Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Emma’s mind is in such a flurry that she scarcely notices the approach to Hartfield until the familiar slope of the hill presses her back into the firm carriage cushions. The rest of her journey had passed in such a daze that she could hardly tell if it had been minutes or mere seconds.

She knows she must collect herself, for it would not do to arrive looking anything less than herself. Her father, no doubt, would be anxious enough for her arrival as it is, without her being out of spirits. She must not give him any cause for concern. There can be no hint as to what had passed between herself and Mr Elton on the journey back from Randalls.

But oh, how angry she is! And how wretched she feels! To have been so wrong in her assumptions, to have not seen Mr Elton’s behaviour for what it was: an attempt to attach himself to her, rather than her friend! The odious, presumptuous man - to have thought he had made any impression on Emma’s heart - it truly was an act of wilful blindness.

And poor Harriet indeed! Emma thinks of her friend’s sweet face, and of the knowledge that she must break this information as gently as she can. For Harriet would never have thought of Mr Elton if it had not been for her! It is a most painful lesson, indeed.

Emma takes a steadying breath as the carriage passes under the Hartfield archway, the sound of horses hooves on gravel giving way to the clip of flagstones. She takes a moment to adjust her gloves, straighten her spine. Her own desperate spirits must be put away for now. She is content and amiable Miss Woodhouse once more.

The carriage draws to a fluid halt, and within short moments, the footman has flung open the door with abrupt haste. It is most unlike, and so as she looks out to express her displeasure, Emma is surprised to find herself handed out not by the footman, but by Mr Knightley.

“Oh, it’s you!” she starts, as she allows Mr Knightley’s firm grip to guide her down the steps, Emma’s eyes remaining studiously on her feet until they reach solid ground. It is only then that she looks up at him, trying at this very last moment to complete her transition into an image of perfect peace and serenity. Emma is sure she must fail because his shrewd eyes immediately narrow on her. Mr Knightley, as usual, is far too observant by half.

“Emma,” he says smoothly, clearly choosing not to comment on her rather abrupt exclamation, like he normally might. His tone is a strange mix of things, but Emma feels too tired to pick apart the individual components right now. She instead turns her attention to his person. It is abundantly clear that he has been standing outside for some time. There are small crystals of snow across the shoulders of his fine dark greatcoat, a sheer dusting along the brim of his hat.

“Have you been waiting for me?” she questions, eyes brushing down the slopes of his arms to the toes of his shoes.

Mr Knightley's mouth opens, closes, and then opens again. A fog forms in the air as his warm breath hits the cold. “I found myself surplus to requirements indoors. John and Isabella are settling your father. I… I felt I would bring more comfort to him by awaiting your arrival.” His shoulders square as he says this, and he seems to notice that he is still holding her hand even though it has long since been unnecessary. He immediately withdraws it, before clasping his own together behind his back.

“I am here and well,” Emma answers gaily, a little too gaily it seems, for Mr Knightley instantly frowns.

He peers around her and into the depths of the carriage. Emma dares not follow suit. She has no desire to see the inside of that carriage again for the next fortnight at least. “It seems you have arrived alone?”

Emma, knowing Mr Knightley as she does, senses what question is to follow, and wishes to avoid it. “As you can see,” she replies, adjusting her cloak around her. “Now, let us both get inside before my father sends out a search party. I can hardly believe he would have endorsed your standing out in the cold, even for my sake.”

She moves to pass him, before a brief hand on her forearm pauses her step. The butter yellow of his leather gloves is such an unusual colour for a man so practical as Mr Knightley that Emma cannot help but wonder how his purchase of them came about. As ever, he is quite singular. Even more singular is the way he has sought to capture her attention. It is not that she minds Mr Knightley’s touch - indeed, she welcomes it on the rare occasion it is bestowed. But he so scarcely grants it, and so Emma knows it must be important that he is extending it now.

“A moment, Emma,” he says, rather seriously. The clatter of the carriage wheels as it is rolled away to the stable block echoes out behind her. “For now, your father is well accommodated.” He turns his head back towards the servant hovering in the doorway. “Please advise Mr Woodhouse that his daughter has arrived safely and will change her damp shoes before she joins him.”

Emma attempts to level a sulky stare at Mr Knightley but is only met by the angular cut of his jaw as he watches the servant nod and leave to do as prompted. Finally he turns back to her, blue eyes sharp.

“My shoes are perfectly fine,” Emma retorts with a pout, emphasising her point with a stomp of one of them on the hard ground.

This emits a half smile from Mr Knightley, but it does not linger long. “Indeed, I am sure they are, Emma. But your father will not begrudge you the few minutes to change them. I merely wish for a few moments of your time, for it is now clear there is something I must clarify.”

“Oh, is that so?” Emma finds herself saying in rather short temper. She is not in the humour tonight to be talked down to and can sense from Mr Knightley’s rather firm manner that this is what lies in wait for her. Right now, she simply aches for the solitude of her chambers so she can reflect on the dreadful events of the past half hour.

Mr Knightley ignores her slight. “Emma, were you not... accompanied on the journey back to Hartfield?”

She cannot help but flinch at his path of inquiry. For it appears Mr Knightley has parsed that something has gone amiss, and Emma has not the time or ability to conjure up an adequate untruth. As a result, she can only deflect.

“I do not see the use in this line of questioning, Mr Knightley. I am here and I am safe, and there is no more dialogue on the matter required,” she replies, rather more harshly than such a fine gentleman as Mr Knightley deserves.

An eyebrow merely quirks at her, totally unflustered by her manner. “The purpose of my query, dear Emma,” he says pointedly, and she knows he only calls her that when he is at his most generous, “is to ascertain whether I need to beg your forgiveness.”

Emma is now quite puzzled. Mr Knightley, perpetually correct, asking for her forgiveness? It is most odd, although, Emma thinks, not an occasion to be overlooked. “My forgiveness?”

There is a tiny twitch about his rather handsome mouth at her tone of apparent disbelief. “Quite,” he answers with a short bob of his head. His gloved hands have now come to twist together in front of his stomach in something remarkably like contrition. It is a look of his that Emma is rather less acquainted with, but notes how very much she thinks it suits him. “I realised that in the confusion, the... haste to convey your father home, I did not adequately see to your safety.”

“My safety?” All Emma can do is echo him helplessly.

“Yes, to ensure you did not travel alone, at such an hour, and on such an evening.”

“Oh,” she says, hardly knowing how to respond. The gauzy material of her dress may look well in the candlelight but it is no match for the out of doors, but she represses a shiver anyway. Emma is slowly coming to realise that by correcting Mr Knightley’s assumption about her journey home, she will end up opening this conversation up to a whole other avenue which she would rather he was not privy to.

Emma makes one last attempt to sway the topic to safer ground. “To be sure, I have travelled by carriage quite alone before. Only the other day, I went to Randalls quite on a whim when Harriet could not be called away from Mrs Goddard’s.” The mention of Harriet makes Emma’s heart compress in her chest. But no, now is not the time for such maudlin thoughts. “All was well then. Did you not think the Westons looked well this evening? So very happy, both! It was such a great shame that the party had to disband so early.”

Mr Knightley’s face has turned from guilt to suspicion and Emma immediately knows that her plan of distracting him has not worked. If anything, his focus has become razor sharp, those blue eyes of his rather affixed to every aspect of her face.

“You and I both know perfectly well that travelling to Randalls in the middle of the afternoon is not the same as journeying all alone on a dark and wintery evening,” Mr Knightley replies with grim humour. One of these days, Emma is sure she will succeed in waylaying him, but her attempt this evening has clearly been unsuccessful. “I will not accept your endeavours to alleviate my poor conduct, Emma. Your generosity, your consideration of our… friendship,” Mr Knightley seems to swallow thickly before continuing, “is a credit to your good nature, but my oversight was very grave indeed-”

Oh, this will not do! Emma, although quite certain that correcting him will bring her no peace at all, cannot bear the idea of Mr Knightley punishing himself for something he need not.

“Sir!” she exclaims finally, unable to let him continue in this vein. Now it is Emma’s turn to reach out, to touch him, as forward as that may be. But he is an old friend and Emma feels her actions need to provide just as much reassurance as her words. “Please. I must correct your misinformation. You judge yourself too harshly, and do not have all the facts fully at your disposal.”

Mr Knightley’s brow furrows as he whips the hat from his head, like it might help him understand her better. He looks immediately younger, less intimidating. He blinks at her; once, twice, three times, his lashes catching the faint flakes of snow that are still falling around them.

“Is… is that so?”

“Indeed, sir!” she nods rather forcefully. Mr Knightley’s rested conscience is far more valuable to her heart than the reflected shame the truth will bring upon herself. “For Mr Elton conveyed me home, you see. Your fears of highwaymen and scallywags are quite unfounded.” Emma tries for a light-hearted smile, but removes her hand from his wrist all the same.

Mr Knightley looks relieved for about half a second. But then with a sudden jut of his chin, he stares down at her. “If that is the case, where was he when your carriage arrived? For I certainly did not see him within.” He clearly thinks she is lying to mollify him, if his skeptical look is anything to go by.

Emma resents his persistence, his observant eye. If only he hadn’t been waiting for her! Her solitary arrival would have gone unnoticed, uncommented on. Mr Knightley, in all his solicitude, has placed her in a rather troublesome predicament.

Emma tips her head back to stare at him just as defiantly. She refuses to back down, for she severely dislikes being bested by him. “If you must know, he vacated the carriage at the gate. For it was more convenient for him to cut across the field from there to get to Vicarage Lane, he said.” She has heard Mr Elton claim some such thing before, and is glad enough to be able to recall the information to hand now.

A lone eyebrow rises on Mr Knightley’s face, giving him a rather wry expression. “I should not think any man would want to cut across the fields on a night like this - certainly not when lacking in some sturdy footwear.” He looks down rather forlornly at his own rather fine dress shoes, and Emma can tell he is longing for his favoured riding boots. “Besides, I watched as your carriage passed the gates. I did not see it stop.”

Oh, so Mr Knightley had been scanning the horizon for her approach? He really is the most irritatingly diligent of men! Emma takes a steadying breath, determined not to let on just how much he has her cornered.

But he is not making her escape simple. “Unless… did he alight in motion?” His voice dances around the words, mirth undisguised.

Emma cannot help but huff in frustration at how Mr Knightley almost seems to be enjoying this. “Perhaps it was just before the gate,” she replies haughtily, but already feels the glow of red upon her cheeks giving her away. Emma has always felt herself a rather convincing liar, and yet Mr Knightley is most inconveniently excellent at ferreting out the truth. “I cannot recall precisely. It was too dark.”

“Too dark?” Mr Knightley lets out a low amused rumble from his chest, and oh, Emma detests when he does this. The sound is rich, deep, and he is the only man she knows who laughs like that; and yet, the fact that he is laughing at her makes her feel rather small and immature. She is neither of those things, despite his rather stubborn view of her qualities. “It is a lovely moonlit night, with the fresh brushings of snow! You exaggerate.”

Emma wishes to go inside, and really, knows that she is free to do so. Mr Knightley would not stop her should she try to move past him. And yet her feet feel stuck in place, rooted to the spot opposite him. “I do not see the purpose of this conversation any longer, Mr Knightley, as comical as you seem to find it.”

“No, Emma,” he replies, now all seriousness once more. “That is where you are wrong. I find it not amusing in the slightest. For what you are saying is that Mr Elton was tasked with the duty of conveying you safely to the very door of Hartfield - and not half a mile earlier - and yet it appears was negligent in this duty?” Mr Knightley has come to look rather stern indeed, an image which is rather offset by how the snow has settled amongst the tendrils of his hair, giving him a rather ethereal look.

Oh, but she can hardly tell him what really transpired, can she? Emma cannot bear to admit to him that she was wrong about Harriet, about Mr Elton, about so many things. She could not tolerate the shame of it! If only Mr Knightley’s opinion was not so very important to her, otherwise Emma would not be so hesitant to disappoint it. Besides, telling him of Mr Elton’s actions would be… very improper indeed! Emma can hardly think of the words without her skin feeling aflame.

Mr Knightley coolly observes her, awaiting a response. She has only one option.

“Mr Knightley,” she chides, “you hold Mr Elton too strictly to your own high standards. He is a gentleman, to be sure, but perhaps on this occasion may have let the wine go to his head. Besides, there is no great difference between accompanying me to the gate and to the door. Surely even you must accept that.”

Emma perceives the subtle workings of Mr Knightley’s jaw. He does not seem persuaded. Indeed, as soon as he speaks, Emma sees her plea has come to nothing. “I accept he is a young man, who perhaps wants for entirely good sense,” he acknowledges at first. “But even he, my dear Emma, should know better - if he is a gentleman as you so generously name him. No, no, it will not do. I will have to speak to him about this oversight.”

Mortification floods her. She cannot have Mr Knightley do anything of the sort, even though Mr Elton would hardly be able to protest - could hardly confess to the real reason for his premature exit of her carriage. Oh, the truth would be worse for him to admit to, and yet the idea of the two men having the occasion to circle around the reality seems too grim for words.

Emma shakes her head at him, an agitated hand reaching once more for his wrist. “No, no, Mr Knightley. I ask that you not - you will embarrass him!” The thick leather of his gloves does nothing to mute the warmth of his skin, even through her own thinner pair.

He stills at that, ponders the placement of her hand, and then her, silently for a long moment. “You care for his feelings so much that you will not have me set him straight?” Mr Knightley’s eyes are wide with surprise, rather stricken and if it were not for that expression Emma would not quite have grasped his meaning. But, oh dear, in the dim glow of the Hartfield lights, she understands his shock perfectly. He thinks her… attached to Mr Elton?

This would not do!

But before Emma can find the words to set him straight - for she very much must set Mr Knightley straight lest she ever be able to look him in the eye again - he continues.

“I appreciate you do not wish me to interfere. I am… acting too much like an older brother perhaps,” Emma sees him wince at that, and a curious feeling pools in her at the gesture. She does not quite understand it. “But your father, should he ever hear of it, would wish for me to say something. I will not tell him-” Mr Knightley quickly reassures her, and Emma breathes a sigh of relief for that at least, “-but for my part, I.. I… would not have treated you as such, Emma. You are too precious to-” he cuts off, shakes his head ruefully. “It matters not. I am determined that I shall call on Elton in the coming days, and speak to him. I will try not embarrass him, dear Emma - if that is… what you request.”

Oh, she can see very much the mistaken impression Mr Knightley now has of her. And it cannot remain unremedied any longer! In fact, Emma is rather put out that he should think so little of her - to believe that she would welcome Mr Elton as a suitor for herself? She cannot take measure of how he could perceive it so. How many times has she said - in Mr Knightley’s presence, too! - that she has no plans to ever marry? He must think her very fickle indeed if she were to suddenly forgo all her promises and assertions for a man like Mr Elton!

No, no. She cannot let Mr Knightley labour under this misapprehension, no matter the cost. The truth is far more awkward, to be sure, but something within Emma feels obliged to confess it more urgently than she has confessed anything in her entire life.

She stares up at him, studying him. For a man she knows second best only to her father, Mr Knightley is sometimes still very much a puzzle to her. On some days Emma feels she could predict every turn of his head, or particular smirk, and then on other days, like today, she feels him very much a stranger, with his own secret thoughts and looks that are truly known only to himself. Even now, she can see his mind deep in thought, a fierce flutter of eyelashes grazing the faultless angles of his face.

It is with a churning knowledge that Emma accepts she must tell him the truth. But she finds she cannot do it here. There is something altogether too intimate about the half darkness, the way they are quite alone in the shadows.

Emma wets her lips, drops her hand from where it has, for too long, remained on his wrist. “Mr Knightley,” she says, as if nothing is wrong, “let us go indoors, and perhaps speak a little more on this matter.”

Chapter Text

The pupils of his eyes seem to grow darker at her request. But nevertheless Mr Knightley nods before pivoting towards the house, motioning with his hat still in hand for Emma to go first. He follows half a step behind, just out her vision, but she can sense him beyond her shoulder.

Once in the house, she does not even attempt to remove her travelling cloak or her gloves. Instead Emma heads straight towards the library, her footsteps quick against the hallway floor. Judging by the variety of voices in the opposite drawing room, her father is still being placated by her sister and brother-in-law. Nonetheless, Emma is as quiet as possible as she eases the heavy door to the library open and slips inside. There is a roaring fire at one end, and Emma allows herself to inch towards it, the heat instantly swimming through her bones.

She hears the quiet tap of Mr Knightley’s shoes behind her, so much softer than the usual sound of his solid boots. As she turns, Emma notices that he has almost fully closed the door behind him - a hair's breath of a gap allowing them to grasp at some claim of propriety, even though it is only Mr Knightley and Emma could think of no one she would be safer with in all the world. He steps towards her slowly, his greatcoat still swirling about his ankles as he tugs off his gloves, drapes them atop his black hat, which he places down on her father’s writing desk.

“You speak of propriety, Mr Knightley, and yet you have no qualms about us being alone together like this,” she teases, trying to figure out quite where to start.

This appears to have been the wrong thing to say, for Mr Knightley simply scowls at her. “You have nothing to fear from me, Emma,” he answers stiffly, and there is something rather hurt in his manner of speaking. “As you well know.”

Already Emma feels she has made a misstep, quite without intention. She is on the verge of an apology, but is rendered silent when Mr Knightley steps before her, and the closeness of his presence leaves her a little breathless.

“What is it you wished to speak to me about?” he prompts before Emma has a chance to analyse why her chest feels suddenly too tight. She supposes it must be anxiety about the particulars she must impart. She is embarrassed and it will not be pleasant.

“Mr Knightley, you are too perceptive to be misled, I believe,” she begins. The fire, to her left, that was once warming, is now making her feel overly hot. The speckles of snow on the shoulders of Mr Knightley’s coat, and in his sandy hair, have already evaporated to nothing in the heat.

“Am I?” An eyebrow rises once more, his lips parting in gentle surprise. “Your flattery is superfluous, Emma.”

Mr Knightley knows her well, but on this occasion there is no false art in her summary of him. Emma finds it to be entirely accurate. But whatever the case, she is now simply determined to get this task over with. Even in the firelight, his rigorous gaze is so overpowering that Emma feels she must avert her eyes for a moment.

“You,” she begins with a short sigh, “have immediately sensed that something was astray with my arrival home this evening. And the… the absence of Mr Elton.”

He huffs. “I believe I have already said as much,” he grumbles, voice somewhere above Emma’s head as she continues to focus on the library rug under her shoes.

“Then you must understand that what took place was not in any way due to any encouragement given by me, I assure you! If you are to believe anything I am about to tell you, you must believe that!”

Emma now does not need to look at Mr Knightley to know how he has borne this tentative information. Even as she attempts to avoid his expressions, she senses the tension that has suddenly filled up the room, the way his hands have balled into fists by his sides.

His disembodied voice sounds strained. “Encouragement?” There is a rasping breath, and suddenly his index finger is crooked under her chin, tilting Emma’s head to force her to look up at him properly. His bare skin against hers feels shocking. The expression in his eyes is even more so. “Do you mean to say that…?” The sentence chokes to nothing. He seems unable to even seem to finish it, his disbelief all too clear.

Before Mr Knightley can jump to a conclusion that would doom her forever in his view, Emma spills out the truth. “He did not do anything improper… that is… no, that is to say… he merely offered, and… was refused.”

Oh, she wishes he would not gape at her like that, utterly wordless and eyes fathoms deep. “Offered? Refused?” he eventually swallows, his voice sounding hoarse and constricted.

Emma nods. Mr Knightley’s hand does not remove itself from her chin and for some reason she is quite glad of it - as if the fact that he is still touching her means he does not think less of her. “Quite emphatically,” she adds for good measure, in case he was under any illusions to the contrary.

Mr Knightley lets out a jagged exhale, and Emma can feel the ghost of it brush faintly against her cheek. She is quite sure they have never been in such prolonged proximity before and there is something about it that makes her stomach twist in a rhythm that is unfamiliar to her. “Quite emphatically?” he repeats, his hand suddenly dropping from her face as if the skin was scalding hot. Emma tries not to read too much into the motion.

She nods once again. It may be poor form to reveal the rejection of a suitor, even in such circumstances, but Mr Knightley surely will not judge her for this breach in a case such as this.

His face is all gravity. “He… Emma, he did not do anything else… untoward, did he?” A tightness has formed around Mr Knightley’s mouth and if she had not understood his meaning from his words alone, his alarmed expression would have done the job.

Emma hardly knows what to say, or how to describe the events in the carriage. It is not as if she has any such experience in these matters. Yes, Mr Elton had been too forward in supposing what he had. His hopes had been entirely misguided. But Emma instinctively understands this is not what Mr Knightley is asking, as delicate as his attempts are to establish the truth.

“You are asking if he has… injured me?” she questions cautiously, feeling the words form thickly against her tongue. Oh, why must he look at her like that; all fierce eyes and concern!

Mr Knightley nods, almost imperceptibly, as if the gesture itself is difficult for him to complete with ease. Emma can see how his jaw has set, how there is something approaching fury in his demeanour that was not there moments ago. He must think very little of Mr Elton to believe him capable of such actions! For all the distaste she now possesses towards the vicar, Emma has no heart to have him vilified for anything beyond his actual transgressions.

She takes a solidifying breath. “Then let me assure you, sir, that no liberties beyond the previously stated were made. He was… disheartened by my lack of reciprocation, and in light of that, opted to depart the carriage mid-way through the journey.”

Mr Knightley does not look pacified. “Merely disheartened?”

“Yes, disheartened.”

“Emma,” he frowns, leaning closer still, “you need not be delicate here. I know that you may feel you cannot speak to me about such things. But if he has acted in such a way that-”

Exasperation rattles through her, even if inwardly she can only but admire his chivalry. “Oh, Mr Knightley! You need not go charging about to defend my honour!”

Mr Knightley’s eyes contract at that, clearly taken aback. He remains acutely serious. “Emma, you do not underst-”

“-I understand perfectly,” she asserts strenuously. The long evening has left her weary and she is starting to fray around the edges. “Mr Elton expressed his sentiments, and was firmly rebuffed. And as such, he rather determinedly decided to part from my company. And while I do not know of your experience in having marriage proposals declined by ladies - although I can only firmly imagine this to have never taken place for she would be a very stupid lady indeed - it is hardly reasonable to have expected him to convey me the entire journey back to Hartfield after such a conversation!”

He gapes at her, hardly knowing quite where to start in reply to such a speech.

“Furthermore,” Emma continues, “I only confess this now so that you would not go and lecture him about something to which you were not privy to all the details!”

Mr Knightley makes a sound rather like a frustrated groan, a balled up fist pressing to his brow. “I do now rather wish I were not privy to this!” he mutters, staring for rather a long time into the snapping fire. The light makes his hair almost amber, a most becoming shade.

“That is rather your own fault, I daresay!”

“My fault?” Mr Knightley’s indignation is clear. “For simply being anxious about your safety? By all means, Emma, you may chastise me for a great many things, but I will not accept this charge as a reasonable one.”

“You know perfectly well that is not what I mean!” Emma hisses, aware suddenly of their rising voices and the fact that the sound may carry to where the others could hear them. It is bad enough that Mr Knightley now knows of this event, but she will not have them caught in the midst of a disagreement about it.

He paces away from her, and Emma feels the loss of his tall frame, his solid reassuring presence. Mr Knightley worries the floor opposite her for a moment, before he pauses on the spot.

“That pompous upstart!” he decries suddenly with a harshness of spirit. “Elton… he has often spoken of marriage, of… of his intention to find a wife. He has made no secret that he has high hopes. But I never imagined that he had settled his plans on you, Emma.” Mr Knightley makes no attempt to quell his outrage.

“I was blind to it also,” she accepts with a modest nod, although even as she says it, the dreadful reality bubbles up underneath. It is clear now that the methods of encouragement that Emma had used in efforts to direct Mr Elton towards Harriet, had been thoroughly misconstrued, partly due to her own blindness. And even worse, Mr Knightley had warned her that her labours for Mr Elton were likely to be in vain. To his credit, he has not yet attempted to remind her of this. “But perhaps it was just a whim of the moment! It is quite possible that the wine had merely overtaken his good sense.”

Mr Knightley clearly feels less generously about it for his face continues to be leaden and solemn. He clears his throat, takes a step back towards her. His hand, for a moment, looks to be on the verge of taking her own in his, but falls away at the last second. “I assure you, Emma - a man does not propose such things on the spur of any moment. Or at least, a man with any true depth of feeling would not.”

Oh, she detests the grave look in his eyes, and Emma wonders perhaps at a romantic past that Mr Knightley has never spoken of, has never even once alluded to. The very idea of such a past irritates her.

“Sir!” she cries with forced animation, almost too much so, “do you speak from experience?”

Mr Knightley looks as if she has wounded him somehow, and Emma is overcome with a panic that perhaps she has uncovered some secret love in his history that no one has ever told her about. His mouth draws itself into a thin line. “I assure you, I do not,” he replies eventually, and Emma can tell even from those few curt words that he speaks only the truth. Mr Knightley would not lie to her, not about such things. Emma finds herself relieved beyond measure, although cannot say for why.

“Well, you are altogether a far superior gentleman to Mr Elton,” she replies, eager to ease the density that seems to have swollen the air. “Perhaps it is youth that makes some men so insensible when it comes to proposing marriage.”

Mr Knightley grants her a sardonic grimace. “Yes, perhaps I am far too old for such matters of the heart.” He appears rather pained even as he attempts the jest.

Emma now regrets her silly words, because Mr Knightley, while older, is certainly not old. She has always thought that if one did not know any better, it would be no great difficulty to place him a great many years younger than his actual age. His figure is still firm, upright. He is active, intelligent, and handsome. Indeed, it is a wonder he has never found himself settled. Not that Emma would want that, of course, for it has always been her greatest desire that dear little Henry should never be displaced from Donwell.

“You are misunderstanding me intentionally, I am sure,” Emma manages to reply, levelling a glare at him. There is still perturbation on the surface on Mr Knightley’s features, but Emma sees the wicked glow of his humour slowly reappearing underneath. “Besides, as you know, you and I are quite destined to be the spinster aunt and uncle, and a happy arrangement that will be!”

But something heavy sits in Emma’s chest as she says it, a rather uncomfortable weight. It is not as if she and Mr Knightley have not teased each other about this very thing before. So why does she feel so odd about it now?

His expression remains a peculiar one, but he seems to absorb her words. “So I have been warned. But certainly Emma, you are young. You may yet find someone who will shake out this unwavering notion of yours. Perhaps,” there is a tic about Mr Knightley’s mouth, as if he is trying his best not to laugh, “in the coming days, you will regret your hasty rejection of Mr Elton?”

A quiet squeak of shock lurches out of her. How impertinent of him! No one else in the world could get away with such effrontery and remain in her good graces.

“Mr Knightley! I should think you know me better than to assume I would stoop so low as to accept a vicar!”

He tries once more to smother his bemusement, but in the end fails, granting her instead a mocking half bow. “You are quite right, Emma. But... even if you were to decide ever to marry - now, now, my friend, please hear me out - I find it quite impossible that there will ever be such a man who shall meet your exacting standards.”

Emma’s mind flicks immediately to Frank Churchill, mostly because she feels that is what it ought to do. After all, he is reportedly charming, good natured, and well grown to boot. And yet she only feels a quiver of curiosity when she thinks of him, rather than anything more. But she supposes that is natural, given the fact that she has never met the man. And yet, Mr Knightley’s previously unabashed criticism of Mr Churchill does ring her ears somewhat, even if Emma can never admit to it having merit out loud. Frank Churchill’s slight of Mrs Weston is something that even Emma cannot easily justify her way out of.

How she detests how right Mr Knightley so often is. He is truly a man of great sense, great perception. And while Emma acknowledges there are times when his ability to see her true motives is grossly inconvenient, it is only because his good opinion is the one that holds the greatest weight with her, if only for how difficult it is to earn.

In fact, if she were ever to marry, a man precisely like Mr Knightley would be just the thing, she thinks idly. Emma desires not for some simpering fop, without a mind of his own. Mr Knightley is certainly not that. And she knows him to be kind and loyal, deeply compassionate, with time for everyone within the Donwell parish and far beyond its borders. He is second only to herself when it comes to dedication to her father - Emma recalls many an hour watching Mr Knightley play endless rounds of backgammon, or discussing business, never with any sliver of impatience. No, he is quite the epitome of an ideal man indeed.

And to be sure, it requires no great persuasion for her to accept that Mr Knightley is certainly the most handsome man of her acquaintance. With his expressive eyes and genteel bearing, he is completely unlike any other - and yet there is no guise to his behaviour, no self-modification in the way he moves. How frequently Emma has found herself admiring how he stands in a room, or his manner of walking! Indeed, he is quite exceptional.

No, Emma cannot deny that she loves her friend, mostly dearly. And although this information is not new, certainly - for she has always loved him - Emma can feel a deep blush forming on her cheeks as she considers it in this moment. Oh, what strange fancies these are, she thinks, wanting to press her palms to her face but knowing that the gesture would seem strange. Her mouth has suddenly become quite dry.

Throughout these thoughts, the object of them has remained immobile - indeed, Mr Knightley appears only to be quietly observing her. Emma rather hopes that her face does not betray her racing mind, that these rather intrusive ideas are not so plain as to be seen by his astute nature. That would be a rather mortifying thing! For while there is no doubt that Mr Knightley is fond of her - Emma is not so blind as to not see it - she perceives that he is merely fond of her in a way that one is of a dear, but troublesome, friend.

Emma realises that she must speak. The silence has gone on too long and is becoming too pointed.

“Indeed, you are right,” she manages to fumble, wishing with all her being that he was not standing so close, staring at her so. Perhaps the wine has overtaken her too - although she had been careful with her intake - because Emma feels all at sea, quite overwhelmed by the rapid churning of her heart, and the idea that Mr Knightley is indeed very much the sort of man who is so very deserving of ardent admiration. Before she can even determine the wisdom of it, her voice has already continued onwards outside of herself. “I do believe there is probably only one man I know of who could possibly be all that I would desire in a husband.”

The low lying panic that had started in her belly darts quickly up her spine. Oh dear, she should not have said that! Emma can hardly understand quite where her senses have gone, only that they are now suddenly tangled up in quite a mess at the idea of Mr George Knightley as… as a husband.

Emma sees him flinch and is unable to make head nor tail of it before Mr Knightley lets out a short, bitter sigh. “I presume you speak of Mr Churchill?” He does not look happy for having to say the other man’s name.

It is not too late for Emma to agree, and forget this cloudy sensation that is making her head feel like it is immersed in a turbulent body of water. It is clear Mr Knightley expects her to agree - they had already exchanged words earlier in the evening on the very subject of Frank Churchill and found it was not a topic on which they could see eye to eye. But then, as Emma looks into his eyes, so strikingly vivid even in the low light, she suddenly finds she has no wish to mislead Mr Knightley as to her thoughts. She senses it may not be wise - indeed, it cannot be. It will be too forward by half, and perhaps he will think her silly. But for some reason, her heart will not desist with the idea.

“No,” she corrects, her tone rather more prim than she means it to be. Her hands knot together to keep them from trembling. “There is a far finer gentleman of whom I speak,” she replies, knowing that it is as close as she can get without a direct admission. Indeed, in Emma’s mind, she has already gone too far for concealment. Her own boldness surprises even her.

His lips part in a most surprised shape. How full they are, she thinks, trying not to stare, trying to retain any sense of decorum. It can only be the wine, and the shock of the evening, that has prompted this baffling turn of events, this abrupt unveiling in Emma’s heart. Her eyes trace the strong slope of his nose, the broad flats of his shoulders. These revelations are so very discomforting, even as something like a fire burns in her belly.

“Oh,” Mr Knightley murmurs finally, looking rather struck, like he cannot possibly work through her meaning to any conclusion that makes logical sense to him. His eyes bore into hers, and Emma feels that the ground might swallow her up and she may not even notice.

But what she does notice is the way one of his hands reaches for hers, and for a fleeting moment Emma wishes that she was not wearing her gloves still. The touch, previously so jarringly intimate, now feels too distant for her wishes.

The way Mr Knightley is looking at her makes her feel that he must understand her - how could he not, he who sees everything? Can he not now see into her mind, her heart, her soul? Emma does not quite know how to articulate herself, for the language of this precise feeling escapes her. All she knows is that it borders on something momentous.

A tenderness, a softness appears in his expression that was not there before. Does he mean to thank her for the compliment, and let it remain there? Perhaps that is wise, for Emma has not yet grasped the whole of these emotions or where they have come from, only perhaps that they have been buried there in her heart for quite some time, growing and growing.

His silence is torturous, until finally a motion appears at the corner of Mr Knightley’s mouth, the hitch of his beautifully crooked smile. He looks quite wondrous in the low light, his face now flushed to surely match her own.

“My dearest Emma,” he starts, seeming quite captivated by the words, “please let me not misunderstand you now. Do you… do you mean to say-”

There is a thud against the door, so sudden and so loud that Emma jumps, her hands jerking out Mr Knightley’s firm grasp before falling away to her sides.

“Ahh!” A familiar voice calls out, satisfied. “There you both are.” John Knightley seems to find nothing amiss as he stands in the doorway, one hand splayed against the thick panel of the door. “Emma, your father is quite impatient to see you. He will not settle until you have come by.”

Her father, of course! How very remiss of her. And yet, it feels like the greatest loss in the world to leave this particular fireside for the other just across the hall. Her hands are still shaking.

“I will come now,” Emma concedes, her heart sinking, sinking, sinking to somewhere under her shoes - the ones she has not changed for appearances’ sake. She can only hope her father does not notice.

John nods, hovering still by the door, with seemingly no idea as to what he has just interrupted. But he is both so like and yet unlike his brother that it is hard for her to say with any certainty.

Emma finds she has no inkling of how to take leave of Mr Knightley, nor of what he had been about to ask her, and her whole heart longs to stay to hear it. But one glance at his face tells her the moment has gone. His expression is now shuttered, thoughtful, introspective.

So she pads away towards the door, wondering whether she should speak to bid him goodnight. And yet, she has no desire to prompt his return to Donwell which is surely what must now follow. If only he could linger a little longer, come with her to the drawing room perhaps. Emma is at the library threshold when she chances another look back at him. She can not say what has compelled her to do it, only that she knows she must have sight of Mr Knightley one more time before she needs to recall her charms for her father’s comfort.

What she does not expect is the quiet desperation that she finds. Mr Knightley appears at a loss, a perfect picture of confusion and wildness plain across his features. No man has ever looked at Emma in such a way before. He looks very much like she feels: dissatisfied, incomplete, unmoored. It gives her pause, until John Knightley’s voice once again calls her to attention.

“I’ve had quite some trouble persuading your father that one does not die of a cold brought about by damp shoes,” he says with barely veiled exasperation as he ushers her out and into the hall. “But I am sure he will not be calm until he hears it from you directly. You may have to subject yourself to a great lecture.”

“Very well,” Emma finds it within herself to acknowledge, although not paying particular heed. All she can think of is Mr Knightley standing alone in the library without her.

John gives her a strange look as he walks step by step beside her towards the drawing room. His height makes him have to bow down to examine her. “Are you quite well, Emma? You seem quieter than usual. Has my brother been lecturing you again?”

At the mention of Mr Knightley, Emma’s insides clench. “No, no, he has not,” she quickly answers, eager to defend him, unusual for her at the best of times. “I am just a little fatigued, that is all.”

Her brother-in-law nods in agreement. “Quite so. It is a tiresome business, leaving one’s own home. It is a wonder why anyone does it. I say, Emma - are those not the same shoes you were wearing earlier?”