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“Sun-bathing?” said Mr Woodhouse, peering dubiously at Mr Perry over his teacup. “I have never heard of such a thing.”
“I assure you, sir, that the practice has a long history,” Mr Perry replied. “Why, even the ancient Greeks and Romans were familiar with the healing properties of sunlight. It is a tried and tested method, and more recent observations from the continent suggest that it is particularly helpful in the treatment of skin ailments of precisely the sort that is troubling you.”
Perry, Mr Knightley reflected with private amusement, was making his case shrewdly. Mr Woodhouse, who regarded any change in his comfortable little world with deep distrust, was much more likely to be persuaded by the argument that the treatment was traditional and well-established than by Perry’s dwelling on any new scientific discoveries. The solidity of history was, to Mr Woodhouse, a great deal more reassuring than new research – and he would undoubtedly be put off by the least hint of anything experimental.
“But is there not a dreadful danger of catching cold?” the old gentleman asked uneasily. “For you will remember, Perry, that I am very prone to chills.”
“I would not suggest the treatment if there was the least danger,” Mr Perry reassured him. “The attempt would only be made when the weather was favourable, and we would, naturally, undertake all the necessary precautions. Screens to protect from draughts, hot bricks, thick warm rugs to lie on, and plenty of hot tea afterwards.”
Since it was presently mid-July, Mr Knightley judged the suggested measures to be somewhat exaggerated. Still, if they could placate Mr Woodhouse’s nerves enough to allow him to benefit from the treatment Mr Perry so earnestly recommended, Knightley would not for the world put in a word edgewise. The persistent skin ailment that had plagued his father-in-law since the winter had caused the old man much discomfort and distress. That, in turn, had greatly worried Emma, and Emma’s happiness was quite integral to Mr Knightley’s own. A successful cure would bring relief to the entire household.
“There, papa,” Emma now broke into the conversation, with the deliberately cheerful air that she often employed to rally her father’s spirits. “Mr Perry has it all thought out, and we can certainly trust him to be alert for any danger. You have often said yourself that no one is as attentive as dear Perry!”
Mr Woodhouse allowed this to be true but still looked rather dubious. Mr Knightley suppressed the unworthy urge to vent a sigh. He had no doubt that the three of them would eventually manage to cajole Mr Woodhouse out of his apprehension, but it looked to be an uphill battle. The conversation would no doubt circle back and forth numerous times before the anxious old man could be convinced to do what was good for him.
A glance at Emma, however, was enough to fortify Mr Knightley’s resolve. He ached to see the worry lurking beneath her smile. She sacrificed so much for her father’s comfort – the least he could do was attempt to shoulder some small part of the burden.
Mustering all his words of reason and encouragement, therefore, Mr Knightley turned once more to his father-in-law and set about persuading him to see sense.
“... and I warmly encourage you, my dear Miss Bates, to advise Mrs Churchill to give sun-bathing a try. It has a wondrously invigorating effect – as long as proper caution is employed, of course. Together with a soft-boiled egg every morning and evening, I am sure it would soon put her entirely to rights...”
Mr Knightley stifled a smile as he met his wife’s dancing eyes over the tea table. Mr Woodhouse, after overcoming his nerves, had discovered that sun-bathing suited him very well indeed. He had, in the span of a fortnight, passed from grave doubt into passionate enthusiasm, and was now attempting to spread word of the benefits of the practice throughout Highbury.
“... much safer than sea bathing,” Mr Woodhouse went on. “Sea water is so very cold, and coastal towns are dreadfully windy...”
Emma’s lips twitched suspiciously, but her voice was admirably even as she enquired whether Miss Bates would like more cake. Mr Knightley contemplated the light in her eyes with great satisfaction. Sun-bathing had certainly done her much good – if only by proxy.
“I do confess,” Emma told him later, when they were comfortably settled in bed, candles out, “that I have grown a little curious about the practice of sun-bathing myself. Fear not,” she hastened to add, “I have no wish to attempt a diet of gruel or any of my father’s other salutary habits – but do you not think it might be rather pleasant to enjoy the sun all over one’s skin?”
“Quite pleasant,” Mr Knightley agreed, “and I speak not from surmise, but from experience. John and I used to go swimming in the old Abbey fish-ponds when we were boys. I liked to stretch out in the sun to dry myself afterwards. Very enjoyable indeed, except for the time John had the bright notion of creeping up and splashing me with cold water as I basked. I took my revenge by throwing his towel in the pond.” He smiled to himself at the reminiscence – carefree summers before responsibility for the estate had descended upon him and curtailed the time available for leisurely amusements.
“Oh.” There was a slightly wistful note in Emma’s little sigh, though her expression was invisible in the dark. Her childhood, Knightley was belatedly reminded, would certainly not have included such potentially perilous pursuits. Mr Woodhouse would have been beside himself at the very notion, though whether more concerned by the risk of his daughter drowning or that of her catching cold, Knightley would have been hard-pressed to guess. Besides, even her indulgent governess would likely have opposed it for reasons of propriety. Though the former Miss Taylor had, in Knightley’s opinion, often been too easily persuaded to give in to her charge’s whims, she had generally stood firm on matters of ladylike behaviour.
Mr Knightley felt genuine affection for both Mr Woodhouse and Mrs Weston, but he was not at all blind to their faults, particularly with regard to Emma’s upbringing. She had been at once far too cosseted – allowed to shirk any lesson that did not amuse her, and never taught industry or patience – and strictly barred from any activity that might even remotely be considered adventurous. It was, he reflected, a testament to her fundamental strength of character that this misguided combination of indulgence and restraint had turned her neither restive and resentful nor indolent and weak.
But perhaps, it occurred to Knightley, it was not too late to make up for some deficiencies, at least, of Emma’s restricted childhood. After a moment of consideration, he shifted to his side and asked quietly, “Should you like to make an excursion to Donwell some day this week? We might visit those old fish-ponds.”
Emma did not immediately grasp his meaning. “Certainly,” she replied, her tone cordial but perhaps a little puzzled. “Shall we invite the Westons and the Bateses? The Coles, too, if you like.”
“I was thinking,” Knightley murmured, drawing her closer, “of a private excursion. And perhaps, weather permitting, a swimming lesson.”
“Oh.” Her soft exhalation tickled his neck. “Could we truly? You do not think it – improper?” Despite her cautious words, he could hear the nascent enthusiasm beneath.
“It is a fairly secluded spot,” Knightley replied, “and we may inform the servants that we wish to enjoy a private picnic without disturbances.” More softly, he added, “What other enjoyments we may indulge in is surely nobody’s business but ours.”
“Indeed.” She pressed against him, warm and inviting, one hand sliding into his hair. “Swimming, sun-bathing – and…?”
He kissed her in lieu of replying, and delightful sunlit visions of the future were temporarily abandoned in favour of the pleasures of the present.
His imagination, Mr Knightley decided, had not at all done justice to reality. His mind’s eye had not been able to supply quite how creamy and smooth Emma’s bare breasts and belly would look in the warmth of the sun, nor how fascinatingly the droplets of water clinging to her skin would sparkle in the bright light. Her eyes were closed, her features entirely relaxed as she basked in the heat of the summer afternoon.
“I ought to move into the shade,” she murmured, not opening her eyes, “before I grow brown and coarse like a farmer’s wife – but I am so very comfortable here.”
“It would take a great deal more than a hint of tan to make anybody think you worked in the fields,” said Knightley, amused. The lovely softness of her reclining form certainly bore no signs of physical labour. “Though it would be prudent to avoid being burned. But I believe you may safely remain as you are for a little while yet.”
He stretched out beside her, sighing with contentment. Perhaps, in a while, they might take another dip in the pond, and then sample the picnic that Serle had packed for them. And afterwards… He smiled in pleasant anticipation and closed his eyes. Mr Woodhouse was quite correct. There was much to be said in favour of sun-bathing.
“You are looking remarkably well, my dear Emma,” said Mrs Weston, settling into a chair in Hartfield’s parlour and gratefully accepting a glass of lemonade. “I am afraid that this hot weather has been something of a trial to me, but you are positively blooming.”
“I have taken Mr Perry’s advice on the benefits of sunlight,” replied Emma with perfect composure. “Mr Knightley and I have been spending a great deal of time outdoors of late.”
Mr Knightley, mistrusting the sparkle in her eyes, shot her a warning look, though he nodded bland confirmation to Mrs Weston.
“But does it not exhaust you to be out and about in this heat? I for one am obliged to confine myself to the shade.”
“Oh,” said Emma, with a sly glance in Knightley’s direction, “the trick is to dress for the weather.”
Mercifully, Knightley’s sudden fit of coughing turned the conversation in a different direction.
Though Mr Knightley could never have regretted his move to Hartfield and would not have traded his current situation with that of two years past, there were some undeniable practical disadvantages to residing away from his estate. His daily walk from Hartfield to Donwell and back, while pleasant enough in good weather, was rather less enjoyable when it rained or snowed. Though he strove to stay actively involved in the running of the home farm and attending to his tenants’ concerns, the increased distance sometimes inevitably made itself known through delays and confusion in the flow of information. And of course there was a certain awkwardness in residing in another man’s house after being sole master of his own abode for so long.
There were, however, also distinct advantages to having access to a house that was currently uninhabited, with only a handful of servants to keep the building in good repair during its master’s absence. Such a house could be very convenient if, for instance, one wished to escape all other company on a winter evening.
The soft light of the candles cast a golden glow over Emma’s bare skin. Her hair, flowing unbound down her back, did little to cover her naked form. Her eyes were turned to the keys of the pianoforte as she played, but the flush of colour in her cheeks indicated that she was very aware of Knightley’s silent, admiring observation. The playing was, perhaps, not entirely flawless – but there was certainly no fault to be found in the person of the performer.
Emma finished the song with an elegant flourish and turned to face him, a saucy smile on her countenance.
“I trust, Mr Knightley,” she said, “that not even Mrs Churchill has ever given you quite as memorable a performance.”
Mr Knightley laughed. “No, indeed!”
Emma’s laughter, as she joined in his amusement, carried all the warmth and brightness of the midsummer sun.