Chapter Text
"The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other persons’ reception of it tried." -- Emma, Chapter XVII, Volume III
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With strawberry season some weeks past and the apples beginning to fall, red and lush, from the trees, Emma felt it was only good sense that summer should end.
Even the air felt over-ripe. Beneath her bonnet, sweat pricked at her forehead as she walked toward Randalls, leaving her curls listless in the heat. Though Emma loathed to inconvenience Hartfield’s stablemen, surely today of all days, they would have understood the need for a chaise to transport her a mere mile to the Westons’ estate.
She would admit, however, it was the first day in many weeks she had been cognizant of any complaint about the weather. For the last four glorious weeks the sky had been gloriously clear and the air delightfully temperate. If any trepidacious rain cloud had peeked over the horizon, Emma would have commanded it out of Surrey. Indeed, she required Highbury’s environs to be fully absent all mud, dust, and mist, all to ensure the sanctity of her daily walks with Mr. Knightley.
A blissful month had passed since their conversation in Hartfield’s shrubbery–a month during which Emma had been the exclusive recipient of Mr. Knightley’s peculiar, exclusive, and passionate regard.
While Emma had never thought of her friend as particularly romantic, for once she was happy to be wrong. As he told her quite plainly, he could not make speeches. Yet despite this shortcoming, Mr. Knightley made up for any perceived lack of verbosity with profound ingenuity.
Small bundles of wildflowers seemed to materialize on her writing desk. One particularly memorable bouquet was gathered together by a small gold band studded with garnets. And just a few evenings ago, after sitting quietly with her and her father, Mr. Knightley left a volume of John Donne poems on his chair with a very intentional folded corner on one of the pages. Emma had slipped the book into her pocket, discovering the marked words later in the candlelight of her bedroom:
If, as in water stirred, more circles be
Produced by one, love such additions take,
Those, like so many spheres, but one heaven make,
For they are all concentric unto thee
Then, yesterday evening, nearly three weeks after reaching their blissful understanding, they put an end to their secrecy. With Mrs. Weston safe and well after the birth of her child, and Isabella and John due to arrive in a fortnight, Emma and Mr. Knightley determined it was finally time to inform Mr. Woodhouse of the alteration in their circumstances.
Just an hour before Mr. Knightley was due to arrive for supper, Emma knelt next to her father’s chair by the fireplace and gently broken the news. It was at first a considerable shock to Mr. Woodhouse, but after earnest persuasion from Emma and then, later, from Mr. Knightley, he had begun to consider the news not so very bad, though he saw no reason for the wedding to be scheduled with any haste. Indeed, he thought, in one or two years, such a ceremony might be thought of.
Mr. Knightley had been fairly satisfied with this outcome, but he had always been more patient. While Emma was glad to have everything decided and open, she would not be satisfied until their wedding date was fixed. An indefinite engagement would be open to observation and judgement. Certainly, there were those among their acquaintances who would not approve of the match—namely the Eltons—but naysayers could be easily dismissed. She dreaded the look of surprised disbelief expected even from more esteemed acquaintances. Their shock would only serve as further censure of her recent behavior toward Frank Churchill.
Emma straightened her shoulders, determined that such bleak thoughts would not mar what should be a pleasing occasion. Today they would tell the first of their friends outside of their immediate family, though the Westons were so dear they might as well be termed as such.
Any lingering low spirits were dispersed when she reached the sweep gate of Randalls and found a familiar figure waiting for her. His beaver hat in hand, Mr. Knightley strode toward her and—with a glance about to ensure they were alone—tipped her chin upward using a single gloved finger and lowered his lips to hers. Emma’s heart fluttered with delight as she pressed herself more fully against him. Despite three weeks of furtive attentions while her father took his turns about the garden, Emma was still unused to the unique pleasure of being kissed by Mr. Knightley.
When at last they broke apart, the longing that remained served as a reminder of why they must continue with the task at hand.
“Are you ready, my Emma?” he asked, gently caressing her cheek, “For there is no turning back after the Westons are told.”
Emma smiled and leaned into his touch. “And besides that, once Mr. Weston knows, everyone else will find out soon enough.”
He smiled softly back at her, but there was a worry behind his eyes, and Emma realized she had not answered his question.
“I am most ready, Mr. Knightley,” she answered decidedly, as she took his arm and led him through the gate.
Almost as soon as they crossed the threshold, Emma was handed little Anna Weston. It was their second meeting, and already the child seemed brighter and more alert. Politely, Emma exclaimed that Anna was looking more like her mother each day, but of course, the blonde hair and blue eyes were unmistakably those of her father.
As is inevitable in infants, Anna began to fuss. Emma made to hand the baby back to Mrs. Weston or the nursemaid when Mr. Knightley scooped the child out of Emma’s arms without hesitation and began to bounce her gently.
“Mr. Knightley, I daresay, you are a natural!” Mrs. Weston laughed as Anna’s cries ceased.
Emma flashed Mr. Knightley a knowing smile, sure he was imagining his own future blonde-haired child. To her delight, he blushed and demurred, “I have had a great deal of practice with our five nephews and nieces.”
Anna was finally returned to her mother when Mr. Knightley spotted Weston outside in the garden. This had been their plan, to divide and conquer, giving the ladies the privacy necessary to talk through all of the questions and particulars that Mrs. Weston’s role as Emma’s former governess would affort her.
Mrs. Weston remarked as Mr. Knightley left, “It is a wonder Mr. Knightley does not have children of his own.”
“Perhaps that need not remain such a certainty,” Emma quietly replied, fussing with the drape of her skirt, purposefully not meeting Mrs. Weston’s inquisitive gaze. “But it would necessitate the appearance of a Mrs. Knightley.”
“Emma,” Mrs. Weston began, “I hope you are not about to tell me that you are contemplating matchmaking again.”
“My dear Mrs. Weston,” Emma answered her friend’s stern expression with a sly smile, “Quite recently you yourself were contemplating a match for Mr. Knightley. Do you not think he would be happier were he to be married?”
Mrs. Weston laughed, “I am always an advocate for matrimony, but my matchmaking turned out very ill indeed. The lady in the case was even then attached elsewhere, and as for Mr. Knightley, he seems more cheerful than ever. Indeed, his mysterious sojourn to London seemed to have lifted his spirits. I haven’t seen so many smiles from him since he was a young man! Perhaps spending such significant time with the young Knightleys has rejuvenated him. I am not sure who in our circle could make him happier, and indeed, Emma who could possibly deserve him in your eyes! I am surprised you would think of it.”
“You are quite right. I do not think anyone could deserve him,” Emma replied, her expression growing grave, “But I know of one woman vain enough to endeavor to try, and what’s more, I’ve discussed it with Mr. Knightley, and he is more than amenable.”
Mrs. Weston started, blinking in disbelief, “Whoever could you mean?”
Emma took a deep breath before she answered, “Myself.”
And there it was—no turning back now, as Mr. Knightley had said! She tried to train her features into something like contentment, but surely fell far short.
For her part, Mrs. Weston gaped. Her head swiveled toward the garden where Mr. Knightley was allowing his hand to be warmly shaken and his shoulders soundly grasped by her husband.
She turned back to Emma, “My dear! Are you truly—When did you—”
Emma had been prepared for this line of questioning, “I do not know when my admiration and affection for Mr. Knightley transformed into something far greater. I only know that I do love him and have for some time. I am certain jealousy was the true cause behind my fervent disavowal of your match between Mr. Knightley and Jane Fairfax. And what’s more, I believe—even if Frank Churchill had not been attached to Jane—I could never have truly fallen in love with Frank. How could I when there has always been another man first in my thoughts and my regard?”
Mrs. Weston could only stare, agape in wonderment. As Emma observed her friend, her anxiety grew. She finally declared, “Please say something. Is it truly so astonishing?”
Suddenly, Mrs. Weston broke into large, hiccuping sobs. Emma was so confounded by this response she nearly dissolved into tears herself. Finally, after several fearful moments, she noticed Mrs. Weston was smiling broadly between breaths.
“My Emma!” Mrs. Weston managed to articulate, “I feel so dull, so short-sighted for having never foreseen, never hoped—” With one hand still cradling baby Anna, she reached for Emma with the other. “How did you discover your feelings? When did he tell you of his?”
Emma was once again reminded of the great wrong done to poor Harriet Smith, but there was no reason for Harriet’s secret to be known to all.
“When Mr. Knightley was away, I was able to more fully reflect on my own heart—the reasons I had been safe from Frank, my severe dislike of the idea of Mr. Knightley marrying anyone at all. I realized quite suddenly that Mr. Knightley must not marry anyone ever, but me.”
Seeing her reflection in the window, Emma grimaced at her own self-delusion, but then Mr. Knightley caught her eye, and she couldn’t help but smile brightly back.
“I once called Frank Churchill a ‘child of good fortune,’” she continued, “As he noted in his fine letter, and I am sure I deserve the title just as much. Both of us—Frank and I—are less than worthy of our present happiness. Mr. Knightley returned from London to comfort me, certain I was heartbroken over Frank’s engagement. When I assured him I was not, in fact, at all disappointed by Frank and Jane’s secret, he felt emboldened to tell me his own secret. I believe his only hope was that he might, somehow, win my heart over time,” Emma laughed. “I assured him my heart was already and had always been his. And it now seems amazing that we could have ever thought there could be any other outcome.”
“Oh Emma!” Mrs. Weston cried, looking down at Anna, “I thought nothing could have made this summer more joyful. But what of your father?” Her brow furrowed. “He will certainly object to your leaving Hartfield.”
Emma frowned, still a little reluctant to explain the great sacrifice Mr. Knightley would be forced to make on her behalf. Luckily she was saved by the reappearance of the gentlemen into the drawing room–
“I have asked Mr. Woodhouse if he would be gracious enough to share his home once Emma and I are married,” stated Mr. Knightley plainly, “And though he has not yet assented, he has promised to think favorably of the plan.”
“My dear!” Mr. Weston said, taking his wife’s hand, “What do you think of this scheme between our old friends, hm? You know I think I half suspected it, Knightley. Don’t think your asking Emma to dance at the ball escaped my notice!”
Mrs. Weston observed with approbation as Mr. Knightley took a seat next to Emma on the settee, eschewing his usual chair. “In the spirit of full honesty, Weston, I think you both should know that Emma practically asked me to dance.”
Emma scoffed and swatted at his arm. “Only after you asked whom I was going to dance with in what I now realize was a quite mournful way.”
Locked in eachother’s gaze, they both laughed at the memory—how blind they had been then, how happy they were now—until they noticed the Westons watching them closely, him with amusement, her with satisfaction.
“How did we not notice this before?” Mrs. Weston asked her husband.
“Oh I did, my dear!” Mr. Weston declared jovially, “I’m almost sure of it.”