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“But you, (turning to Mr Knightley,) who know how very, very seldom I am ever two hours from Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of dissipation for me, I cannot imagine. And as to my dear little boys, I must say, that if Aunt Emma has not time for them, I do not think they would fare much better with Uncle Knightley, who is absent from home about five hours where she is absent one – and who, when he is at home, is either reading to himself or settling his accounts.”
- Emma, Volume II, Chapter XVIII
Perhaps Mr Knightley had been seized by a desire to prove his worth as an uncle, or perhaps he was simply eager to see his nephews as often as he could while they were in Highbury. Whatever the reason, his visits to Hartfield were longer and more frequent than usual that April, and he made a point of joining Emma and the boys in their pursuits whenever he could make time for it.
Emma was glad to have his company. Despite their occasional quarrels, she and Mr Knightley were united in their affection for their nephews and generally in agreement on how to best manage them. In overseeing lessons, setting up games and arranging little excursions, he was the best of companions: active, good-humoured and practical. He was willing to play with Henry and John as much as they might desire, yet he did not indulge them overmuch or worry and fuss over them as Mr Woodhouse would have done. The four of them thus passed many a cheerful morning together playing battledore and shuttlecock on the lawn or making alphabet puzzles in the parlour, and Emma could scarcely remember when she had last been so constantly, pleasantly and usefully employed.
One morning towards the end of April, the warm and dry weather tempted their little group to walk out in the direction of Donwell. Henry and John were allowed to run about to their hearts’ content in the country lanes and paths, and by the time the party turned back towards Hartfield, the boys had managed to tire themselves enough to walk a little more sedately with their aunt and uncle.
Henry maintained an enthusiastic chatter as he trotted along, pointing out various objects of interest in the meadows and fields they passed through. John, generally determined to have his share in the conversation, at first made frequent interjections, and Emma was once or twice obliged to intervene in order to prevent a squabble. But after their little party had crossed the stile into the road leading back to Highbury (the boys scrambling over like squirrels and Mr Knightley courteously assisting Emma), he fell unusually silent. Emma, glancing over in concern that John might be growing tired, saw that he was frowning deeply as he walked, apparently engaged in some serious cogitations.
The subject of John’s ponderings was soon revealed. As their party was passing Randalls, John turned to Mr Knightley and gravely asked, “Uncle, are you married to Aunt Emma?”
There was an infinitesimal pause before Mr Knightley replied evenly, “I am not.” In a tone of deliberate calm, which Emma (biting her lip to keep from laughing) could not but admire, he went on, “Why do you ask?”
“Well, Tommy Marshall” – a son, Emma recollected, of one of the families in Brunswick Square – “says that uncles and aunts are always married to each other. His uncle and aunt are – well, at least they are now, for Miss Greene was Tommy’s governess before, but now she is his aunt.”
Isabella, Emma decided as she battled to retain an impassive expression, was evidently far too discreet when it came to sharing neighbourhood gossip. She would have to demand all the details of the affair in her next letter.
Before either she or Mr Knightley could formulate a reply to John, Henry broke in with all the superiority of an elder brother.
“Tommy Marshall is stupid, and you are stupid for listening to him. Of course Aunt Emma isn’t married to Uncle Knightley. They don’t even live in the same house! And besides, her name is Miss Woodhouse, and everybody knows that a Miss can’t be married.”
John’s indignant intake of breath heralded an imminent argument. Emma, having had time to regain at least the semblance of self-possession, quickly stepped in.
“You must not speak so to your brother,” she chastised Henry. “If one needs to correct another, one should do so gracefully. But” – turning to John – “it is true that Tommy was a little mistaken. Some aunts and uncles are married to one another, but some are not. I am your aunt because I am your Mama’s sister, while Uncle Knightley is your Papa’s brother. That is how we both come to be related to you without being related to each other.”
John accepted this explanation with a rather mulish look. After a few paces, however, he turned to Mr Knightley with renewed enthusiasm.
“But should you like to marry Aunt Emma?”
Emma dared a swift glance in Mr Knightley’s direction, but was obliged to quickly avert her eyes lest her composure should fail her utterly. She did not think she had ever seen Mr Knightley look so entirely at a loss – and indeed, how could he, in politeness, answer such a question? Her own countenance, she knew, was undoubtedly displaying all the entertainment which this turn of the conversation must occasion.
Untroubled by the lack of reply and blissfully unaware of the confusion he had caused, John went on in persuasive tones, “Aunt Emma is very pretty, is she not?”
To Emma’s amazement and delight, Mr Knightley turned rather red as he replied, in a somewhat choked voice, “Certainly.”
“If you married Aunt Emma,” John continued, encouraged by this admission, “you wouldn’t have to live all alone at the Abbey anymore. You could talk to Aunt Emma all day, and she could tell your cook to make rice pudding and apple pie just the way Serle makes them at Hartfield. Wouldn’t that be a very fine thing?”
Emma was greatly amused by this estimation of her charms. However, as Mr Knightley appeared to have been rendered entirely speechless, compassion prompted her to intervene.
“Mr Knightley would not like to be saddled with such a troublesome creature as his wife,” she said cheerfully. “He is very comfortable at Donwell with his books, and he would not at all care to have me meddling with them. Besides, if I were to marry and move away, who would take care of Grandpapa? He would be dreadfully lonely at Hartfield with only the servants to keep him company. Uncle Knightley, you know, is used to living alone, and in any case, he is always out and about visiting his neighbours and tenants. But Grandpapa is older, and his health is not as good as Uncle Knightley’s, so he cannot visit as much. That is why he must have somebody at home to cheer him up.”
John frowned briefly, but then his countenance brightened again.
“Might not Uncle Knightley move to Hartfield? Then Grandpapa would never be lonely, for he would have two people looking after him.”
“Of course he cannot!” cried Henry scornfully. “The wife must go and live in the husband’s house, not the other way around.”
“Why can’t the husband move instead?” asked John, beginning to look belligerent. “Uncle Knightley could live in Miss Taylor’s old room, or in one of the guest rooms. They are always empty.”
“John,” said Emma firmly, feeling that it was high time to steer the conversation in a less embarrassing direction, “it is not polite to keep pressing your uncle like this. You see, you are putting him in an awkward position. Uncle Knightley does not wish to marry me, but it would be rather rude of him to say so outright when I am present.” She smiled at the boy to take the sting out of her words. “Uncle Knightley and I are very good friends, but I am sure that neither of us has ever entertained any thoughts of marrying. But my dear, what has put marriage so much on your mind?”
“Well,” John said plaintively, “Tommy said that when his uncle got married, there was the biggest cake he had ever seen – and he was allowed to have three cups of chocolate!”
Here, at last, Emma’s composure forsook her. To be married off for the sake of cake and chocolate! It was too much. She abandoned any effort at gravity and succumbed to helpless laughter.
“Why are you laughing?” demanded John, affronted. “It’s true! And there were currants in the cake, too!”
“I do not doubt it,” Emma assured him a little breathlessly.
“Then why—”
“That is enough, John,” said Mr Knightley sternly. “Do not pester your aunt. She has been very patient with you already.”
“Look, boys,” added Emma swiftly, having perceived an opportunity to change the subject, “there is Hartfield in sight! Shall we see which of us is first at the gate?”
Henry and John were off at once. Emma, having kept pace with them for a few steps, soon gave it up and let them race ahead while she dropped back to walk beside Mr Knightley.
“Cake and chocolate,” she remarked, “are certainly a novel motive for matchmaking. I should think there would be easier methods of obtaining them, but John’s scheme must be praised for originality, if not for practicality.”
She glanced at Mr Knightley, expecting him to smile. His countenance, however, was solemn, and he made but the slightest reply. Emma deduced that he had not yet entirely recovered from his embarrassment and wondered a little at it. To be sure, it would have been awkward, had there been any risk of a misunderstanding arising, but surely she and Mr Knightley were on such terms of friendship as to make any worry of the sort quite unnecessary. They knew where they stood with each other, and a child’s amusing misapprehension ought not to create any difficulty between them. Still, she had no desire to mortify him further and so let the subject drop.
A brief dispute about the foot race was swiftly settled by Mr Knightley, and upon their party’s reaching the house, the boys were deposited in the care of their nursery-maid to be washed and changed out of their dirtied clothes. As Mr Woodhouse had retired upstairs to rest before dinner, Emma and Mr Knightley were left alone in the drawing room.
“Will you stay and dine with us?” Emma asked. “We shall be quite informal, you know, with the boys allowed at the table.”
Mr Knightley assented but then immediately lapsed into silence again. Supposing that Henry and John must have tired him out with their chatter, Emma did not press the conversation further and instead picked up some needlework.
Mr Knightley, meanwhile, walked over to the window, but apparently dissatisfied with the view, immediately turned on his heel and stalked over to the fireplace. There, he stood for a moment as if in deep contemplation of the flames – only to turn back towards the room again and say abruptly: “Emma, do you think it so entirely impossible a notion?”
Emma, who had been observing his movements with increasing puzzlement, was rather taken aback by his peculiar manner. His gaze was fixed on her countenance, but she could not interpret his expression.
“What notion?” she asked.
“That you and I should marry.”
Emma sat thunderstruck. A thousand confused thoughts and feelings coursed through her in a matter of seconds. It was a jest – it must be a jest – but Mr Knightley was regarding her with such profound seriousness as to make it impossible to doubt that he was in earnest. Yet it was equally impossible to believe that he might mean what his words and looks seemed to imply.
“I – I confess it had never occurred to me,” she said at last, setting down her needlework from hands which had suddenly grown unsteady. There was a strange light in Mr Knightley’s eyes, which she had never seen there before, and her pulse, for no apparent reason, had begun to beat very quick. “Why – have you – do you—?”
She hardly knew what she was asking, scarcely even dared to think the question to which her heart had already intuited the answer.
“Yes,” replied Mr Knightley simply. “I have been thinking about it these past three or four months, though my hopes have seemed all but doomed. I have not dared to speak of them – I shall, perhaps, come to regret making the attempt now – but I cannot help it, dearest Emma. Every day you grow more precious, more necessary to my happiness. No matter how little chance there is of your returning my affections, I must know where I stand.”
Emma could only listen, as transfixed by his words as by the earnestness of his looks. The world was rearranging itself before her eyes as he spoke, former certainties cast into doubt and new paths unfurling into directions half thrilling, half frightening. It darted through her mind, in a flash of triumph, that this must put an end to any suspicions regarding Jane Fairfax – and then she flushed and wondered at herself. Where had this jealous impulse come from? She pressed her hands together in her lap to stop them from trembling.
Mr Knightley’s eyes followed the movement. He made as if to reach out to her; then, seemingly thinking better of it, clasped his hands behind his back.
“I fear I have distressed you,” he said quietly. “Say but a word, and I shall go. If you wish, we need never speak of this subject again.”
“No – stay – I am not distressed, only surprised. I had not expected – I had no notion—” She fell silent in blushing confusion.
“And how could you have?” said Mr Knightley, in a tone of unexpected tenderness. “I have none but myself to blame for that. What have I done to recommend myself as a lover? Instead of compliments and pretty speeches, I have given you lectures and rebukes. Though I have spoken out of affection, I fear my manner has shown very little of it. I can only be grateful that you have consented to hear me at all.”
He stepped a little closer, eyes never leaving her countenance. “I will not press you for an answer at present. One boon, however, I must beg for. Will you tell me, dearest Emma, whether your heart is already claimed? Am I too late – must I give way to another?”
“No,” said Emma, and knew in that instant that it was true – and, moreover, that there never had been such a claim on her affections. How childish, how foolish she had been to think herself attached to Frank Churchill – to imagine her feelings anything more than a passing fancy! With Mr Knightley’s heart bared before her, the sincerity and depth of his emotions evident from his every word, how silly, how nonsensical did her past little flutters seem in comparison!
“No?” exclaimed Mr Knightley, with great animation. “My dearest Emma—!” But, checking himself, he went on in more moderate tones, though his colour was still high: “And do you think you could – do you think it might one day be possible for you to return my affections? Will you allow me, at least, to make my case as best I can?”
Emma could not reply at once. The revelations of the past minutes, and the turmoil into which they had thrown her heart and mind, silenced her. What did she feel? What did she want? She had no notion. She knew only that she did not, as yet, have any answer to give.
Mr Knightley, however, must have drawn his own conclusions from her silence. His countenance fell, and he pressed his eyes closed for a brief moment.
Nevertheless, his tone was all gentleness as he said, “Emma, you need not spare my feelings. If you absolutely cannot love me – if you know it to be impossible – tell me so, and I will not importune you again.”
His look of quiet resignation tugged at her heart. Did she love him? Could she love him? She held him in the highest regard; she esteemed him above any other man – nay, any other person – of her acquaintance; and she felt all the honour of being the object of his affections. But might such feelings be kindled into something warmer still? She could not say. She had been taken so entirely by surprise, her spirits were in so much disorder, that she could not have examined her sentiments more closely, even had she dared to do so.
Only one thing was absolutely certain: she could not bear to see Mr Knightley so unhappy.
“I do not know,” she said a little helplessly. “I had never thought that you might admire – that you might wish—” Heat rose into her cheeks. She looked down, drew a fortifying breath, and met his gaze again. “But if you will give me some time to consider – if you will consent to wait—”
In three quick steps, Mr Knightley crossed the distance between them and knelt before her chair.
“Dearest Emma,” he said, taking her hand, “I will wait, I will be patient, for as long as is necessary. You have already given me more than I had dared hope for.”
Emma blushed again at the glow of joy in his countenance – but it was not a blush of displeasure. To be held so dear by Mr Knightley was something indeed!
“Then I shall consider it. And I think” – she hesitated, but the warmth of his fingers around hers gave her courage – “I think I should not object to your trying to persuade me.”
The walk to Donwell had been just as dangerous as Mr Woodhouse had feared. The dear little boys, thankfully, did not seem to have come to very great harm, but Emma and Mr Knightley were not at all themselves. Mr Knightley, usually so cheerful, had been silent and distracted throughout dinner – no doubt concealing the beginnings of a headache, a natural result of overtaxing himself. As for poor Emma, the flush in her cheeks was almost certainly feverish, or else she had been too much exposed to the sun. In either case, the consequences might be very grave indeed.
How much safer it would have been for everybody, had they and the boys stayed in the garden, or even better, indoors! But the damage was done. All that remained to do was to alleviate the consequences if possible.
Mr Woodhouse gently cleared his throat. “My dear Emma, suppose we all have a little gruel before bed.”
Young Master John Knightley had very much enjoyed his holiday at Hartfield. Still, tucked safely against his Papa’s side as the carriage rattled along towards London, he was not unhappy to be returning home. He had been a little sorry to say goodbye to Aunt Emma, Uncle Knightley and Grandpapa (though he had certainly not cried, like Henry claimed), but he quite looked forward to seeing Mama and George and even the girls again.
Besides, there was so much to tell Papa! He must hear all about the kittens in the stable loft, the great adventures they had all had enacting battles and duels in the shrubbery, and the several times that John had won at spillikins. Henry, of course, was going on about the great big trout he had caught in Uncle Knightley’s fish-pond last week, but John made sure that his own two smaller fish were not forgotten.
“And the day we walked to Donwell,” he added, having suddenly recalled another accomplishment of his own, “we had a foot race, and I was the fastest! I beat Henry and Aunt Emma and Uncle Knightley! And Henry was all in a sulk about it, and Uncle told him off.”
“Well, but you will never guess, Papa,” said Henry, shooting a vengeful look at John, “how silly John was that day! He thought that Aunt Emma and Uncle Knightley were married and asked the stupidest questions about it!”
“I didn’t think they were married!” cried John, angry to have the matter brought up. “I only asked if they were!”
“Do not shout, John,” said Papa sternly. “And you both ought to remember that nobody likes a tell-tale.”
“But John was so very foolish!” said Henry defensively. “He went on and on about it, and he asked Uncle Knightley if he thinks Aunt Emma pretty, and if he shouldn’t like to marry her after all—”
“I wasn’t going on—”
“—even though it’s the silliest notion that Uncle Knightley should wish to marry anybody!”
“It’s not silly!”
“It is, too, for I heard Mama say to Mrs Grantley that Uncle Knightley never admired any lady—”
“Then why,” cried John triumphantly, “did he kiss Aunt Emma in the shrubbery? I saw him do it!”
“You didn’t!” shouted Henry, at the same time as Papa exclaimed, “Hallo, what is this, now?”
“I did too!” said John, glaring at Henry. “Yesterday morning, when you wouldn’t let me play with your toy soldiers! I was looking out the window to see if Papa’s carriage was coming, and I saw Uncle Knightley and Aunt Emma in the shrubbery. Uncle Knightley was holding Aunt Emma’s hands, and they were talking, and then Uncle Knightley kissed her! And hugged her, too!”
“Did he indeed?” said Papa, in a rather strange voice. “And what happened then?”
“I don’t know,” John admitted reluctantly, “for Nurse came and asked what I was looking at, and then she saw Aunt Emma and Uncle Knightley and said that I oughtn’t to be watching. And I asked if they were going to get married now, and Nurse said that they’ll sort that out between themselves, and in the meantime, I mustn’t gossip about it. As if I would!”
“Well,” said Papa gravely, “that was very sound advice from Nurse, and we had all best heed it. Still, I expect we shall be receiving a letter from your uncle quite soon.” A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, only to disappear half a moment later. He levelled a stern look first at Henry, then at John. “And let this be a lesson to you, boys! A wise gentleman will not go about kissing young ladies in shrubberies – or if he does, he had best make very sure that he cannot be seen from the nursery window.”
Master John, munching upon his second piece of wedding cake, was in very good humour with the world. After receiving a hug and a kiss from Aunt Emma and a very grown-up handshake from Uncle Knightley, he had been conducted to a seat at the table, and the servants had been specifically instructed to provide him with as much chocolate as he could drink. Weddings, John decided, were fine things indeed!
But as he watched Uncle Knightley – smiling more broadly than John had ever seen him do before – lean over to say something to Aunt Emma, one very important and urgent question occurred to him. His friend Tommy had had a great deal to say about what happened after aunts and uncles were married…
“Papa!” Everybody around John was talking, laughing and making a great deal of noise, so he was obliged to try again, a little more loudly. “Papa!”
At long last, his Papa broke away from talking to Mr Weston. “Yes, John?”
A little lull in the conversation around him made it easier for John to make himself heard, but he endeavoured to speak clearly nonetheless, as Papa frequently reminded him to do. “Are we going to have cousins now?” As Papa did not immediately reply, he went on to clarify: “Will Aunt Emma have a baby?”
Uncle Knightley must have taken too great a bite of cake, for he was suddenly beset by a fit of coughing. Next to him, Aunt Emma had grown very red – but then, it was quite hot in the room, for Grandpapa liked to have a fire even in summer.
“That,” said Papa into the silence, “is for God to decide. However, your uncle and aunt are very fortunate in their nephews and nieces: should they be blessed with children of their own, they will at least have had some preparation for all the joys and delights of parenthood.”
John did not quite understand why all the adults found this remark so amusing. Still, as a third piece of cake appeared in front of him soon afterwards, he did not waste much thought on the matter.