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Miss Knightley was heartily sick of Frank Churchill long before his fortnight in Highbury was up. For the sake of the Westons, whom she regarded highly, she would have been pleased to be proven wrong in her own cynical assessment of the likelihood of Frank Churchill ever appearing. A man of Mr. Weston’s temperament could not have been anything less than jubilant at welcoming his son home after all this time, and the new Mrs. Weston was owed a proper visit from her son-in-law. But when Emma took up the refrain of Frank Churchill, embroidering a fantasy of a man stuffed with more virtues than any young man had ever laid claim to, Miss Knightley found her patience growing thin more rapidly than she could account for. At another time, she might have thought of the ball at the Crown only as a good thing for Emma, who had so few opportunities for dancing. Under the circumstances, the ball was a continuous source of irritation for her, as it only increased the number of references to Frank Churchill in Emma’s conversation.
“I am afraid, Emma, that I cannot take the same interest in these plans that you do,” Miss Knightley said, heading off an account of the ongoing preparations. “You must find a younger woman to enter into your enthusiasm. I would just as soon spend a quiet evening by myself at Donwell reviewing my accounts. It would be more comfortable than an evening squeezed into a noisy, stuffy, crowded room.”
“You are dangerously close to sounding like my father!” Emma said. “Pray don’t speak as if you were beyond any other amusement than sitting at home. You will come, will you not?”
“Yes, of course, I will come,” Miss Knightley said. “I could not refuse the Westons’ kind invitation.”
“You will merely refuse to enjoy yourself. You think the rest of us frivolous creatures for wishing for a ball,” Emma accused.
“I said no such thing,” Miss Knightley responded. “But you know I never dance. And you really would think I was in my dotage if I were to speak of the pleasure of ‘seeing the young people dance!’ I believe it is only ladies of Mrs. Bates’s years who speak of such.”
“I grant you that,” Emma said with a gleam of amusement.
The evening would no doubt find Miss Knightley on the edge of the room talking business with the men who chose not to dance. Feeling, as she often did, like neither fish nor fowl. Tolerated among the gentlemen for her unladylike business sense, for the dignity of Donwell Abbey, for some lingering respect for her late father who encouraged her interest in the land. But not accepted as one of them any more than she could make herself feel truly at home with the women.
Emma would lead out the dancing, handsome and graceful, the candlelight lending a sparkle to those hazel eyes. With a smile of unaffected pleasure, she would bestow one white-gloved hand on… on Mr. Churchill, of course. Miss Knightley felt her jaw clench the moment he intruded on the picture.
There. That was it, she realized with a feeling as though the floor was falling out from under her feet. What she really couldn’t bear was the thought of him ushering Emma to the top of the line, her hand in his, because she wanted to be the one to do it. The reason for her barely restrained ire toward the young coxcomb, all this time, was jealousy.
“Miss Knightley?” Emma asked, seeming to take her silence for displeasure. “What have I said this time to provoke you?”
The words jolted her back to the present, and Miss Knightley flushed at being caught out, striving to paper over whatever emotion showed on her face. “Nothing—that is to say—I was wool-gathering.”
Emma looked skeptical. “Thinking of your beloved accounting books, I suppose,” she said.
With an abruptness and awkwardness that bordered on rude, Miss Knightley invented a reason that she needed to take her leave.
Rarely had Miss Knightley been so grateful for a bracingly cold wind and a solitary walk back to Donwell Abbey as she was that day. She needed to stretch her limbs to maintain some semblance of calm even as her thoughts whirled.
A great many things suddenly appeared to her in a new light. She was sick with envy—not envy for Emma that she was the object of Frank’s gallantry, but envy for Frank that he was the recipient of Emma’s smiles. He could be the acknowledged, the sanctioned admirer of Emma Woodhouse—Miss Knightley had not missed the looks of approval passing between the Westons—as a Georgiana Knightley never could be. Georgiana might hold a place in Emma’s life as friend, as begrudgingly tolerated mentor, as sister-in-law, but she could never hold the role of suitor.
When did this happen? When had these feelings stolen upon her, and how? She had lectured Emma and scolded Emma more than Miss Taylor ever had, with far less of a legitimate claim to that role than Miss Taylor had. She had not realized until now that Emma had long been faultless in her eyes, first of consequence in her heart.
She must, she told herself, be content—more than content, grateful for her privileged position in Emma’s life, the privilege of being always sure of a welcome at Hartfield no matter how many times she had quarreled with Emma. That must be enough, because she could not dare to aspire to anything else.
Without knowing how, Georgiana found herself in her own home, giving her pelisse and hat to the servant who greeted her, being told that a hot meal was waiting.
Only two days letter came a letter from Enscombe to dash all Emma’s hopes and soothe Miss Knightley’s temper: Frank Churchill was summoned by his aunt and must immediately leave Highbury. The ball was postponed indefinitely.
Tamping down her own selfish relief, Miss Knightley did her best to assure Emma of her real sympathy for Emma’s disappointment.
…
This state of affairs did not last forever. Mr. Churchill returned to Highbury; a new date was fixed for the ball. The evening was a success to do the organizers credit: the room was full of people ready to be cheerful, to dance, and to play cards.
Contrary to what she had said to Emma, Miss Knightley found her attention straying frequently to the couples dancing, or rather, to one dancer in particular. When Emma danced with Frank Churchill, Georgiana’s jealous eye watched over their interactions closely; when she moved on to other partners, Georgiana’s eye was caught again and again by the elegance of her form in motion.
She was studiously averting her gaze from where Emma was progressing up the line when she overheard Mrs. Weston pressing Mr. Elton to dance. Mrs. Weston brought to his attention Miss Smith, who was in fact the only young lady unengaged for the moment, and suddenly Mr. Elton’s courtesy evaporated; he disclaimed all interest in dancing and turned away from Miss Smith.
“Mrs. Weston,” Miss Knightley said, approaching, “if there is a lack of gentlemen, would you allow two ladies to dance together?”
Her eyebrows rose, whether because of the request or because Miss Knightley wished to dance at all, but her easy response was, “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
Turning to Harriet, Miss Knightley asked in a courteous tone, “Would you care to dance with me, Miss Smith?”
Mortification turned to delight and gratitude on Harriet’s face, and she assented without hesitation. She followed Miss Knightley toward the center of the room with light steps. From their place at the bottom of the line, Georgiana was just able to catch the sour-faced looks passing between Mr. Elton and his wife.
Emma sought out Georgiana as soon as she could.
“So you think there is a lack of gentlemen in the room?” she asked archly.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Georgiana replied.
“But really,” Emma said in a softer tone, “thank you for dancing with Harriet.”
“I could hardly stand by while Mr. Elton insulted her so,” Georgiana said. “Mrs. Elton clearly wished to hurt her as well—and you, if I am not mistaken.”
“They cannot forgive me for wanting him to marry Harriet. I own that I was completely mistaken in Mr. Elton,” Emma said. “I wish I had never made such a blunder.”
“You would have chosen for him better than he chose for himself,” Miss Knightley replied. “I rather enjoyed my conversation with Miss Smith. She is a sweet, unpretentious girl, with good principles, infinitely better worth knowing than Mrs. Elton.”
“Do you know,” Emma began heatedly, “Mrs. Elton had the gall to ask me if you were not an eccentric? I soon set her straight on that point, you may be sure.”
“Am I not?” Miss Knightley asked.
“As if you could ever act in a way unbecoming of a gentlewoman!” Emma said, her indignation only growing warmer. “How dare she suggest such a thing about my friend?”
This spirited defense kindled a warm glow in Georgiana’s chest—and the shine of indignation in Emma’s eyes only made them lovelier in Georgiana’s estimation. She caught and held tightly onto that word friend.
Thankfully, she was saved the necessity of replying by Mr. Weston interrupting to urge Emma to dance the next set.
“Whom will you dance with?” Georgiana asked.
Emma was quiet a second, as if hesitating over her answer. Her gaze flicked from Georgiana to the rest of the ballroom and back again. “With you, if you will accept.”
“I will,” said Georgiana. She put out her arm for Emma to take.
“Now that you have shown that you can dance splendidly, I will not allow you to sit idly by,” Emma said.
Georgiana half smiled, bowing her head as if in submission.