Chapter Text
She felt that, in quitting Donwell, he must be sacrificing a great deal of independence of hours and habits; that in living constantly with her father, and in no house of his own, there would be much, very much, to be borne with. She promised to think of it, and advised him to think of it more; but he was fully convinced, that no reflection could alter his wishes or his opinion on the subject.
- Emma, Volume III, Chapter XV
Though Mr Knightley was not without appreciation for the beauties of the natural world, he was rarely moved to raptures by them. He could admire the colours of the sunset without being overpowered by a sense of the sublime; he had not once been brought to tears by the fairness of a rose; and when walking the well-trod path from Donwell to Hartfield, he viewed the orderly countryside around him with no stronger feeling than that of pleased approval.
Nevertheless, on this July morning, he found himself unexpectedly struck by the loveliness of the landscape around him. Never before had the wheat in the fields had quite so deep a golden hue; never had the flowers in the meadows bloomed quite so brightly. Every familiar landmark on the way appeared newly remarkable: the great old oak by the stile quite uncommonly tall and majestic, the water of the brook running across the commons astonishingly clear and sparkling.
Hartfield rose ahead, as unchanged and constant as the countryside surrounding it, yet equally transformed in Mr Knightley’s eyes. His step quickened as he passed through the gate, and his pulse leapt with anticipation as he strode up the gravel path.
He found Emma at her needlework in the drawing-room, just as he had a hundred times before. She looked up; her eyes brightened – and this was not entirely new either, though no less delightful a sight for its familiarity. Then she rose, dropping her work in her eagerness to greet him – and here, now, was what had made all the world anew: it was in Emma’s bashful smile as she allowed him to draw her into his arms and in the tilt of her head as she blushingly offered her lips to be kissed.
Mr Knightley was no painter or poet, and so, when he finally pulled back sufficiently to look at Emma, he could only attempt to fix the expression on her countenance in his memory, to be cherished and reminisced upon in years to come. There would, he fervently hoped, be countless other memories like it, yet there was a particularly sweet delight in the novelty of it all, in every fresh proof of the affection which he had once despaired of ever winning.
“Will you walk out with me?” she asked, still nestled into his embrace. “Mr Perry is upstairs with papa – nothing to be concerned about, you understand, merely his weekly call to soothe papa’s worries – and I think we may have as much as an hour before I am missed.”
Mr Knightley would rather have kept Emma exactly where she was, but he had more sense than to suggest it. The shrubbery had fewer listening ears nearby and more sheltered nooks and corners for lovers to lose themselves in. Besides, though he was obliged to release Emma for the present, there were many things he was eager to speak of with her. That would be better accomplished without the temptation of her soft form in his arms and her sweet lips only inches from his own.
The bonnet was fetched, the shawl draped becomingly over Emma’s shoulders, and the lovers slipped out through the garden door. Mr Knightley’s heart warmed when Emma twined her arm around his and pressed close to his side as they walked. But though the present moment tempted him to forget all else, the future must also have its share of attention.
“Have you thought more on the scheme I proposed yesterday?” Mr Knightley inquired as they wound their way along the twisting garden path.
“I confess I have thought of little else,” replied Emma – and how it delighted him to be the one thus occupying her mind!
“And how do you like it?”
“The better the more I think on it. On my own part and my father’s, I can scarcely see any drawback at all.” She cast him a grave look. “But are you certain, absolutely certain, that it is not too great a sacrifice on yours? My father’s habits and style of living – the disadvantages of being away from Donwell – are you quite sure that you can be comfortable in such circumstances?”
Mr Knightley, as he looked into Emma’s serious countenance, knew that he would have gladly made much greater sacrifices in order to ensure her happiness. He only said, however, “Very sure, dearest Emma. I do not deny that there will be some inconveniences, but when I consider what I have to gain” – he reached over to squeeze the hand resting in the crook of his elbow – “the benefits far outweigh the difficulties.”
“Even should my father’s health grow worse?” asked Emma quietly.
“Under such circumstances, more than any other,” replied Mr Knightley, with steady conviction, “I should wish for the right to be by your side. I know that you begrudge no exertion for your father’s sake, but I would not have you bear that burden alone.”
Emma had turned her face away so that the brim of her bonnet obscured her expression, but Mr Knightley nevertheless heard her thick intake of breath and felt the tightening of her grip on his arm. They walked without speaking for some minutes while she composed herself. No words were necessary.
Presently, Emma spoke again, the lightness of her tone only a little forced.
“Well, that is settled, then. If you truly wish to subject yourself to my caprices and my father’s fancies day in and day out, I am not unselfish enough to deny you. Besides, it will give me a delightful excuse for spending a great deal of money on new curtains, bed hangings and other such necessities.”
“I would not have you trouble yourself on my account,” said Mr Knightley, smiling.
“It must be done,” said Emma primly, “or else all the ladies of Highbury will think our marriage a very shabby business. There are certain forms to be followed, you know – one has to make a fuss about fabrics and furnishings, or else the union will hardly be thought respectable.”
Had Mr Knightley not been helplessly in love with her already, the arch look Emma cast him would have conquered his heart at once.
“I bow to your superior understanding of such matters,” he replied. “By all means do what is necessary to uphold our dignity in the eyes of local society. I only entreat you to consult your own taste. I should not like to have our bedchamber decked out quite as lavishly as Mrs Elton’s drawing-room.”
Emma laughed, as Mr Knightley had expected her to (she had once remarked to him that Mrs Elton’s furniture and decorations might have looked very well, had they been spread out in a house twice the size of the Vicarage). Then, however, she fell quiet again. Mr Knightley sensed that there was something on her mind – and he marvelled at this new-found understanding between them, this new insight which he had gained into her thinking.
Emma drew to a halt beside a handsome bush of hydrangeas.
“We will – you will share my bedchamber, then?” she asked, her attention apparently quite fixed on the flowers.
“I should prefer it,” said Mr Knightley carefully, “but I will, of course, defer to your wishes.”
He was exceedingly aware of needing to tread delicately. Emma was, in many ways, confident and capable beyond her years; the natural result of having been, since a very young age, the head of her household in all but name. In this matter, however, he could not help but be conscious of their difference in age and experience. Even by the standards of genteel young ladies, Emma had led a retired life. He did not imagine her to be ignorant of what marriage entailed – she was no fool, and her sister had borne five children – but she had little practical experience of physical relations between men and women, even of the innocent sort allowed by balls and parlour games. It would be his duty – and privilege – to guide her in the intimacies of married life without frightening or distressing her.
“I believe,” said Emma, her cheeks as pink as the hydrangeas, “that my wishes coincide with yours.” She darted a quick glance at him, and he was heartened to see that she was smiling despite her embarrassment. “But my dressing-room I shall keep to myself, for it can scarcely contain all my gowns as it is.”
Mr Knightley returned her smile. “I would by no means infringe upon your domain. If only some small closet may be found for my shirts and coats, I shall manage very tolerably.”
They walked on, but Mr Knightley fancied that there was still an air of preoccupation about Emma. He had some notion of what the subject of her thoughts might be, and if his guess was correct, he did not wish to leave her to dwell on it alone.
“Emma,” he said quietly, “are you worried about that part of our marriage?”
“Oh – no,” she replied, a little too quickly. “It is only that I am not used to sharing a bed with anybody. Isabella, you know, was almost out of the schoolroom by the time I was out of the nursery, and in any case, there were rooms enough to give each of us our own. But” – she directed another blushing glance at him – “I am sure I shall grow used to it soon enough.”
Mr Knightley suspected that there was some measure of evasion in this reply, but he thought it best not to press the matter. It had been less than two days since he had proposed and been accepted, and even during that conversation, she had at first invited him to address her merely as a friend. It was quite natural, then, that she should require some time to accustom herself to the notion of their becoming husband and wife.
“You were fortunate,” he said instead. “John and I slept in the same bed as boys. I dearly hope that you are less prone to kick in your sleep.”
Emma laughed, and her hand – which had tensed a little on his arm – relaxed again. “I can make no promises,” she replied, “but if I prove to be too unbearable a bedfellow, I will not begrudge you a separate room to sleep in on occasion.”
“I doubt that it shall come to that,” said Mr Knightley firmly.
Emma made no reply, but her free hand came up to rest on his arm along with the other, and though her colour remained rather high, he judged that she looked more pleased than not. They walked for some time in silence, but Emma was not one to be long restrained by bashfulness. Halfway through their second circuit of the shrubbery, Mr Knightley discovered her regarding him with a saucy smile.
“Have I done something to amuse you?” he inquired.
“No,” she replied. “I was merely wondering how you will bear the separation from William Larkins. Should I have a room made up for him, too?”
Mr Knightley smiled, shook his head, and bore the ensuing teasing with good grace. Emma was happy, and for his part, that was all that truly mattered.