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“You speak as if you envied him.”
“And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy.”
Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within half a sentence of Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if possible. She made her plan; she would speak of something totally different – the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for breath to begin, when Mr Knightley startled her, by saying,
“You will not ask me what is the point of envy. – You are determined, I see, to have no curiosity. – You are wise – but I cannot be wise. Emma, I must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next moment.”
“Oh! then, don’t speak it, don’t speak it,” she eagerly cried. “Take a little time, consider, do not commit yourself.”
“Thank you,” said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not another syllable followed.
Emma, Volume III, Chapter XIII
They had reached the house.
“You are going in, I suppose?” said Mr Knightley quietly.
Emma wavered. He was wishing to confide in her – perhaps to consult her. As a friend, she ought to put her own sentiments aside and hear what he wished to tell her, regardless of the pain it might bring. Yet how could she bear to listen to such a confession? How could she pretend to advise him with any semblance of disinterest when her every feeling revolted against the notion of a union between him and Harriet?
She drew breath to speak, hardly knowing what she meant to say – but at that very moment, the garden door opened and Mr Perry stepped out.
“Ah! Miss Woodhouse! Mr Knightley!” Mr Perry approached them with a cheerful air. “I have left Mr Woodhouse to rest. I hope to have been able to reassure him somewhat regarding his palpitations, which I do not believe to be dangerous. Gentle exercise in the mornings and a small glass of watered wine before bed ought to ease the symptoms.”
Emma, mustering up as gracious a smile as she could, expressed her gratitude as was proper and made some polite inquiries about the health of Mrs Perry and the children. With these obligatory civilities settled, Mr Perry made to depart. Emma’s eyes half involuntarily flew to Mr Knightley’s. She might yet invite him to continue their conversation – she might show herself a true friend even in the face of her disappointment—
“I shall walk with you, Perry – I was about to take my leave.” With a brief, grave look at Emma, Mr Knightley bowed and turned away.
Emma remained rooted to the spot. She ought to have been relieved at avoiding Mr Knightley’s confession and escaping the agonising conversation which must have followed it. However, as she stood watching his retreating back, her only sensation was regret. She regretted the foolishness which had made her bring Harriet into their circle; she regretted the blindness which had concealed her own feelings from her until it was too late; and above all, and despite everything, she regretted having given him pain.
She lingered in the garden long after the two men had gone. When she went in at last, it was with a heavy step and a heavier heart.
Little was seen of Mr Knightley at Hartfield over the following fortnight. Emma was not surprised by his absence. Knowing her disapproval of his matrimonial plans, he must wish to spare both her and himself the awkwardness of being obliged to speak of the matter. Harriet likewise kept her distance, for which Emma was grateful. Once the engagement was made public, there could be no avoiding each other – indeed, every outer semblance of friendship must be preserved if Emma wished to avoid her disappointment being discovered – but at present, with her heart so freshly injured, regular intercourse with her victorious rival would have been too much to bear.
The engagement was undoubtedly imminent. Mr Knightley must merely be seeking the right moment to speak – or perhaps he had spoken, and only the legal and financial settlements were delaying the announcement. There could be no other reason to wait. Mr Knightley was in every respect his own master, needing nobody’s permission for his marriage, while Harriet’s guardians, whoever they were, could scarcely object to such an astonishingly advantageous match.
It was, in short, inevitable. Mr Knightley would marry Harriet, and Emma would be left to all the satisfaction of having unwittingly brought them together. Harriet would be elevated beyond every expectation, while Mr Knightley would gain a wife as unequal to him in mind and abilities as she was in station. What entertainment for the gossips! What humiliation for all Mr Knightley’s connections! What misery for Emma herself! Such would be the union which she had, in her pride and conceit, brought about.
Could there be any hope of lasting happiness between two individuals of such disparate talents and temperaments? John and Isabella, Emma was forced to acknowledge, were quite content – but Mr Knightley was not his brother. She could not imagine him remaining happy in a marriage which could afford him no equal partnership. Once his first infatuation had passed, he would discover that he had married a girl with little to recommend her but pretty looks and a gentle disposition. In discernment, wit or conversation she could never be his match; for a useful helpmate or rational companion, she must be but a poor substitute.
Harriet, Emma trusted, would not suffer. Mr Knightley was not the sort of man who would punish his wife for his own error in judgement. He would treat Harriet with all the kindness and respect that were her due and do all he could to ensure her happiness and comfort. His regrets, however, must be severe, his mortifications painful – and Emma would have to bear witness to his suffering.
In such miserable reflections, she wallowed for several days. She grew to dread the post for fear of the news it might bring and steeled herself against the inevitable blow whenever callers came. Her father, noticing her dull complexion and lack of appetite, feared that she was falling ill and began to speak of sending for Perry.
But after a week of sleepless nights and of days filled with oppressive anticipation, Emma’s feelings reached a sort of dreadful calm. Perhaps she had descended so deeply into despair as to grow inured to it, or perhaps the mind, when put for long enough under constant tension, will sometimes resort to numbness in order not to break. Whatever the case, she found herself capable of viewing her situation with a degree of detachment which had hitherto escaped her, and of reflecting on the course which she ought to take next.
The impending marriage of Mr Knightley and Harriet must be accepted as fact. The damage had been done and could not be repaired; the past could not be altered. Yet could she not learn from her errors? Might she not, by striving to better herself, learn to be of real use to those around her? And would such a course of action not be fitting atonement for her former meddling?
A life of penance, Emma decided, would be her lot. She would give up all frivolous amusements, all idle, trivial pursuits, and devote herself solely to her father and to her charitable works.
The resolution, once made, was swiftly put into action. Emma threw herself into mending and making for the poor with relentless vigour. Her mornings she gave over to visiting the old and the sick, and in the evenings, she remained steadfastly at home, reading aloud or playing for her father’s amusement. When Miss Bates came to call, Emma smilingly expressed her delight about Miss Fairfax’s engagement and listened patiently to rambling predictions of dear Jane’s future happiness. When Mrs Elton paid a visit, she smiled with even more determination while pretending to ignore unsubtle insinuations about her past flirtation with Frank.
Perhaps, if she smiled relentlessly enough, she would one day learn to be happy, or at least content, again.
The afternoon of a day some two weeks after Mr Knightley’s return from London thus found Emma walking briskly home from the cottage at the end of Vicarage Lane. The poor sick family who lived there had long been an object of her charitable endeavours, and her present mission had been to deliver a basket of food and clothes for the children. This errand successfully completed, she had given her maid leave to visit some relations who lived close by, and had set off back towards Hartfield alone.
There was still more that needed to be done for the unfortunate family, and Emma kept her mind firmly on their predicament as she walked. The comfort of the ailing father must be improved, lest he should be made sicker yet through lack of sleep. Mr Perry must be consulted about the youngest boy’s cough, which his mother feared sounded consumptive. Inquiries must be made to discover whether a place in service could be found for the oldest girl, that she might bring in some little income to help her parents – Serle would know which households were presently in need of servants and where the child would be treated kindly.
These reflections brought Emma past the Vicarage, and she hastened her steps a little, wishing to lessen her danger of encountering either of its inhabitants. This, however, proved to be her undoing. Scarcely had she passed out of view of the house when her half-boot seemed to catch, mid-step, on thin air – she flailed, heard something snap, and felt her foot come free – but she had already lost her balance and landed painfully on her hands and knees in the dirt.
There she remained for a few seconds, too surprised and tumbled about to do anything but catch her breath. Soon, however, the stinging of her palms awoke her from her stupor, and she made to rise to her feet – only to almost stumble again as she discovered that her right boot had come loose on her foot. Looking down, she discovered the reason, and also the likely culprit for her fall. Her shoelace had been broken clean off. No doubt it had come untied while she was walking, entangled itself under her other boot and tripped her up with such violence as to snap in half.
Emma scarcely knew whether to laugh or to cry. Here was retribution indeed for her past scheming! She turned her gaze to her dirtied skirts, then to the ruin of her gloves. To her increasing dismay, she discovered that some piece of rock or gravel had ripped a great tear in one palm – and not merely in the cotton, but also in the skin beneath. The scratch did not look deep, but it stung viciously nonetheless, and blood was already seeping out to stain the white fabric around it. Her father would be beside himself when he saw the injury, and Emma wearily foresaw an entirely unnecessary visit from Mr Perry to bind a wound which the housekeeper might just as easily have attended to.
Still, if she meant to make her way back to Hartfield at all, she must first see to her boot. Stooping down in the road again, Emma assessed what temporary repairs might be managed. The lace had torn in a most unfortunate way: there was not enough left at the broken end to allow for any sort of knot. She would have to re-lace the boot with the remaining length of shoelace if she wished to walk home in tolerable comfort.
The Vicarage was not far behind, but the notion of going there for help was too mortifying to consider. The mere recollection of once entering that house on such an errand – of the artifice she had then employed and of the scheme she had been attempting to promote – brought a flush of shame to her cheeks. No, she would rather walk to Hartfield in her stockinged feet than go knocking on Mr Elton’s door!
Bent over as she was, fumbling at her shoelace with fingers made clumsy by vexation, Emma was unaware of anyone approaching until a rapid step sounded behind her and a voice cried out, “Emma! Good God, what has happened?”
It was a voice she would have known anywhere – a voice as delightful to her ears as it was painful to her heart. Straightening up, she was met by the sight of Mr Knightley hurrying towards her, concern writ all over his countenance.
“Are you injured – ill?” he went on as he reached her. “Where is your companion – surely you have not walked out alone?”
“’Tis nothing,” Emma hastened to reassure him, warmed and embarrassed in equal measure by his concern. “It is merely my shoelace – my boot—” She gestured helplessly at the offending article of clothing. “I took a little tumble, but I shall be quite well, if only I can get this wretched lace adjusted—”
But Mr Knightley’s attention had been caught by her hand.
“You are bleeding!” he exclaimed.
“It is but the merest scratch,” Emma protested, making to conceal her hands in her skirts. Mr Knightley, however, was too quick for her: catching her wrist in a firm but gentle grip, he turned her injured palm up to be examined.
“It is nothing at all,” Emma repeated. “I shall have it seen to as soon as I am home, and it will be all mended in a fortnight.” Casting about for a change of subject, she went on, “But whatever are you doing on this road? I had thought everybody at Donwell must be busy with the harvest.”
“I was at the Vicarage,” replied Mr Knightley, looking up from her hand with an air of distraction. “I had some business with Mr Elton – but you are trembling, Emma! What is the matter – are you in pain? You have grown quite pale. I ought not to have kept you standing – come, let me help you to a seat.”
Thus saying, he took Emma by the elbow and directed her towards the side of the road, where a stile in the fence bordering the lane offered some semblance of a perch. She did not protest. Indeed, as she shuffled along on his arm, trying not to dislodge her boot, her legs felt as if they might give way at any moment. Calling on Mr Elton! Could there be any doubt about Mr Knightley’s purpose? Fixing a date for the wedding, arranging for the banns to be read – what other errand could he have had? The engagement must now be official. Mr Knightley would marry Harriet Smith.
“Here, Emma,” said Mr Knightley, supporting her to the stile. “Sit, and I shall see to your hand.”
Emma sank down nervelessly. Mr Knightley, after a quick, worried glance at her countenance, busied himself peeling off her torn glove and carefully wiping off the blood and dirt from her skin with his handkerchief. She watched him with an aching heart. Soon, all such tender ministrations would be reserved for Harriet. Harriet would be the daily recipient of Mr Knightley’s little attentions, of his care and concern; Harriet would be the one to grow intimately familiar with the warmth of his hands and the gentleness of his touch.
“Will you give me your handkerchief?” he asked quietly. Emma, having fumbled briefly around with her free hand, passed it over, and Mr Knightley proceeded to wrap the square of fabric securely around the wound.
He did not let go of her hand when he was done. Instead, he remained standing in front of her, his thumb slowly tracing the outline of her palm – until, with a sudden, swift motion, he stooped down to press a kiss to her fingertips.
Emma gasped. Mr Knightley immediately dropped her hand and stepped back.
“Forgive me,” he said.
Emma could only stare at him, speechless with astonishment.
“I should not force such attentions on you,” he continued, “knowing how little you must desire them. I assure you that I have no wish to cause you discomfort. I am sorry, Emma. I will not distress you so again.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” replied Emma dazedly. What could he mean? Why was he looking at her with such wistful eyes, as if – as if—
“I thank you,” said Mr Knightley solemnly. “Will you let me walk you back to Hartfield? I promise that you have nothing to fear from me.”
Emma, mind whirling, took the hand he offered to help her up but grasped it in a firm grip when he made to withdraw it.
“Mr Knightley,” she said slowly, “why were you calling on Mr Elton today?”
“What?” It was now his turn to stare at her in utter perplexity. “I – I had business in Highbury and thought to stop by on my way. There was a matter I wished to discuss regarding the whist club.”
“The whist club!” Emma repeated. A buoyant lightness was rising through her chest, bringing with it a jumble of recollections and novel ideas. Past conversations were taking on new meanings, former convictions crumbling. She had been wrong – Harriet had been wrong – and for once, Emma rejoiced at discovering her error!
She met Mr Knightley’s eyes, squeezing his hand even more tightly. “The day you returned from London,” she said, observing his expression carefully, “there was something you wished to say to me, but I refused to let you speak. I think – I think I should like to hear it now. In fact, I quite insist upon it.”
“My dearest Emma,” cried Mr Knightley, “do you mean it? Will you let me tell you, then, of my affections?” He caught her other hand in his, stepping closer. “Will you let me tell you that I love you – have loved you these past months, no matter how poor work I have done of showing it?”
He paused with an earnest look of inquiry, and at her tremulous smile of assent, went on with renewed energy: “Dearest, most beloved Emma, do you give me leave to hope? I ask no more than that. I will give you time – I will promise to be patient. If you will but let me do my poor best to gain your affections, if you will but try to learn to love me a little, I shall be the happiest man in the world.”
“That I can easily promise,” said Emma, her smile growing as she met his hopeful gaze. “I believe that I may even promise to be a very fast learner.”
She had but a glimpse of the look of delighted comprehension overspreading Mr Knightley’s countenance. Then she was in his arms, discovering the thrilling sensation of his lips being pressed against her forehead – her cheeks – her mouth. She would have laughed, had she had the breath for it. To think that, five minutes ago, she had been in the depths of misery – and now—
There was no more room for thought for some time.
They were reminded of their public location only when the rattle of approaching wheels sounded behind a bend in the lane. Emma stepped hastily back – and immediately stumbled over her loose shoelace again. She was saved from losing her balance only by Mr Knightley swiftly seizing her by the elbow. Their eyes met, and she saw her suppressed laugh mirrored in his countenance.
“Come, my dearest, let us put you to rights.”
When the farmer’s cart clattered past, Emma was thus decorously seated on the stile – but once it had gone, she soon found new cause to blush in delight. Mr Knightley would see to her boot himself, and though he took no unseemly liberties, she fancied that they were both a little distracted by the length of silk stocking exposed to his view as he knelt at her feet. Certainly, he went about rearranging the lacing with a degree of meticulousness perhaps not entirely necessary, and his fingers brushed against her calf rather more often than her maid’s ever did when helping her dress.
Despite Emma’s boot having at last been thoroughly secured, their walk to Hartfield was conducted at a leisurely pace and along a somewhat circuitous route. There were, in fact, so many confessions to be made, so many misunderstandings to be corrected and so many sweet words of affection to be whispered that it was very late in the afternoon by the time the house came into sight.
Mr Woodhouse, as expected, was made all but frantic by Emma’s injury. Between her efforts to soothe his nerves and her unsuccessful attempts to dissuade him from sending for Mr Perry, she was obliged to content herself with bidding Mr Knightley a rather brief adieu while servants bustled around them. Still, as it had already been privately agreed between them that he should call on her the next morning, she was able to let him depart with only the faintest sigh of regret.
Upon their meeting in the garden soon after breakfast, Mr Knightley’s first inquiry was after her injured hand. Having been satisfied on that score, he withdrew a small parcel from his pocket.
“I wished to do my part to remedy the damage from your fall,” he said, presenting it to her.
Emma eagerly undid the wrapping and exclaimed in delight at the pair of exceedingly pretty new gloves revealed within.
“It seems I am to gain from my little adventure,” she said, admiring the delicate embroidery and elegant lace trimming. “The gloves I ruined were not half as fine as these.”
Mr Knightley took her hand and brought it to his lips.
“Dearest Emma,” he said, “I have gained far more.”
The gloves remained a cherished possession for many years to come, darned and repaired well past the point when any other item of clothing would have been consigned to the ragpicker. Nor were they the only happy reminder of the day on which mutual despair had turned into shared delight. Emma retained a special fondness for Vicarage Lane, and she and Mr Knightley would often bend their steps that way on their walks. The family living at its end was the recipient of her most particular attention, much to the benefit of its children.
And though her husband could never entirely comprehend why, Emma always remained a warm proponent of his participation in the whist club.