Work Text:
Emma Woodhouse encountered her first infant when she was seven years old. However, it is less than clear in her memory precisely to whom the infant in question belonged. The only clear picture from that day was a scrunched up face peering up at her from beneath a profusion of lace attempting to masquerade as a bonnet. It was not a prepossessing face. It looked rather like the boiled turnips Miss Taylor tried to coerce her into eating once a week because, “they promote good health, Emma.”
She tried to like the child; she was after all, grown up. However, Emma’s arms rapidly began to tire, the infant began to give off a somewhat pungent aroma, and, worse still, spoiled the decorum of the parlor by wailing like a cat in the throes of death. Emma was not impressed. On the way back to Hartfield, she asked Miss Taylor what possible use there could be for infants. Miss Taylor simply smiled: a frustrating response indeed.
***
There must have been other babes in intervening years, Emma supposed, but the second one she can recall crossed her path at the age of 12. Miss Taylor had been instructing Emma and Isabella on the importance of charity, taking them on a tour of the cottages to meet the tenants and provide food or medicines where necessary. One family near the vicarage seemed to have an overabundance of small children running about, and Emma, quite the little lady, was duly horrified by the ruckus.
Before she could voice her opinions, a small bundle was thrust into her arms.
“Hold him, miss? He won’t be no trouble.”
“Of course,” came Emma’s immediate response. It was the only correct answer under the circumstances.
While Miss Taylor conferred with the infant’s mother and Isabella attempted to calm down the hoi polloi - Emma had just begun studies in Greek - Emma studied the bundle with which she had been entrusted. The child was heavier than Emma would have guessed by looking at it, and somewhat more serpentine in motion. It was all she could do to keep the child from slipping out of her grasp. It mewed like a kitten, but did not seem predisposed to wail. This, more than anything else ensured Emma’s tepid affection.
When the child was removed from her stewardship ten minutes later, Emma was loathe to give him up. She had finally found the knack of keeping the creature still and was well on her way to becoming an expert in the subject. Miss Taylor, a mischievous expression on her usually calm countenance, declared that she would be happy to return Emma to her infant charge Tuesday week. Emma, disappointment allayed, happily joined Isabella outside the cottage.
Miss Taylor and Emma returned without Isabella to discover the child had taken a turn to colic. The infant, once deposited in Emma’s arms, showed an alarming disinclination to quiet. Emma became frustrated quite soon, but refused to admit to any such emotion. She had made such a fuss about coming; she could hardly concede without effort. Emma spent a quarter hour rocking the child, petting it, attempting to feed it, and otherwise cosseting it before Miss Taylor took pity on her and allowed them to leave.
When asked how soon she would like to return to the cottage, Emma replied, possibly for the first time in her 12 years, that she really ought to spend more time on her studies.
***
As a daughter of Hartfield, Emma was frequently in company with some babe or other, but none left a distinct impression until Isabella presented her with her nephew, Henry Knightley. Emma immediately felt a rush of affection for the child, although she could not deny its boiled turnip exterior. She held Baby Henry far longer than any infant she had heretofore encountered, cooing to it in a voice she would not have recognized as her own. On their departure, she confessed to her Papa and Miss Taylor that he was quite the most perfect creature she had ever seen.
Isabella’s second child, another tiny boy called “little” John, was also declared the most perfect creature, as was his sister, Bella, when she arrived two years later. “Little” Emma, her namesake, was by far the most radiant being to grace the earth. Miss Taylor, Mr. Woodhouse, and Mr. Knightley heartily agreed on all counts.
***
The one failing of Isabella’s children was their general distance from Hartfield. Anna Weston was far closer, but though Emma tried to love the babe, something in her held distant. Perhaps it was that Mrs. Weston, who had once named Emma the daughter of her heart, now had a true daughter to consume her days. Perhaps it was Emma’s new status as wife and lover that drew her attention away.
Whatever the cause, Emma did not find as much time to visit little Anna as she might have. If Mrs. Weston noticed her friend and former charge’s distance, she did not mention it. Mr. Weston noticed, and fretted on his wife’s account, but all was forgotten once Anna began to speak. The young Anna had taken a fancy to her mother’s beautiful friend, and once Emma heard her own name on the young girl’s lips, all distance was erased.
***
When Harriet Martin’s first child, Robert George, after the two best men she knew, was born, Emma was one of the first to visit. She could not discern in the child any particular feature of Robert or Harriet Martin’s other than it’s satisfied smile and good cheer. She immediately proclaimed him the best behaved infant of her acquaintance much to Harriet’s delight.
“Oh, Mrs. Knightley, do you really think so?”
“Of course, dear Harriet. I would not have said so otherwise. He is the very picture of happiness.”
“Robert says that his father had just such an expression on his face after a hearty meal, but I do not think that is a delicate comparison.”
“Why not say then that he inherited his grandfather’s joy in life’s small delights.”
“Oh, Mrs. Knightley! You do have such a way with words.”
Emma’s words would be held as prophetic in time, as Robbie Martin grew into one of the most amiable young men in Highbury.
***
The confinement of Mrs. Emma Knightley was not a comfortable time for any of the residents at Hartfield. Mrs. Weston was in attendance for most of a fortnight, and kept her friend from worry, but there was no one available to manage the expectant father.
Mr. Knightley had begun pacing the hall with more agitation than anyone could remember seeing him express. Even the most loyal of the household attendants kept themselves in other rooms rather than risk his displeasure. Mr. Woodhouse was of no assistance. Whenever Mr. Knightley ceased pacing long enough to share a meal with the older gentleman, Mr. Woodhouse would compound his agitation with worried tales of births gone horribly wrong.
When he was finally admitted to see his wife and infant daughter, Mr. Knightley was weak with exhaustion. He had only his general confused state to excuse his first words to the fragile infant in her mother’s arms.
“Why, you don’t look like a boiled turnip at all.”
The glowing mother smiled up at her husband. “No indeed, Mr. Knightley. She is a perfect little rose.”
“Then we must call her Rose, for she is as sweet as her mother and as beautiful.”
Emma smiled indulgently, fully aware that neither she nor Rose were currently at their best.
“Would you like to meet your father, my little Rose?”
Mr. Knightley sat gingerly on the edge of the mattress and carefully brushed a tiny lock off his daughter’s brow.
“Oh, Rose. I fear you shall ruin me. If you are anything like your mother, I shall be able to refuse you nothing.”
“Then she shall ruin us both, for she is, without doubt, the most radiant creature I have ever seen.”