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As she grew ever more certain that Mr. Elton had transferred his affections from Harriet to herself, Emma grew ever more vexed. Foolish, inconstant, unfeeling man! Emma thought with a flash of irritation. Mr. Elton, having placed himself directly between Emma and Mrs. Weston, attempted to engage her dearest friend in scolding Emma for her “careless” attitude towards her own health. She fixed him with a glare meant to restore his senses. Surely, he had imbibed far too much, and it was merely the spirits speaking. Surely, he knew that such behavior would only be reported back to her beloved Harriet.

Provoked and offended on both her own account and Harriet’s, Emma stood as regally as she could and swept away to another seat beside Isabella, feeling Mr. Elton’s eyes follow her even as she left him in disgust. Mr. Knightley’s words echoed in Emma’s mind, only serving to provoke her further. “If Elton is the man, I think it will be all labor in vain,” he had said.

Must he always be right? Emma wondered grudgingly, just as the object of her thoughts entered the drawing room behind his brother.

“Though I must regret being the bearer of bad news,” he said, and Emma perceived that Mr. John Knightley felt no regret in the slightest. His opinion on going out for Christmas seemed unchanged from earlier. “It is snowing in earnest, now. The ground is covered—still snowing fast—and there seems to be a fair driving wind, in the bargain.” With a final remark to Mr. Woodhouse that only Emma and Mr. Knightley seemed to understand as sarcastic, John had successfully managed to ensure a quick end to their evening at Randalls.

Much hurrying and worrying was to be done, and Emma left aside her earlier frustrations and attempted to cheer her poor father up; he had fallen gravely silent at John’s rather smug announcement. “We shall see ourselves home safely in no time, Papa. Surely the roads are not yet so dangerous as to make the journey impossible,” she soothed.

Mr. Weston interrupted John’s continued unfeeling commentary and Isabella’s concerns for her poor children with an invitation for all to stay put. “Oh, we have plenty of room here at Randalls, haven’t we, my dear?” he said, looking to Mrs. Weston for support. Her smile suddenly looked to be rather plastered on, no doubt thinking on the two spare bedrooms that would certainly not be enough for the gathered party.

Rather than soothe the building alarm, Mr. Weston’s invitation merely exacerbated it. Isabella appeared frantic with the thought of her children back at Hartfield, forced to spend Christmas without their mama and papa. Emma felt the responsibility to find a solution settle upon her shoulders, just as it always did. Peering out the window, Emma struggled in vain to make out just how much snow had fallen.

As she considered stepping outside to see for herself, Emma recognized Mr. Knightley’s reflection in the darkened glass, standing just behind her shoulder. Looking grave, Mr. Knightley only shook his head.

“Too dangerous?” Emma asked, understanding instantly his meaning.

“The wind has made it near impossible to see. The drivers would never be able to make it back in the dark,” he whispered, his message for Emma’s ears only. To rashly announce such a fate as to be snowed in at Randalls would only make matters worse.

Emma considered this, heart sinking for her father’s sake as well as Isabella’s. “And there is no hope of it letting up?” she whispered, staying with her back towards Mr. Knightley.

Mrs. Weston’s eyes were keen enough to suspect the worst if Emma and Mr. Knightley were having an open, hushed conversation. From where she sat, it would only appear that the pair were inspecting the snow from the window. Behind her, Emma felt Mr. Knightley shrug, their shoulders scarcely brushing. He may always be right, she reasoned with only mild irritation, but at least he is certainly dependable.

“Then we are to stay at Randalls,” she said, careful to keep her voice low.

“John will be delighted,” Mr. Knightley replied wryly. “Shall I tell them, or would you like to inform Isabella that her children must be watched over by the nursemaids on Christmas?”

“I had better do it. For if you should say anything, you would shock them all with your plainness of speech. You do not know what it is to have tempers to manage,” she said, turning around and finding herself at eye-level with his patterned waistcoat and cravat. To remind him that she was only in jest, Emma looked up coyly and caught Mr. Knightley shaking his head with a good-natured smile.

“Remind me of that next time we quarrel, dear Emma.”

Though Isabella protested that she should walk home before spending the night away from the children, the party resigned itself to stay at Randalls, at least until the snow let up. Mr. Weston merely smiled and ordered a backgammon table be set. To his credit, he only appeared half as overjoyed as he might have at the prospect of company for Christmas.

Emma excused herself with Mrs. Weston to contrive sleeping arrangements, should the snow carry on even later in the evening. With only the two spare rooms, it was bound to be a tight fit. “It would scarcely be proper,” Mrs. Weston said, “but I fear we may require the gentlemen to find their own sofa to sleep on.”

“My dear Mrs. Weston, nobody should think it improper. Given the circumstances, I believe we are all greatly indebted to you and your husband for allowing us a place to stay in the first place,” Emma replied smoothly. As they made their way back to the drawing room, Emma took a hopeful detour to the front hall which boasted large windows and less light as to impede visibility. “I shall join you in a moment. I feel as though I must check again for the sake of my sister and brother,” she said. “To spend Christmas away from one’s children must be a dreadful thing.”

Mrs. Weston smiled indulgently. “You are thoughtful as ever, Emma. Be quick, though. I should hate for you to catch a chill in this drafty hall.”

But the snow seemed to come down even thicker than before. Emma’s countenance fell, noting that it seemed at least four inches on the ground already. Even with as skilled a driver as James, the risk of overturning a carriage in such slick conditions was much too high.

“Miss Woodhouse.”

Emma furrowed her brow as she turned away from the window. “Mr. Elton, I hope you are not lost. I am sure Mr. or Mrs. Weston would be happy to give you a more extensive tour of Randalls when the light is better,” she said. A nagging feeling in her chest brought to mind her rising suspicion that Mr. Elton no longer loved Harriet.

With a dazed smile, proof that the drink had not yet worn off, Mr. Elton took a single step further. “I confess I have long awaited the opportunity to speak with you. Privately.”

“I hardly know what you should say to me in such a tête-à-tête—”

He cut her off. “Miss Woodhouse, I simply must tell you how I love you, how I have always loved you. Say you will marry me. I should be ready to die if you refuse.”

Alarm turned quickly to outright disgust. “Mr. Elton! You forget yourself. Anything you wish for me to tell Miss Smith, I am sure I can pass along.”

“Miss Smith? What could Miss Smith possibly have to do with anything?” he demanded; real confusion evident in his features.

“Mr. Elton, you know as well as I that you are in love with Miss Smith.” Impatiently, Emma tried to step around Mr. Elton but was blocked by his outstretched arm.

Frowning, Mr. Elton shook his head. “In love with Miss Smith? Miss Woodhouse, I have never looked at Miss Smith but as your friend. Never cared if she lived or died but as your friend. Everything I have done in the past months and weeks has purely been for you, Miss Woodhouse.”

Emma’s stomach tightened, ill at the thought of how she should explain this awful circumstance to Harriet.

“And after the encouragement I received—” Mr. Elton continued, gazing hopefully at Emma. She had never heard such an absurd claim.

Rising to her full height, Emma fixed Mr. Elton with a glare. “I? Give you encouragement?” she demanded. Surely, he was out of his senses.

Mr. Elton froze. “Do you deny it?” For once, Emma felt that she had not the words to reply, so irked was she. “Allow me to interpret this… interesting silence, Miss Woodhouse. It confesses you have long understood me.”

Her voice came back. “It confesses that you have used Miss Smith most abominably ill and have quite tried my patience by so doing. Your conduct has been most shocking indeed, but your disappointment should soon be got over. I have no thoughts of matrimony at present,” she snapped, pushing past his outstretched arm.

Head spinning, Emma paused before the door of the drawing room to compose herself. She was angry at herself for so misunderstanding Mr. Elton’s intentions and for encouraging Harriet. She was angry at Mr. Elton’s presumption to think him her equal in situation. She drew a fortifying breath and opened the door.

“Have the conditions improved, Emma?” Mrs. Weston asked, looking up from her book.

“Nay, though it pains me to admit it!” And pain her it did; spending the night under the same roof as Mr. Elton should be dreadful indeed. Once settled comfortably on a chair near Mr. Knightley’s, Emma allowed herself to breathe deeply once more. Mr. Elton would surely return once he finished playing the act of a jilted lover and Emma knew she would need all the strength she had to bear such a display with patience.

“I am afraid,” Mr. Elton said loudly as he threw open the door to the drawing room, “That I have just recalled a very important bit of church business that I must attend to this evening.”

“You mean to go out in such a blizzard as this?” Mr. Weston asked incredulously.

Mr. Elton nodded gravely, his eyes sweeping the room and pointedly passing over Emma. “For those of us blessed enough to be called the Lord’s servants, such weather must not stand in the way of going about His business,” he said with such an affected tone of solemnity that Emma very nearly laughed aloud. Beside her, Mr. Knightley raised an eyebrow as he caught her eye. Emma only returned the gesture, feeling suddenly the overwhelming urge to confide in him all that had transpired.

Mr. Woodhouse was immediately alarmed for Mr. Elton’s health, but no amount of persuasion should change Mr. Elton’s mind. Before anybody else should attempt it, Mr. Elton left with a flourish, stopping only to grab his greatcoat and hat on the way out.

“I would imagine you have some explaining to do, Emma,” Mr. Knightley whispered as the rest of their company fell into bewildered conversation about Mr. Elton’s incomprehensible behavior.

“Nonsense. Mr. Elton is quite his own master. If he wishes to walk in the dark and snow, I should hardly prevent him,” Emma said archly.

Mr. Woodhouse soon wished to retire, having resigned himself to a bowl of gruel that could scarcely compare to his own cook’s method. The look in his eyes seemed to say, “Poor Miss Taylor! To leave Hartfield for this?” Emma was only grateful that Mrs. and Mr. Weston seemed too preoccupied with calling for servants to prepare the spare rooms and nightclothes for their guests to notice Mr. Woodhouse’s mournful demeanor.

Rooms were prepared, clothes ordered, and Emma found herself in a borrowed dressing gown wrapped over her chemise. “You know, I encouraged Mrs. Weston to purchase the fabric for this dressing gown over a rather plain shade of blue. She had been quite taken with it, but I think this suits her complexion far better,” she said to Isabella as she sat brushing her hair out.

“Mrs. Weston has always taken your advice most readily,” Isabella agreed, though with a distracted air. “I do hope the children shall sleep well without us home. Only think if one were to catch ill and be left at the mercy of the servants.” Emma refrained from telling her sister that, doting mother though she was, Isabella had entrusted the same nursery maids to care for her children on countless other occasions. Such a reminder would hardly be acceptable in the circumstances.

“I am sure they shall be perfectly well, Isabella. They are left in capable hands. And nobody should expect us home in such weather.” Such calming language, far from eliminating the crease between Isabella’s brow, at the very least served to quiet her down. A few moments of contemplative, worried silence, and then Isabella laid down in the bed with little ceremony and fell asleep.

It brought to Emma’s mind pleasant recollections of childhood. Isabella had always been prone to sleep quickly and anywhere, particularly during lessons. Dear Miss Taylor—no, Mrs. Weston—had only ever sighed and turned her full attention to Emma upon such occasions. Emma had once overheard Mr. Knightley claim to John that if he’d wished for a wife who might better understand his wit, he ought to have married one who hadn’t dozed the moment a book fell open on her desk.

But Emma believed that part of her sister’s charm was her ability to love adoringly and simply, and to recognize some of John’s more sarcastic comments would have spoiled the whole of it. And such a wife was ideal for John, who must have hated to hold his tongue for fear of offense or jealousy. He was the center of Isabella’s world, and Emma suspected that he found such a position perfectly suited to his temperament.

Mr. Knightley was quite the opposite, however. He had said as much when Emma had spoken of Harriet’s many attractions in her favor, foolishly supposing that they would be enough for Mr. Elton’s liking. “Men of sense do not want silly wives.” Though Emma had decided upon Mr. Elton’s departure that she should give up matchmaking forever, she allowed herself to consider what a woman Mr. Knightley would seek out.

At seven-and-thirty, he seemed content in his bachelorhood, but one never knew. Hearts are fickle things, as Emma was rapidly discovering. Try as she might, Emma could think of no woman in her acquaintance who should best fit Mr. Knightley’s taste and temperament. He was not similar enough to his brother, which eliminated any woman similar to Isabella. Her beloved Harriet, though certainly capable of securing an advantageous match, would never do. Jane Fairfax crossed Emma’s mind only very briefly but instantly felt that Mr. Knightley should never love someone as distant and unfeeling as she.

Truly, no woman of her acquaintance was worthy of Mr. Knightley. The disparity between him and the other men and women of Highbury was much too great. Vexing though he could occasionally be, particularly when he was smug about being right, Mr. Knightley was decidedly above, both in manner and in fortune, the limited society of Highbury. In any case, Mr. Knightley’s marrying anybody would deprive her sweet nephew Henry his inheritance of Donwell Abbey. That would certainly not do.

It was late by now; the timepiece above the fireplace said as much. But Emma had never slept well away from her own bed. Being home so much as she was had scarcely allowed her to grow used to the sensation of sleeping under another roof. She supposed she was similar to her father in that way and wondered if he was also awake in the room beside her. Tea with honey often helped when Emma found her active mind refusing to tire, so Emma decided to take a trip to the kitchens. In any other home, she might have felt some trepidation to presume such a thing, but at Randalls she felt she could make some allowances for propriety.

Ensuring that her borrowed dressing gown was tied securely over her chemise, Emma closed the door behind her softly. Having spent enough time at Randalls to find her way even in the dark, Emma anticipated no disruptions to her midnight cup of tea. Through the glimpses she caught of the outside world, it seemed the snow had stopped but left a thick blanket. The moon reflected off the snow in so breathtaking a way that Emma must stop at the window and admire the prospect.

Her thoughts turned to the sea, and she considered if moonlight had much the same effect on the swelling waves as it did on the snow. She should have to ask Mr. Knightley if that were true, for Isabella would exaggerate and her husband underestimate. Mr. Knightley alone could be depended upon to speak the truth.

Emma found the Westons’ cook dozing idly beside the kitchen hearth. Surely to sleep in such an awkward position, cramped as she was in her chair, was far from comfortable. Emma found no guilt in waking her and requesting a cup of tea. With tea in hand, Emma insisted that the woman retire directly. “I shall be perfectly well by myself,” Emma assured her, stirring a spoonful of honey into her cup. Only mild protestations passed the cook’s lips and she left Emma with a drowsy curtsy.

Emma’s scattered thoughts settled most frustratingly upon her conversation with Mr. Elton. All over again, she felt the full force of her crimes against Harriet. How should she ever put things to right? The sound of the kitchen door creaking open mere moments after the cook had left pulled Emma’s thoughts back to her surroundings.

“Emma? Whatever are you doing down here?” Sitting up taller and feeling instantly embarrassed to be discovered where she ought not to be, especially by Mr. Knightley, Emma only lifted her teacup by way of explanation.

Mr. Knightley had not yet dressed for bed, despite the late hour, but had shed his jacket and stood only in his shirt and waistcoat. “Are you not tired?” he asked. “I hope nothing of the evening’s events has pressed itself upon your mind as to disrupt your sleep.” Though his manner had been easy enough, Emma thought she detected some real concern behind his words, a trace of a reference to Mr. Elton’s odd behavior. A slight blush fell upon her cheeks, though she was not quite sure why.

“I assure you; it is much more my own behavior that has kept me up. But what of you, Mr. Knightley? What brings you to the kitchens at such a late hour?” This was said with so playful an air as Emma could manage. It was a strange circumstance to find herself in, sitting in the kitchen at Randalls in Mrs. Weston’s dressing gown, talking with Mr. Knightley.

“I must own that sleep often evades me when away from home,” he said with a tone that matched Emma’s in its contrived liveliness.

“Ah, then our minds can find at least one thing in common.”

“A miracle indeed, dear Emma.”

Emma sipped her tea and looked across the room at her oldest and dearest friend. “Will you not sit?” she asked, feeling suddenly that same urge from earlier to confide in Mr. Knightley about all that had transpired with Mr. Elton. “In more proper circumstances I should have offered you refreshment, but the cook is just now gone to bed,” she added with a pleasant smile.

Mr. Knightley stepped forward with a posture almost hesitant. “In proper circumstances, you should be at Hartfield, soundly asleep. I should be at Donwell. As it is, you ought to be upstairs with Isabella.”

“And yet, we find ourselves here, Mr. Knightley,” Emma replied cheerfully. The need to confide in somebody besides Harriet about Mr. Elton and her failed matchmaking schemes threatened to overtake her. She would have to admit defeat to Mr. Knightley, a prospect that must be uncomfortable, but Emma felt it would help ease her mind more than her honeyed tea.

“Have you finished your drink, then?” Mr. Knightley asked abruptly. He looked ready to leave the kitchen, something Emma could not yet allow. His glance toward the open door reminded Emma that Mr. Knightley probably thought of the propriety of his staying. A foundationless concern, Emma thought.

“No, and I wish you would sit with me until I have done,” she replied. He would need convincing, and she really did need to talk about Mr. Elton’s proposal. “It is no different than sitting anywhere in Hartfield. Many a happy evening you and I have spent beside the fire there.”

Mr. Knightley’s knowing look told Emma that she had supposed correctly in his thoughts. A resigned smile, a few steps forward, and Mr. Knightley sat down across the table from Emma. “Do hurry, Emma. Your father should call for Perry immediately if he knew you had stayed up so late.”

“There is a great possibility that he calls for Perry anyway. He has long suspected that Randalls’ air is not nearly as wholesome as Hartfield’s, which is of course only another reason why ‘Poor Miss Taylor’ is to be met with such pity,” Emma replied with a laugh, triumphant that she had convinced Mr. Knightley to stay. Mr. Knightley opened his mouth as though to ask something but thought the better of it.

“What is it?”

“I only wondered—”

“Yes?”

“Will Mr. Woodhouse ever pity ‘Poor Miss Woodhouse’ removing from Hartfield?” It was asked carefully, hesitantly. Almost as though Mr. Knightley had wondered at such a question for a good deal of time and only now found opportunity to ask.

Emma had to laugh. “Mr. Knightley, do you know that you are the second gentleman this evening to ask about my intentions of matrimony?”

First Mr. Knightley’s eyes grew wide then settled into an expression of both recognition and confirmed suspicions. “Are you going to tell me why Mr. Elton saw fit to run home in a snowstorm?” he asked, though having already a clear idea of what the answer would be.

“You always were too observant for your own good, Mr. Knightley,” Emma replied. She knew her confession of having done wrong must soon come and she felt a pang of guilt. Mr. Knightley looked at her expectantly. “Though it pains me to admit it, you were right about Mr. Elton aiming above his station.” Then, quieter, “And I was wrong to encourage Harriet in her affections for him.”

“I did try to warn you, Emma,” Mr. Knightley said in a tone that Emma could not quite appreciate. It was not mocking—that was not Mr. Knightley’s way—but it did betray his amusement at having been proven correct.

Emma glared at him. “Must you always act so?”

“What? Do not turn your ire upon me for having known better Elton’s intentions. I will admit, I had not thought him presumptuous enough to offer for your hand.” The amusement in Mr. Knightley’s tone turned protective as he spoke his last sentence.

“He sought to aggrandize himself,” said Emma. “And had the sheer audacity to claim that I had encouraged his affections.”

Here, Mr. Knightley chuckled. “I assume you disappointed him greatly, then?” 

"Oh, he shall be over it in a week. I told him I have no plan to marry anybody at present and that seemed to do the trick.” Emma could not help but notice a peculiar change in Mr. Knightley’s expression. It was difficult to define precisely what she saw in his countenance, but his smile certainly seemed to falter. “You object to my remaining unmarried?” she asked curiously.

Mr. Knightley looked up. “No, Emma, I object to you being so decided at such a young age,” he said in a voice that nearly sounded grave.

“Better to decide at seven-and-thirty, is it?” Emma replied shortly, unsure of why his comment had bothered her so. Immediately, she regretted having adopted such a tone. Mr. Knightley’s countenance turned hurt and cross. Emma found herself reaching to press Mr. Knightley’s hand across the table, but he moved it just out of reach before she could make her apologies.

“It is time for you to go back upstairs,” he said quietly.

The tea had already been abandoned during their conversation and now sat cold on the table. Nothing kept Emma in the kitchen and yet she felt a strange reluctance to leave. Something had passed between her and Mr. Knightley that she could not quite understand or explain.

“Mr. Knightley,” Emma began, reaching once more across the table though his arms were crossed against his chest. She realized again the fact that he was without his jacket, and she was merely in a dressing gown. “I am sorry for how I spoke. Might we not be friends again?”

He looked down at her as though searching her face for something. “We are always friends, Emma,” he said in a peculiarly solemn tone. “And I ought not to have lectured you. Whether you marry or not is, of course, your own decision.”

Emma was unsatisfied. Somehow, she was drawn—compelled, even—to explain herself. “You know of my situation better than anybody. To leave Hartfield and my father would be folly indeed,” she said.

“And do you think of yourself, Emma, or only of your father when you consider matrimony?”

“Of course I think of myself. I simply do not believe that any man could offer me a better life than the one I now lead. To practically be mistress of Hartfield, to be surrounded by those whom I love… why should I abandon that? Why stake my hope for the future on a theoretical match which could hardly provide the satisfaction that I now enjoy?”

Mr. Knightley frowned, considering her words. His arms were still folded against his chest, his fingers drumming. He had a question on his mind; Emma could see that. But he seemed also unsure of whether to ask it.

“Well?”

“And what about your heart, Emma? What of falling in love?” the question came forth as though escaping the deepest recesses of his mind.

Emma was startled by the directness of the question, but knew it came as no impertinence from Mr. Knightley. He seemed really as though he wanted an answer, though he clenched his jaw and acted like he had never meant to ask it in the first place. The question, however, had not gone unsaid and—now spoken aloud—begged an answer.

A small part of Emma’s mind considered brushing it aside and answering with some levity; but she felt, suddenly and overwhelmingly, that she ought to seriously ponder what she said. “I suppose… That is, I have only really considered love in its most abstract forms. It is much easier to think generally about so intimate a topic than to consider it for oneself, you know.” They sat in silence that felt far from comfortable but was yet not awkward. “And of course, I have never been in love. Perhaps if I had been I should feel differently about matrimony,” she heard herself confessing, looking down and feeling her cheeks heat. Why she should be so inclined to admit so personal a fact to Mr. Knightley, Emma did not know.

“Perhaps,” Mr. Knightley said, his voice sounding lower from the lateness of the hour, surely.

“And you?” The question fell from Emma’s lips before she could pause and consider the impropriety of asking a gentleman such a private thing, even if that gentleman was Mr. Knightley. Much to Emma’s surprise, Mr. Knightley’s cheeks flushed in an unmistakably embarrassed sort of way. Though she had been wrong in identifying the object of Mr. Elton’s affections, Emma still believed that she knew the look of a man in love.

The accompanying realization that Mr. Knightley had been in love was a startling one. With whom? she wondered, thinking back on her earlier musings on what sort of wife would best suit him. An uncomfortable knot seemed to be tying itself in her stomach. She couldn’t bring herself to look back up at Mr. Knightley after having seen his telling blush.

“I am sorry, that was unpardonably rude of me to ask such a thing of you,” she said. “I fear you are right, and it is time for me to go join Isabella upstairs.”

Who could it have been? Surely it would have been somebody of our mutual acquaintance. Was it indeed Jane Fairfax? Still avoiding Mr. Knightley’s eye, Emma rose from her seat and stepped around the table towards the door to the corridor. She had just passed Mr. Knightley’s seat where he had spoken not a word since her presumptuous question when she felt suddenly his hand around her wrist.

Emma turned about and found that he, too, had risen from his seat and was standing rather closer than he was used to do. “Yes, Emma,” he said slowly, not releasing his grip on her arm, gentle as it was. “I have indeed been in love.” The space between them was rather tight and Emma felt that she must lean back to take a breath of suddenly much-needed air. In so doing, she caught a look in Mr. Knightley’s eye that she had truly never seen before. Her whole life, Mr. Knightley had looked at her with amusement, indulgence, disappointment, contentment, resignation, humor, and any other host of human emotions.

Never had he turned to her with such an expression. His eyes were dark, searching. Lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling more rapidly than made logical sense for their merely standing in the kitchen.

“You will not ask me further? You are determined to avoid curiosity?” he whispered, and Emma felt her wrist burn where his fingers were wrapped around it. A hundred thousand questions and answers and feelings were flooding her mind all at once, and all Emma could manage was to shake her head.

His other hand reached for hers and he gazed at her with such an intensity that Emma felt her face grow even warmer. “Emma… my dearest Emma… Can you not have yet guessed? You, who pride yourself on having such an instinct for guessing at the feelings of the heart?”

Emma leaned forward involuntarily, drawn in by what she felt Mr. Knightley must shortly admit to; drawn in by the whisperings of her own heart. “You know what I am,” he murmured, pressing her hands between his. “I cannot make speeches; if I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.”

As the words were spoken, Emma felt her own realization pierce her like an arrow: her own love for Mr. Knightley must surely match his affection for her and always had.

Mr. Knightley brought one of her hands to his lips slowly, reverently, and kissed it. “Emma, you know you need not return my affection, but you must also understand that I could not stay silent,” he said with a slight quiver in his voice.

“Not return your affection?” Emma finally managed to say, leaning forward again without truly intending it. “My dear Mr. Knightley…”

His lips parted in surprise; his eyes widened.

All at once, Emma felt him pull her closer with an urgency and determination that nearly made her lose balance. “Darling Emma,” he whispered before bringing his mouth to hers.

Emma had never been kissed, but she supposed that if it was always like that, she could finally see what all of the fuss was about. Mr. Knightley’s kiss to her hand had been soft, gentle. This was something else entirely. One hand grabbed her shoulder, the other tangled itself in her hair, tilting her head this way and that as he deepened the kiss.

All too soon, he broke away breathing heavily. Emma felt her heart pounding erratically in her chest. “Is that all, my love?” she whispered, certain that the room was spinning. His eyebrows raised as Emma pulled him closer once more, feeling bold as she framed his face with her hands. Felt as he stepped forward and backed her towards the table they had so recently sat at.

Through the haze that had settled over her mind as Mr. Knightley kissed her with a passion that convinced her to abandon her plans of spinsterhood forever, Emma thought with amusement of their earlier conversation about the propriety of them sitting together. He lifted her to sit on the table, marching a line of kisses from her lips to her cheek and the spot on her neck just below her earlobe.

“Emma, it is high time you went upstairs,” Mr. Knightley whispered against her throat.

“So soon?” Emma asked as she re-captured his mouth with hers and allowed herself the luxury of running her fingers through his hair. It was incomprehensible to Emma that she could have known a person the entirety of her life and yet the events of a mere evening should so perfectly and permanently change everything.

Mr. Knightley broke away again, actually stepping back and away from Emma’s perch on the table. “Yes, Emma,” he said fists clenched at his side but with a dazed smile. “Before… That is… it has grown late enough.”

Emma could not help but smile in return, disappointed as she was to leave Mr. Knightley. “I feel certain I could never sleep now,” she said as she slid gracefully from off the tabletop.

Cheeks red, Mr. Knightley took one step backward again. “And yet you must. Imagine if the servants were to see you in such a state,” he chided, and Emma felt that her hair must have been positively indecent.

“I suppose I should merely tell them that I am an engaged woman and therefore am entitled to certain, ah, rights,” Emma teased, knowing what a tremendous risk she had taken in presuming that an offer would be made. And yet she knew what Mr. Knightley’s intentions were—what they had always been.

His eyes grew wide, and the warmth in his countenance nearly bringing a blush to Emma’s cheeks. “An engaged woman? And who am I to congratulate on having secured your affections?” he asked with the utmost amusement.

“Oh, a dear friend of ours. Dearer and better—truly—than all others in my acquaintance,” Emma said coyly, stepping forward lightly. If Mr. Knightley insisted upon maintaining a respectable distance between them, the very least Emma could do was make a challenge out of it. He was, after all, hers alone to tease.

Mr. Knightley followed the motion with his eyes, settling his gaze around the hem of her dressing gown. “Dearer and better, you say?” he asked with a twitch of his mouth. “What a preposterously lucky man to be held in such high esteem.”

“Indeed,” Emma agreed. She chanced another step towards him. To her delight, he held his ground. They stood, now, only inches apart.

Emma could not be sure, but there was something uncertain in Mr. Knightley’s looks—unguarded, yes; fond, certainly—something hesitant. He cleared his throat. “Then—” he paused, looked up, reached for her hand— “Then you will have me, Emma?” he asked, his grip on her fingers feather-light.

This was different than Emma’s earlier presumption. This was not an excuse for rumpled hair or flushed cheeks at an unseemly hour of the night. This was an offer of partnership and love—abiding and real—with the only man to whom Emma could ever unite herself.

There was a temptation, borne of their lifelong intimacy, to reply glibly. The reverence with which Mr. Knightley was currently stroking her knuckles, however, made Emma reconsider. Swallowing back the impulse, Emma brought their clasped hands to her lips and pressed a kiss to the back of Mr. Knightley’s hand.

“Only if you will have me,” Emma whispered, suddenly feeling quite shy.

With a groan and a complete abandonment of his earlier compunctions about propriety, Mr. Knightley pulled her to his chest and kissed her until she gasped for breath. Idly, as Mr. Knightley kissed along the curls at the nape of her neck, Emma wondered if they ought to be married out of Donwell. It would be badly done, indeed, Emma thought with a dazed grin, to so prevail upon Mr. Elton.