Chapter Text
Emma had hoped for further distraction after the misadventure of Box Hill. Having paid her visit to Miss Bates and been satisfied as to improving her relationship with the good lady, she had returned home to find Mr Knightley taking his leave. He had pressed her hand in farewell and all the assurance that she needed to know that she had not completely lost his approval—his regard. Emma was satisfied with this.
She had, however, expected more from Frank. He had given her every demonstration of his affection at Box Hill. She had thought that there was no doubt he would ask to write to her upon his next departure. But she heard from Mrs Weston; Frank Churchill had once more been summoned to Enscombe. He had left without a farewell. Emma did what she could to distract herself. She continued to ask Miss Bates if she could assist her, and upon hearing of Jane's poor health and situation, continually put forth her best efforts in befriending her, though she was turned away at every friendly overture.
It left Emma wandering through Hartfield, low in spirits and confused. Surely, Frank felt affection towards her. Wasn't he in love with her? All of his actions had shown it. For most of her life she had told herself that she would want no husband. She could be independent and remain in the enviable position as mistress of Hartfield with loved ones surrounding her. Frank's appearance in her life had shown her a doorway into a life she had not realized she desired. To have a companion, an equal, which whom she could share her thoughts and true self without fear. Despite some of the pitfalls that were yet before her—dealing with Frank's bouts of ill-humor (such as at Donwell during the strawberry picking), her father's position, her own stubbornness and set ways—she still thought a high regard was shared between them.
The news came through a letter from the Westons, a quick note to let her know of why Frank had not written.
Mrs Churchill was dead, leaving Frank free and able to pursue his own destiny. The word came to Hartfield and Emma felt all the joy of the Westons. Surely, Frank's freedom would allow him to come back to Highbury. Her hopes grew. Indeed, upon being summoned to Randalls one afternoon, she was expecting nothing less than to hear news of his return and his eagerness to see her.
In her excitement, she did not quite take note of the way Mr Weston greeted her, rather hesitant and then quickly murmuring about taking care of business and disappearing. Nor did she realize that Mrs Weston was a reserved, a line between her eyes that usually was not there.
Her former governess was not one to delay bad news.
Emma sat in silence as she was told.
It was news of Frank Churchill, but of a completely different vein than Emma anticipated.
The dismay that Emma felt upon Mrs Weston's confession could be scarcely described. Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill! Her mind flashed back to Mr Knightley's warning, and her own laughing dismissal. Of course, her oldest and wisest friend had known best. How he would look on her with severity at her disappointment.
Mrs Weston had politely turned her face to allow Emma to compose herself. Emma could not quite do so, folding her shaking hands together in her lap.
"If you could," she said faintly. "Tell me the details, and quickly, I would be obliged."
Mrs Weston was eager to do so, to not draw out Emma's pain. She was not insensible to Emma's sufferings. She moved to sit next to Emma on the settee. She spoke gently but quickly, allowing Emma to have the opportunity to know the entire picture without lingering on the painful details.
Here, Emma realized, she was in the position of Harriet not so long ago. After Mr Elton's proposal, she had done the same sort of confession. Harriet had responded with grief and no blame. Emma knew she could do no different, but could not bring herself to grieve, not in front of Frank Churchill's stepmother. It was one of the few times she had felt the evil of her matchmaking to change Miss Taylor to Mrs Weston. She desperately needed her friend and mentor's comfort, but could not take it.
"I will need some time to consider all of this," she managed. At her side, Mrs Weston's eyes filled with tears.
"Of course, dear Emma. Please, if I can—"
"No, no. Do not be uneasy, Mrs Weston. I will be well shortly."
Mrs Weston seemed to wish to comfort Emma, but there was little she could do. At length, they parted ways, both grieving in their own fashion.
Emma walked alone from Randalls before Mr Weston could make a reappearance. If she had not been equal to comforting Mrs Weston, she was even less so able to provide that false humor necessary to a man who liked to think so well of all that surrounded him. His attempts to lighten or improve the situation would only aggravate Emma's grief.
The heat of the summer was condensing with an oppressiveness of an oncoming storm. Emma made her excuses to her father, despite knowing that Mr Perry would be engaged to examine her for skipping her dinner. She could not make herself equal to the soothing she usually performed for his spirits, when she was brought so low.
Emma's grief was unique. It was a strange blend of self-reprobation and pain. Why had she not stayed true to her ideals? Her declaration to Harriet so long ago, that she never meant to marry, it rang in her ears as a mockery. At that time it had seemed an iron-clad declaration. But all it had taken was a few smiles from Frank Churchill and she'd found it easy enough to settle with pleasure into the idea of romantic affection.
She bore Mr Perry's visit with some excuse, took to her bed and slept ill. Her pain and disquiet did not allow her to rest, and she rose the next morning just as confused. She did compose herself enough to manage a normal breakfast with her father. Some brief murmurings about women's troubles were enough to distract him. She had some errands to run, which allowed her an escape.
As she walked along the familiar roads, Emma tried to sort through her feelings. Where did her disappointment truly lie? She had never felt that her affections were so engaged that she would be rendered a pining, dramatic creature of romantic novels. Yet she was not as easy and unaffected as she might have hoped.
She had not given herself enough time to prepare. Emma entered into Ford's, ostensibly to by some fabric for a new dress, and found herself the spectacle. All eyes were on her, whether directly or through sly second glances. Emma could not hide her blush of mortification as she approached the counter.
No one addressed her directly. Whispers around her, the name 'Churchill' somehow spoken every few moments. Emma held herself so tightly that by the time she exited Ford's with her package, her shoulders felt sore.
Never had she been so treated. Emma Woodhouse had spent her entire life in Highbury. As a child she had delighted everyone with her cleverness and sweetness. She had always had the respect and deference due to her for the position she held.
Now, she was subjected to the gossips of Highbury. Emma wanted to rage against it, to proclaim herself ill-used, but she knew she could not do so. Was this not her punishment? After her unfeeling behavior towards Miss Bates, it did not seem all that unlikely. Perhaps she had always misconstrued everyone's manners towards her. Did they think her prideful and foolish? She had always made it a point to ensure that societal lines were not crossed. No doubt her pride was interpreted negatively against her. She had thought herself to be generous towards those less fortunate than herself, but had she not neglected those duties whenever it suited her?
Abashed, embarrassed, and as confused as she was, Emma returned home to hide in her shame.
Mr Woodhouse was not so oblivious as to notice when Emma could not shake her low spirits. He put all of his efforts into ensuring her well-being. Emma was not able to refuse the bowl of gruel, his insistence at a shawl next to the fire. Her cheeks grew rosy from warmth, but she could not manage, not even for her father's sake, to revive herself to his satisfaction.