returning back to their inn from a visit to the Pump Room, they discovered the two, arm in arm and engaged in what could only be a most intimate conversation, she only cast him a significant look, which he blithely ignored with nothing more than a vague nod in her direction and a diversion of their attention away from the couple to the approaching Mr Campbell.
Indeed, it was only when he found news of the engagement in the papers that the topic was broached, not through conversation or even note, but rather through the very convenient placement of the issue in question, left on a small table where she was sure to see it. Flipped open in a most deliberate fashion to the announcements, it featured at the top a grand declaration, proclaiming the engagement of one Captain Frederick Wentworth of His Majesty’s Navy to the estimable Miss Anne Elliot, second eldest daughter to Sir Walter Elliot and the late Lady Anne, originally of Kellynch Hall. The text below gave a brief telling of their history, from their first meeting, eight years ago, to their current happiness, achieved only a few days prior in Bath. Achieved, in truth, the very day she had seen them on her walk, so thoroughly enraptured by the other that no one could even hope to make an impression upon them both.
A knock drew her from her perusal, and she turned to the doorway to find her husband, bearing an envelope and a rather sheepish expression, which only intensified as she arched an eyebrow at him.
“If I were less charitable, my dear husband, I believe I might consider that you owe me an apology.”
“I see you have learned the news.”
She smirked. “As you intended, no doubt to avoid admitting that you were mistaken? Though if so, you have done a rather poor job of it, as here you are nonetheless.”
“Here I am indeed,” returned he with a quiet chuckle of his own. “Alas, I have been tasked with delivering an invitation to which I have been entreated to obtain as immediate a response as I can manage. Indeed, an invitation that is intimately related to the aforementioned news.”
He crossed the room, delivering the card to her with exaggerated precision, which she ignored in favor of a careful examination of the notice. Simple in style, it seemed more akin to a calling card than its true purpose, inquiring after the attendance of Mr and Mrs George Knightley to a small gathering at 25 Gay Street that evening.
“An invitation?”
“As you see.” He tapped the address with a faint smile. “Admiral and Mrs Croft were most delighted by the news of the engagement of her brother, were quite put out at not being aware of the existence of any partiality on either side, and insisted upon hosting a gathering in three days time. They have, as I understand, taken it upon themselves to invite all in the city who are acquainted with the couple or with the Crofts themselves, including ourselves, and have insisted upon my not returning without an appropriate response.” He offered her a dry look, accompanied by a small, sardonic bow. “As you were evidently the more observant in this particular circumstance, I deemed it best that I leave the honors to you.”
She laughed, recognizing it for the concession it was, and took up her pen to write an acceptance and to express their most heartfelt felicitations at the announcement, wishing upon them good fortune, and all the happiness in marriage that she had found with her own husband.