Chapter Text
“Easy, little one, slowly,” Emma soothed. The child frowned but obeyed, letting her take the ladle back.
“I’m so hungry,” he whispered.
“I know. But if you eat too much of the soup at once, while you’re so sick, you’ll vomit. You don’t want that, do you?”
The boy scrunched his sweaty face up. “No.”
“I did not think so.” Emma set the bowl aside. She ignored the child’s whines of discomfort as she began cleaning the sweat from his body. The fever had broken at least.
“Miss Woodhouse, please, you don’t need to exert yourself so.” Mrs Evans was trying in vain to get her sick newborn to latch, whilst looking towards Emma and her son.
“Nonsense,” Emma said briskly. She brought the ladle back to the boy’s mouth. “Tommy, right?”
He nodded, eagerly sipping at the soup.
“Well, Tommy here would gorge himself sick without me. We don’t want that.”
The boy’s look of petulance became a little smirk. He must have been feeling much better to display such spirit again.
“Still, Miss Woodhouse . . .” The mother finally gave up on the infant, setting the squalling child aside with a half-sob of despair.
“Here, you are sick too. Go lie down. I’ll see if I can’t soothe her, and maybe when she’s sleepier she’ll be more interested in eating.”
Emma liked being in charge. Probably more than she ought, but Mr Knightley wasn’t there to reprimand her. At the thought, her heart squeezed in her chest. It had only been the day prior that he had taken his leave to go to London. A sudden plan, with no particular urging behind it—Emma feared the worst. That he was trying to distance himself from her. How ashamed he must be, to be her friend, if he felt thus chased away. Emma had the option to despair and wallow, or to distract herself by being useful—and so her presence at the Evans’. She hadn’t expected to be quite so useful, though. She’d entered with a simple basket, to find their small home overwhelmed by illness.
Baby Rose wouldn’t stop crying. Emma walked, swaying and humming. She glanced over at the mother as she walked. Her young face was etched in misery. Emma tried to imagine it, her namesake niece in her arms, sick as she was . . . or if she had a daughter herself.
The thought left a strange sensation in Emma’s stomach, but she promptly pushed it aside and shifted the baby up against her. It took several laps, but finally the babe was too tired to cry. Emma slowed down until she was next to Mrs Evans.
“Shall we try?” she asked gently.
Emma knew little about the mechanics of it. She transferred Rose to the young mother’s arms and found herself observing. It felt indecent, but Mrs Evans asked her in a soft murmur to support the child’s head while she positioned herself.
“Oh!” Emma exclaimed, as the infant began to suckle. “You have done it!”
Mrs Evans was focused on cooing to the baby, keeping her hold steady. Emma turned to Tommy, but the boy, having finished his soup, had fallen asleep.
“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Emma asked.
“Bless you Miss Woodhouse, no, no, you have done so much already.”
“Are you sure you do not need Mr Perry? I could send for him.”
“No, thank you, miss.” Mrs Evans’ smile, while filled with crooked teeth, was beatific. Emma curtsied and left with promises to return the next day.
It was a momentary peace, knowing that she had helped. It soothed her anxious heart, especially as she had been turned away at the Bates’s for the second time that morning. Emma walked slowly home, trying to keep the bubble of affection and peace intact in her chest. It was difficult, however, as her mind kept trying to return to Box Hill, to Mr Knightley’s remonstrance. By the time she reached home, Emma was dragging her feet, nerves once more overwrought.
The presence of Mr Weston did nothing to soothe her.
“Mrs Weston? Is she well?” Emma asked, nearly stumbling over the threshold of Hartfield in her haste.
“No, no, nothing of that trouble,” Mr Weston was quick to reassure. He ushered her into the sitting room. Still, there was something distraught in his face that made Emma fear something was amiss. “However, I was hoping you could accompany me to her.”
“I—“ Emma stopped short. “I should not visit, I have been visiting a sick family. I would not want Mrs Weston to become ill, not now in her condition.”
“I see.” There were few times that Mr Weston seemed ill at ease, which made it the more alarming, how his eyes would not settle on Emma, how he kept twisting his hands together. “There is . . . news. I was hoping she could tell you.”
“Mr Weston, you had better tell me, or I shall imagine the worst,” Emma cried.
“It’s . . . Frank. He has been . . . there was an . . . engagement.”
Emma blinked. “Engaged? To be married?”
“Yes. It was a secret—“ Here Mr Weston appeared pained, half-turning away. “To Jane Fairfax,” he said in a rush.
Emma sank down on her favorite chair, her mind struggling to rearrange the pieces of the puzzle she thought she had known. She nearly burst out in her shock with some demand for explanation, before thinking the better of it. Speaking without thinking had already gotten in her enough trouble for a lifetime. Mr Weston looked undone.
“Thank you for letting me know,” she said, her voice a little too halting to completely hide her distraught feelings.
“Mrs Weston will write you the particulars, dear Emma. I had so wished she could . . . I am so sorry.”
“No, Mr Weston, do not apologize.” Emma got back to her feet, eager to soothe his distress. “I am sure I will talk to Mrs Weston soon. I am sorry, for my part, and my conduct . . .” she could feel her face burning, “please, take my apology for my part in it. If I had known . . .”
“You are too good,” Mr Weston said. He seemed close to tears, and Emma turned to give him some privacy. “I will go now. Mrs Weston will write, I know, as soon as I get back.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Alone, Emma remained standing, and quickly realized she should not be for how weak her legs were. She sank back down. It seemed as if her entire world was going to continue to be twisted up and reshaped, without any of her own input. She had been so proud of her matchmaking, but maybe that was where the trouble started. From that, her neat little life had started to be picked apart. For a moment, she wished for Mrs Weston to be Miss Taylor again, just as her father always did.
There were many tasks before her. In some regards, that was a trial, but in others, a relief to stay occupied. Emma would have to wait for Mrs Weston’s letter today, to know the full story. She would need to respond. And from there, she would need to summon Harriet. For the poor girl to have her hopes crushed, for it to be Emma’s fault again . . . Emma had never felt so small and useless. She quickly got up, summoning the housekeeper to plan for her visit to the Bates’ and Evans’ homes on the next day. If she could just stay busy, she might be able to fight off her own confusing feelings.
While Emma may not have hoped for anything positive from Harriet’s visit, she certainly had not expected to find her own heart flayed open. She had gotten up early, fighting a headache, to deliver the poor news. Upon hearing that Harriet’s secret love was not, as she had assumed, Frank Churchill, but Mr Knightley . . . Emma sent Harriet away, distraught and startlingly aware of her own feelings. No wonder she had felt the bite of his reprimand so strongly. Her mind, always sharp and active and never failing her, now gave her too many reasons for his absence. If he was in love with Harriet, then perhaps he was going to talk over the particulars with his brother. Removing himself from Emma’s presence was most likely a boon. How terrible, for Emma to realize now that she was in love with Mr Knightley now. A punishment, for her pride.
Emma was not a creature built for despair; she had never courted it, nor had any point of reference to understand it. A more experienced creature might have lain sobbing on her bed, going through paroxysms of grief and emerging subdued and wiser. Emma pressed back the tears, allowing them no escape, even in the dark of night. She desperately threw herself into her duties. She had found her worth being questioned—if Mr Knightley had no value for her, then she did not know where to find it herself. She felt as if she was drowning on dry land. She needed to claw for air, to be Miss Woodhouse and for that to be enough.
Her duties were her only outlet. Emma put on her bonnet the next morning, grasping two heavy baskets and striding out the door. She went first to the Bates. There, she was once more disappointed. On the day prior, she had felt the sting of it, but now knowing what she did about Jane, she did not press the point or reveal that she had knowledge of the engagement. Miss Bates and Jane were not at home, after all—if Emma had to guess, they were either with the Westons or making arrangements with Frank Churchill. Mrs Bates accepted the basket, in her way, but left Emma without any satisfaction. She turned to the Evans instead.
There, she was met with a desperate cry of welcome. The poor young mother was struggling with the baby again. Little Tommy, at least, was improved. Emma quickly stoked the fire, boiling water for tea and taking Rose so that Mrs Evans could rest. She didn’t like the quality of the infant’s cry. Weaker than the prior day. Her little body felt too cold.
“Tommy,” said she, “are you strong today?”
“Yes miss.” Tommy sprang from bed with all the liveliness Emma could have hoped for.
“I need you to go and find Mr Perry, do you know where he lives?”
“Yes, I will! Right away!”
“Good lad.” Emma kept her smile bright until the boy was gone. Then she turned to Mrs Evans, who had collapsed on her bed. “Is your husband in the fields?”
“Yes,” she said weakly. “He’s feeling poorly himself, but if he doesn’t keep his place, they won’t take him back.”
“Whom does he work for?”
“Mr Knightley, miss.”
Emma opened her mouth to issue a reassurance, and then closed it, her heart aching in her chest. Would a request for leniency from her, after everything . . ?
Emma shook free the cobwebs in her mind. No, Mr Knightley was fair. No matter what he thought of Emma at this moment, he could not fault her interference in this way.
“I’ll send Tommy to fetch him. I know Mr Knightley, he will allow your husband to keep his place, I swear it.”
Mrs Evans was too exhausted to do more than nod at Emma’s words. Emma set about doing what she could.
On Mr Perry’s arrival, she found relief. He set about his work, and at Emma’s urging, gave her tasks to complete. Emma found herself mashing herbs for a poultice and caring for the babe while Mr Perry applied leeches to the mother.
“Is the infant eating?”
“Yesterday.” Emma glanced at Mrs Evans where she slept. “It was difficult. I am not sure overnight whether she was able to feed her.”
“She will be in dire straits soon. We will need to attempt to get her to drink something, even without the mother.” Mr Perry glanced at Emma. “Are you sure you wish to stay?”
“Of course.” Emma straightened under his bemused eye. “What do I need to do?”
It became Emma’s duty to ply the infant’s chapped mouth with a soaked rag, attempting to get her to drink. Emma alternated between pacing with her, trying to soothe, and sitting down and rocking with her. The child seemed to grow weaker and weaker, while her mother thrashed with fever on her bed. Mr Evans returned home at some point, himself too ill to assist, collapsing on the bed next to his wife.
Emma tasked Mr Perry with telling a falsehood to her father. Reluctantly, he agreed to her scheme, claiming Emma to be staying the night with the Westons on his way to fetch more supplies. She knew how alarmed Mr Woodhouse would be, even at that small lie—let alone her true situation—but she could not leave. She had known too much failure; she could not abandon them, knowing she could help.
Emma could not say how long she stayed in the dim hovel, desperately trying to keep the little girl alive. Rose’s body grew colder and colder. Emma stayed as close as she could bear to the fire.
Her efforts were to no effect. The infant stopped responding, no matter what Emma did. Upon her cries to Mr Perry, who was dozing nearby in a chair, he solemnly told her that her worst fears had come to pass.
Emma passed over the infant’s body from her trembling arms to Mrs Evans. The woman’s cries were weak from illness, but no less raw and painful. Mr Evans roused himself and scrambled over to his now-smaller family. Emma stumbled back, horror in her throat.
“You should go home,” Mr Perry said gently. “Do not blame yourself, Miss Woodhouse. You did all that you could.”
Emma barely heeded his words. She made her escape, fleeing as if Mr Evans were chasing her with an axe, blaming her for his child’s death. She didn’t realize she was crying until her vision became so blurred she nearly fell. She came to a halt, gasping and sobbing. The night was young—it was not so dark that Emma felt she had anything to fear, but the darkness only increased her feelings of despair. Never had she felt so alone.
The desperate wish in her heart was one that gave her no encouragement—she wished Mr Knightley there. He would have the words to comfort, to give her strength. But he was gone. Perhaps, in his wisdom, he had known what a failure Emma was, and had escaped from it.
Emma was not prone to dramatics, but her mind was in such turmoil, there was no sense to be had. She grieved, slumped against a fence post, for too long in the dark. By the time she made her way home, slipping inside in order to avoid waking the household, she was barely able to walk, cold and shaking as she was. She collapsed into her bed, weak and utterly wretched.