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Chapter Text

“Easy, little one, slowly,” Emma soothed. The child frowned but obeyed, letting her take the ladle back. 

“I’m so hungry,” he whispered. 

“I know. But if you eat too much of the soup at once, while you’re so sick, you’ll vomit. You don’t want that, do you?”

The boy scrunched his sweaty face up. “No.”

“I did not think so.” Emma set the bowl aside. She ignored the child’s whines of discomfort as she began cleaning the sweat from his body. The fever had broken at least.

“Miss Woodhouse, please, you don’t need to exert yourself so.” Mrs Evans was trying in vain to get her sick newborn to latch, whilst looking towards Emma and her son. 

“Nonsense,” Emma said briskly. She brought the ladle back to the boy’s mouth. “Tommy, right?”

He nodded, eagerly sipping at the soup. 

“Well, Tommy here would gorge himself sick without me. We don’t want that.”

The boy’s look of petulance became a little smirk. He must have been feeling much better to display such spirit again. 

“Still, Miss Woodhouse . . .” The mother finally gave up on the infant, setting the squalling child aside with a half-sob of despair. 

“Here, you are sick too. Go lie down. I’ll see if I can’t soothe her, and maybe when she’s sleepier she’ll be more interested in eating.”

Emma liked being in charge. Probably more than she ought, but Mr Knightley wasn’t there to reprimand her. At the thought, her heart squeezed in her chest. It had only been the day prior that he had taken his leave to go to London. A sudden plan, with no particular urging behind it—Emma feared the worst. That he was trying to distance himself from her. How ashamed he must be, to be her friend, if he felt thus chased away. Emma had the option to despair and wallow, or to distract herself by being useful—and so her presence at the Evans’. She hadn’t expected to be quite so useful, though. She’d entered with a simple basket, to find their small home overwhelmed by illness. 

Baby Rose wouldn’t stop crying. Emma walked, swaying and humming. She glanced over at the mother as she walked. Her young face was etched in misery. Emma tried to imagine it, her namesake niece in her arms, sick as she was . . . or if she had a daughter herself.

The thought left a strange sensation in Emma’s stomach, but she promptly pushed it aside and shifted the baby up against her. It took several laps, but finally the babe was too tired to cry. Emma slowed down until she was next to Mrs Evans. 

“Shall we try?” she asked gently.

Emma knew little about the mechanics of it. She transferred Rose to the young mother’s arms and found herself observing. It felt indecent, but Mrs Evans asked her in a soft murmur to support the child’s head while she positioned herself. 

“Oh!” Emma exclaimed, as the infant began to suckle. “You have done it!”

Mrs Evans was focused on cooing to the baby, keeping her hold steady. Emma turned to Tommy, but the boy, having finished his soup, had fallen asleep.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Emma asked. 

“Bless you Miss Woodhouse, no, no, you have done so much already.”

“Are you sure you do not need Mr Perry? I could send for him.”

“No, thank you, miss.” Mrs Evans’ smile, while filled with crooked teeth, was beatific. Emma curtsied and left with promises to return the next day. 

It was a momentary peace, knowing that she had helped. It soothed her anxious heart, especially as she had been turned away at the Bates’s for the second time that morning. Emma walked slowly home, trying to keep the bubble of affection and peace intact in her chest. It was difficult, however, as her mind kept trying to return to Box Hill, to Mr Knightley’s remonstrance. By the time she reached home, Emma was dragging her feet, nerves once more overwrought. 

The presence of Mr Weston did nothing to soothe her. 

“Mrs Weston? Is she well?” Emma asked, nearly stumbling over the threshold of Hartfield in her haste.

“No, no, nothing of that trouble,” Mr Weston was quick to reassure. He ushered her into the sitting room. Still, there was something distraught in his face that made Emma fear something was amiss. “However, I was hoping you could accompany me to her.”

“I—“ Emma stopped short. “I should not visit, I have been visiting a sick family. I would not want Mrs Weston to become ill, not now in her condition.”

“I see.” There were few times that Mr Weston seemed ill at ease, which made it the more alarming, how his eyes would not settle on Emma, how he kept twisting his hands together. “There is . . . news. I was hoping she could tell you.”

“Mr Weston, you had better tell me, or I shall imagine the worst,” Emma cried. 

“It’s . . . Frank. He has been . . . there was an . . . engagement.”

Emma blinked. “Engaged? To be married?”

“Yes. It was a secret—“ Here Mr Weston appeared pained, half-turning away. “To Jane Fairfax,” he said in a rush.

Emma sank down on her favorite chair, her mind struggling to rearrange the pieces of the puzzle she thought she had known. She nearly burst out in her shock with some demand for explanation, before thinking the better of it. Speaking without thinking had already gotten in her enough trouble for a lifetime. Mr Weston looked undone. 

“Thank you for letting me know,” she said, her voice a little too halting to completely hide her distraught feelings. 

“Mrs Weston will write you the particulars, dear Emma. I had so wished she could . . . I am so sorry.”

“No, Mr Weston, do not apologize.” Emma got back to her feet, eager to soothe his distress. “I am sure I will talk to Mrs Weston soon. I am sorry, for my part, and my conduct . . .” she could feel her face burning, “please, take my apology for my part in it. If I had known . . .”

“You are too good,” Mr Weston said. He seemed close to tears, and Emma turned to give him some privacy. “I will go now. Mrs Weston will write, I know, as soon as I get back.”

“Thank you, sir.” 

Alone, Emma remained standing, and quickly realized she should not be for how weak her legs were. She sank back down. It seemed as if her entire world was going to continue to be twisted up and reshaped, without any of her own input. She had been so proud of her matchmaking, but maybe that was where the trouble started. From that, her neat little life had started to be picked apart. For a moment, she wished for Mrs Weston to be Miss Taylor again, just as her father always did.  

There were many tasks before her. In some regards, that was a trial, but in others, a relief to stay occupied. Emma would have to wait for Mrs Weston’s letter today, to know the full story. She would need to respond. And from there, she would need to summon Harriet. For the poor girl to have her hopes crushed, for it to be Emma’s fault again . . . Emma had never felt so small and useless. She quickly got up, summoning the housekeeper to plan for her visit to the Bates’ and Evans’ homes on the next day. If she could just stay busy, she might be able to fight off her own confusing feelings. 

While Emma may not have hoped for anything positive from Harriet’s visit, she certainly had not expected to find her own heart flayed open. She had gotten up early, fighting a headache, to deliver the poor news. Upon hearing that Harriet’s secret love was not, as she had assumed, Frank Churchill, but Mr Knightley . . . Emma sent Harriet away, distraught and startlingly aware of her own feelings. No wonder she had felt the bite of his reprimand so strongly. Her mind, always sharp and active and never failing her, now gave her too many reasons for his absence. If he was in love with Harriet, then perhaps he was going to talk over the particulars with his brother. Removing himself from Emma’s presence was most likely a boon. How terrible, for Emma to realize now that she was in love with Mr Knightley now. A punishment, for her pride. 

Emma was not a creature built for despair; she had never courted it, nor had any point of reference to understand it. A more experienced creature might have lain sobbing on her bed, going through paroxysms of grief and emerging subdued and wiser. Emma pressed back the tears, allowing them no escape, even in the dark of night. She desperately threw herself into her duties. She had found her worth being questioned—if Mr Knightley had no value for her, then she did not know where to find it herself. She felt as if she was drowning on dry land. She needed to claw for air, to be Miss Woodhouse and for that to be enough. 

Her duties were her only outlet. Emma put on her bonnet the next morning, grasping two heavy baskets and striding out the door. She went first to the Bates. There, she was once more disappointed. On the day prior, she had felt the sting of it, but now knowing what she did about Jane, she did not press the point or reveal that she had knowledge of the engagement. Miss Bates and Jane were not at home, after all—if Emma had to guess, they were either with the Westons or making arrangements with Frank Churchill. Mrs Bates accepted the basket, in her way, but left Emma without any satisfaction. She turned to the Evans instead. 

There, she was met with a desperate cry of welcome. The poor young mother was struggling with the baby again. Little Tommy, at least, was improved. Emma quickly stoked the fire, boiling water for tea and taking Rose so that Mrs Evans could rest. She didn’t like the quality of the infant’s cry. Weaker than the prior day. Her little body felt too cold. 

“Tommy,” said she, “are you strong today?”

“Yes miss.” Tommy sprang from bed with all the liveliness Emma could have hoped for. 

“I need you to go and find Mr Perry, do you know where he lives?”

“Yes, I will! Right away!”

“Good lad.” Emma kept her smile bright until the boy was gone. Then she turned to Mrs Evans, who had collapsed on her bed. “Is your husband in the fields?”

“Yes,” she said weakly. “He’s feeling poorly himself, but if he doesn’t keep his place, they won’t take him back.”

“Whom does he work for?”

“Mr Knightley, miss.” 

Emma opened her mouth to issue a reassurance, and then closed it, her heart aching in her chest. Would a request for leniency from her, after everything . . ?

Emma shook free the cobwebs in her mind. No, Mr Knightley was fair. No matter what he thought of Emma at this moment, he could not fault her interference in this way. 

“I’ll send Tommy to fetch him. I know Mr Knightley, he will allow your husband to keep his place, I swear it.”

Mrs Evans was too exhausted to do more than nod at Emma’s words. Emma set about doing what she could. 

On Mr Perry’s arrival, she found relief. He set about his work, and at Emma’s urging, gave her tasks to complete. Emma found herself mashing herbs for a poultice and caring for the babe while Mr Perry applied leeches to the mother. 

“Is the infant eating?” 

“Yesterday.” Emma glanced at Mrs Evans where she slept. “It was difficult. I am not sure overnight whether she was able to feed her.”

“She will be in dire straits soon. We will need to attempt to get her to drink something, even without the mother.” Mr Perry glanced at Emma. “Are you sure you wish to stay?”

“Of course.” Emma straightened under his bemused eye. “What do I need to do?”

It became Emma’s duty to ply the infant’s chapped mouth with a soaked rag, attempting to get her to drink. Emma alternated between pacing with her, trying to soothe, and sitting down and rocking with her. The child seemed to grow weaker and weaker, while her mother thrashed with fever on her bed. Mr Evans returned home at some point, himself too ill to assist, collapsing on the bed next to his wife. 

Emma tasked Mr Perry with telling a falsehood to her father. Reluctantly, he agreed to her scheme, claiming Emma to be staying the night with the Westons on his way to fetch more supplies. She knew how alarmed Mr Woodhouse would be, even at that small lie—let alone her true situation—but she could not leave. She had known too much failure; she could not abandon them, knowing she could help. 

Emma could not say how long she stayed in the dim hovel, desperately trying to keep the little girl alive. Rose’s body grew colder and colder. Emma stayed as close as she could bear to the fire. 

Her efforts were to no effect. The infant stopped responding, no matter what Emma did. Upon her cries to Mr Perry, who was dozing nearby in a chair, he solemnly told her that her worst fears had come to pass. 

Emma passed over the infant’s body from her trembling arms to Mrs Evans. The woman’s cries were weak from illness, but no less raw and painful. Mr Evans roused himself and scrambled over to his now-smaller family. Emma stumbled back, horror in her throat. 

“You should go home,” Mr Perry said gently. “Do not blame yourself, Miss Woodhouse. You did all that you could.”

Emma barely heeded his words. She made her escape, fleeing as if Mr Evans were chasing her with an axe, blaming her for his child’s death. She didn’t realize she was crying until her vision became so blurred she nearly fell. She came to a halt, gasping and sobbing. The night was young—it was not so dark that Emma felt she had anything to fear, but the darkness only increased her feelings of despair. Never had she felt so alone. 

The desperate wish in her heart was one that gave her no encouragement—she wished Mr Knightley there. He would have the words to comfort, to give her strength. But he was gone. Perhaps, in his wisdom, he had known what a failure Emma was, and had escaped from it.

Emma was not prone to dramatics, but her mind was in such turmoil, there was no sense to be had. She grieved, slumped against a fence post, for too long in the dark. By the time she made her way home, slipping inside in order to avoid waking the household, she was barely able to walk, cold and shaking as she was. She collapsed into her bed, weak and utterly wretched. 

Chapter Text

George felt another pang as he saw the particular way Mrs John Knightley scrunched her nose up at a troublesome passage. He turned away, staring out the window at the foggy London street. He had truly picked a poor place to attempt to learn indifference. 

The news of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax broke over him like a wave on the sand. George couldn’t say how long he lingered, absorbing the information. He had suspected an attachment. But after Box Hill, the shamelessness of Frank had convinced him he was wrong. He had expected to hear of the engagement in London, but of Frank to Emma, not Frank to Jane. His first, selfish thought, was pure relief and joy. 

Emma was not yet out of his reach. 

His second thought was in repentance of his own selfishness. How Emma must be suffering! To think her affection returned, and to have her love so spurned—nay, to have it be made a mockery! Frank Churchill had been drawing her along for his own amusement, never having one thought for her sensibilities. Emma would be very wretched indeed, and without a soul to comfort her. She could not go to her father, who would not understand her struggles. She would feel keenly that Mrs Weston must not be her confidante, for how much it would pain the Westons to be caught in the middle. Emma might have Harriet, but George did not think Harriet would be able to understand the depths of Emma’s hurt. No, she was alone.

“I must go back to Highbury,” he announced.

Isabella looked up, frowning in concern. “It is not so urgent, is it?”

George considered revealing his fears, but given the lack of distress on Isabella’s face, Emma had obviously not discussed her expectations with her sister. John would not thank him for disrupting Isabella’s calm, when there was nothing she could do for her from London. 

“You should follow me, as soon as you are able,” he said. “The air is so dirty this time of year, in London. It would do you good to visit.” 

John, not deceived, cocked an eyebrow at his elder brother. George met his gaze evenly.

An urgent rapping at the door halted him, as he was about to go pack up his things.

“Express from Hartfield.” Those three words arrested him. He would not expect Emma to do anything drastic, following her disappointment, but . . .

“Oh, God in heaven!” Isabella’s exclamation, followed by her half-collapsing on her husband, set George’s heart into his throat. “Emma—very badly ill. My father asks us to come, oh, John, please we must—“

George was out the door in a moment, shouting for his horse. He rode with a recklessness that he never had. Emma had always been of a hearty constitution, helped along by her father’s constant worrying and care. He had never seen Emma the least bit poorly as an adult. While he wouldn’t underestimate Mr Woodhouse overstating the case, he couldn’t be logical; not in this case. 

George felt as if the distance from London to Highbury must have been tripled, with how long it seemed to take. Poor Bessie was nearly done in as he passed her off to James at the door. He strode into the house without deigning to show any of the usual niceties. 

Mr Woodhouse was at the fire. He had always seemed prematurely old—grey before his time—but he looked ancient, huddled in his chair. 

“Emma,” George blurted out. 

“Knightley.” Mr Woodhouse looked up at him with watery eyes. “She is so ill. My child.”

Impatience would not allow George to stay and comfort his old friend. “I will go to her,” he said, and took the steps two at a time. He had never entered her room, but knew where it was. Their housekeeper, Martha, startled at his entrance, watching Emma from the chair. George ignored her, heading for Emma. 

Her cheeks were flushed, but her already naturally pale complexion made her appear nearly ghostly with the pallor of illness upon her. George could see the delicate vessels in her hand, which he picked up and pressed against his mouth. Her hand was hot and dry. 

“Dearest Emma,” he breathed. “Please, you must recover.”

Martha cleared her throat. “Begging pardon sir, but she has not been very aware. After Mr Perry did the bleeding, she has been too deeply asleep to wake.”

“Did he say what it was?” George demanded. 

Martha shook her head. “The Evans family had it first. Emma was there, so she must have gotten sick with it. Youngest died.” 

George shuddered. “Why was she there?”

“Brought ‘em a basket. I helped her pack it.” Martha dashed away some tears of her own. “Wish the mistress weren’t so good. I should have gone with her and sent her home so she did not get ill.” 

George dared to reach up, pressing a hand against her forehead. “She feels like fire,” he murmured. “Do you have any cool cloths?” 

There was much impropriety in George staying, no matter how close he was to the family. George felt it, but Martha did not reprimand him or demand he leave. Indeed, she murmured as he carefully straightened the cloth on Emma’s forehead, that it was good he was there. She needed a friend, at a time like this. 

At that, George felt keenly his guilt. He had run away, a coward. 

“No one else has helped you with her care?” he asked. 

“No, sir. Mr Perry and his wife, but no one else.”

His guilt became buried by a flare of anger. “No one at all?” he demanded. “Not the Westons, the Bates, the Eltons?”

Martha cowed. “I am not sure how aware they are of how poorly Miss Woodhouse truly is, beyond the Westons. They cannot visit for Mrs Weston’s condition. They write twice a day.” 

“Of course.” George turned again to Emma. He had drawn a chair close to her bed, and kept his hand in his. There, he too was probably to blame. He had been the one to reprimand Emma on Box Hill. He may have been overheard, and others would have taken their prompting from him. He was the leader in the community. He had been the one to isolate her.

Emma shifted in her sleep. Her golden hair tumbled messily around her face. George brushed it back, indulging himself in the over-familiar motion. Even in such a state, she was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Dearest Emma, won’t you wake up?” he pleaded softly. Martha was on the other side of the room, making tea and unable to hear his too-familiar words. 

Her nose scrunched slightly. Her lips parted. George leaned forward, eager to catch any word she might say.

“Badly . . . done.” 

Emma could not have picked a more poignant blade to George. He clutched at her hand. “No, Emma,” he begged. “Do not hold that in your heart. You made a mistake, as any one might. I should not have talked to you as I did; reprimanded you like a child. I am blunt and cruel with my words. Do not pay them any mind. All is forgiven.” 

Emma shifted once more, but only to begin panting. George stood, hovering over her. 

“I do not think she can breathe well,” he told Martha. “Shall I lift her? Do you have any pillows to keep her upright?”

Between the two of them, they managed to place her in a more advantageous position. And if George kept Emma clutched against him for a moment too long, Martha was too kind to say anything about it. 

So began the long vigil. George could not bring himself to leave Hartfield, and begged a guest room. He never kept Emma’s bedside on his own, either Martha or one of the other maids present to reduce some of the danger of impropriety. Mr Perry came and went. As he did not give Mr Woodhouse any of the true information concerning Emma’s condition, George became in charge of Emma’s care. Isabella and John joined him at Hartfield after a day, leaving the children in London with their nurse. It was both a help and a hindrance—Isabella’s nervous tendencies made Mr Woodhouse subsequently more nervous as well, but she was also instrumental in the sick room. George relied on John to run Hartfield and Donwell, while he devoted himself to Emma’s care. 

John was no fool, and caught George in the hallway outside of Emma’s room.

“Your continual presence,” he noted. “I had no idea of your feelings for Emma.” 

George grimaced, glancing at the door. Every moment away from Emma’s bedside was agony. “I did not realize it myself, until lately. When I think of the time I have wasted—“

John was not one for mincing words. “She is a strong girl. Do not despair. Go on, I will take some gruel with Mr Woodhouse.” 

George laughed, wiping a hand over his exhausted face. “Things truly must be dire, if you are willing to do so.” 

Isabella was at Emma’s bedside, dripping water into Emma’s mouth with a cloth. She looked up at George’s entry, anguish in her eyes. 

“She woke up, but the words she said, I . . .” Isabella trailed off. “I don’t understand. She talked of death.” 

The fourth occupant in the room, Mr Perry, raised his weary head. “She went through an ordeal that no woman should have to bear,” he explained. “An infant died in her arms.” 

Isabella gasped, and seemed close to fainting. George quickly supplied her with smelling salts before taking his chair at Emma’s side. Her pale features were still twisted in distress, small movements that betrayed her disquiet. 

“Dearest Emma,” he breathed. “Please.” His heart was too full to find the words for what he was begging from her. 

To his surprise, Emma’s eyes cracked open. They focused on George—he smiled reflexively, leaning in closer. 

Emma’s cry of despair caught him completely off guard. He remained frozen in a rictus over her. Her cries on ‘no’ was mixed amongst babbling that made it clear Emma felt nothing but distress upon seeing him. George stumbled back, Isabella swiftly taking his place and murmuring soothing words that calmed Emma down. 

Mr Perry was at his shoulder. He cleared his throat. 

“Do not take it to mind, Mr Knightley,” he said. “The fever is addling her. Combined with the traumatic experience she went through . . .”

“How could you allow it?” George allowed himself a slight reprieve from his self-flagellation to fix Mr Perry with a look of condemnation. “To have Emma remain in a house so full of sickness and death. A child died in her arms?”

Mr Perry bowed his head. “I am sorry I was not stronger. Emma would not go.” 

His ire swiftly disappeared. George sighed an apology, saying, “she is so very stubborn.” 

“She’s asking for you.” 

George hesitated, looking over at Isabella. “I do not wish to distress her further . . .”

Emma’s weak voice rose above Isabella’s. “Mr Knightley. He’s here? I need—” 

“I am here, dear Emma.”

Her eyes were glossy and bright—deceptively so. She frantically reached for him, and George obliged her with his hand. Isabella rose, moving to talk softly with Mr Perry. 

“You’re here,” she breathed. “Mr Knightley do not go. You must, you were lost to me, I cannot, I must apologize—“

“Nonsensical girl,” he whispered. He laid a kiss on her hand, taking too much liberty. It served to halt Emma’s stream of words, which was a relief. He was not sure he could bear to hear her full apology without weeping. “Do not worry yourself on my account. My greatest wish is to see you well again. I will not leave your side.” 

To his horror, his words prompted tears to rise to Emma’s eyes. He sank onto the edge of the bed, reaching forward to dab them away with his handkerchief. Her hand, released from his, clutched at his front lapel. 

“You mean it? You will not leave?”

“Not for a moment, if that is what you wish,” he swore. 

The hard lines of distress on her face eased. 

“Mr Knightley,” she murmured, eyes slipping closed. 

“Sleep, dear Emma.” He swept his handkerchief once more across her cheek. Her weak hands caught his before he could draw back, keeping it close by her face. George could not say whether it was an accident or not, when her grip drew him so close that her lips glanced across his wrist. Her head slumped down, and George tenderly caught her jaw in his palm, positioning her head where it would be easiest for her to breathe. 

“She’s a strong girl,” Mr Perry said, reminding him that he was not alone with Emma. George swiftly drew his hand away.  “Do not fear, Mr Knightley.” 

“I now understand some of your father’s feelings on health and illness,” George said to Isabella. 

Isabella offered a wobbly smile, before getting back to work. 

Chapter Text

Everything was as a dream. Emma was being washed, Martha’s hands brusque but gentle. It threw her mind back to being washed as a child. She tried to pull the dream under control—she did not want to be helpless.

Her body responded slowly. Emma groaned, the sound reverberating painfully through her own head and making her realize that she was awake. She had not felt so poorly in her memory. 

“Miss Woodhouse? Are you awake?”

“Martha.” Even her voice was weak. Emma forced her uncooperative eyes open. “What—are you . . .”

“Don’t think on it, miss.” Martha continued her work. Emma shivered as the wet rag left her feeling cold. “Your fever broke not too long ago. It was not good to leave you in those damp bedclothes.”

“I was sick,” Emma realized. She gasped as Martha lifted her to sit upright. Her entire body ached. She did not know if she could stand. One of the other maids began collecting the bedclothes while the housekeeper helped her into a new nightgown. 

“Yes, Mr Perry says you took on the same thing the Evans had. You were very ill, miss. We were worried with how long it took you to recover.”

“Oh. I am sorry to be such trouble.” Emma managed to keep herself upright, long enough for Martha to put her hair into a braid. “My father? Is he—“

“He knows you are doing better,” she said gently. “The Knightleys are here, helping.”

“Oh, good.” At the reminder, Emma closed her eyes as Martha settled her back on the cushions. She felt too open and weak to emotions. One reminder of Mr Knightley and she felt close to tears. “I am glad John and Isabella were able to come. Please let them know I am sorry to inconvenience them.”

“They would not view it as an inconvenience, miss.” Martha sat her back against the pillows. “Are you up to eating anything?”

“I—“ Emma was cut off by the door opening. The sight that met her made her jaw go slack. “M-Mr Knightley,” she stuttered. He was there, looking more disheveled than his wont. There was no ire or disappointment in his face—only joy. 

“Oh, thank God. Emma.” In two strides he was at her bedside, lifting her hand from the coverlet and presses kisses into her skin. 

“Mr Knightley. You’re . . . here,” she said.

“I am here, and you must forgive me, dear Emma. I could not bear to be kept from you. But if you wish me gone, I will leave well-satisfied, knowing that you are improving.”

Her mind was syrupy and slow, and her mouth was entirely too quick and honest for her own good. “Please don’t go.” She flushed at her own demand, trying to temper her pronouncement. “I feared you were so . . . displeased with me. When you left.”

“I will forever regret it,” Mr Knightley said fervently. For someone who was always controlled and even . . . hearing such emotion in his voice made Emma fight her own emotional response; she was too weak to do so—tears were sliding down her cheeks before she could stop it. He continued in his attentions, offering his handkerchief. “I had not wanted you to feel alone.”

Regret and pain were too strong. Emma hid her face in her hands, a sob escaping despite her best efforts. “I deserved it,” she managed between sobs. 

“Hush, hush, Emma.” Mr Knightley took the liberty of sitting down on the bed, tugging her hands away from her face. Emma tried to hide, knowing her face must be unattractive and splotchy. “If you will allow me, I will never let you feel alone again. I cannot bear that you should not know how much I care for you.” 

“Mr Knightley,” Emma breathed. “Can this be real?”

“I know you must be suffering from a broken heart after Churchill, that scoundrel, but I—“

Emma placed one trembling finger against Mr Knightley’s lips. “I never loved him,” she said quietly. She could not hide the hope in her voice. “I have become aware of my own heart only recently. I hadn’t dared to hope . . . after you left . . .”

The words of assurance that followed were more than enough to convince Emma it was not a dream. Martha slipped out when a serious engagement became clear. 

Emma found herself secure, one of Mr Knightley’s arms wrapped around her shoulders to keep her upright against the weakness in her form. He didn’t seem to mind her messy night braid or weak, trembling limbs. He kept drawing her hand up to his mouth, unable to stop kissing it. 

“I feel as if I’ve fallen into a lovely dream,” she murmured. “When I realized my feelings, I . . . I was left knowing that I was far too late, and that I had driven you away.”

“Darling Emma. I was so selfish, running away to try to forget you. I didn’t fight for you as I ought to have. I felt things were settled between you and Frank Churchill. And when I heard of his engagement, it was like the sun had come back out again. Only for a storm to make everything dark again. If I had lost you . . . I would rather have seen you married to Frank Churchill, than that.”

How could she resist such a speech? Emma turned her blushing face into his lapel, breathing deeply. 

“You’ve been through too much,” Mr Knightley said softly. “What happened at the Evans’ . . . Emma, you must not blame yourself for that.”

Emma’s traitorous eyes filled with tears again. She didn’t answer. 

“You should rest, dearest. Think no more of dark things.” His lips pressed against her temple. 

Harriet’s description of her dance with Mr Knightley had become all too real for Emma. From perfect misery to perfect happiness. She had gone through a depths of despair she had not even known existed, to the height of joy. With Mr Knightley at her side, Emma felt as if she could handle anything. 

Her strength took time to return. Her father fussed over her incessantly, but her family had done an excellent job of taking care to emphasize Emma’s strength and youthfulness, so that he was not quite aware of how poorly she had truly been. 

The Westons visited as soon as Emma felt well enough. Mrs Weston shed many tears upon seeing Emma so pale and weak—Emma joined her, unable to see her closest friend and mother figure in tears without falling into pieces herself. 

Harriet came back, on invitation. She talked no more of Mr Knightley, focused wholly on Emma’s health. She had not visited for fear of causing Emma distress after their last conversation. She was more perceptive than perhaps Emma gave her credit, and had taken time to examine her own position and feelings. While their friendship could not help but receive a blow, the relief of finding Emma well again was such that Harriet’s affectionate nature could forgive all other hurt. In Harriet’s estimation, what was a brief infatuation with Mr Knightley to her friendship with Emma Woodhouse, after all? 

Emma, for her part, did her best to return to normality as quickly as she could, both for her father’s sake and her own. She may have been spoiled as a child, but she had never had so much focus on her in such a way. She found the attention to be more than she wanted to bear. It was easier to turn the conversation to Frank and Jane’s impending marriage, or Mrs Weston’s upcoming confinement. 

She and Mr Knightley had agreed to keep their engagement quiet, until her father calmed down. Mr Knightley was happy to reassure Emma that they would be able to overcome his fears by his temporary residence at Hartfield.

John and Isabella were very much aware, but agreed to keep the secret—with some grumbling from John. It was not as if he had been able to keep Isabella to himself before the whole of Highbury had been aware of their engagement.

Emma could dream of sunny days ahead . . . with only one dark cloud on her horizon. 

“You do not have to go,” Mr Knightley said gently. “They will understand.”

Emma’s hand opened and closed of its own volition. She laced her fingers together tightly. 

“I cannot put this duty off,” said she. Mr Knightley’s look was all approval and affection.

“Are you sure you do not want me to go in with you?”

“I am sure.” 

“I will be right here if you need me,” he vowed.

Emma stole a quick kiss to his cheek before taking the basket he had carried for her. Without further ado, she knocked on the rough-hewn door. 

Mrs Evans answered it. Emma caught the way her knuckles turned white on the doorframe as she stared unabashedly at her. 

“May I come in?” she asked.

“O-of course, Miss Woodhouse.” She shuffled back, eyeing Mr Knightley curiously but letting the door fall shut as it became clear that he was remaining outside. 

“I brought this basket,” Emma offered. She half-regretted giving it up, as it left her hands empty and helpless. She curled them into her dress, trying to calm herself. 

“Please, do not fret Miss Woodhouse,” Mrs Evans said abruptly. Her dark hair was pulled back neatly. Emma could see exhaustion and grief, but no hysterics. She had half-prepared a defense for herself, to hear Mrs Evans blame her.

“Are you . . . your husband, Tommy . . .”

“Tommy’s helping his father at his work. We will endure.” Mrs Evans gaze met hers. “I heard you caught our illness, miss. I am very sorry.”

“No, please.” Emma cut her eyes down to the floor. “I only wish my presence could have . . . helped.”

“It did, Miss Woodhouse. You gave my baby girl a peaceful end, when I was too sick to even look at her properly.”

Emma shuddered. “I did not think . . . I thought she would live.”

“Aye.” Mrs Evans reached out, picking up Emma’s hands. Her coarse skin pressed against Emma’s soft, useless hands. Her grip was strong. “Do not fret, miss. The good Lord will take care of her until I meet her again someday.”

At that, Emma burst into tears. The other woman wrapped her arms around her, and Emma found herself being comforted as if she had been the one to lose a child. 

“I am so sorry,” she gasped against the worn linen of Mrs Evans’s dress. “I am so very sorry.”

“There, now.” Mrs Evans held on for a moment longer before releasing her. “Beg pardon for the offense, I weren’t sure’s you had any comforting.”

Emma offered a slight smile through her tears. “I have, thank you. I wish I could be more of a comfort to you, instead.” 

“It’s comfort enough, you visiting and bringing some help. My husband says Mr Knightley has been looking out for us, too.”

Emma’s smile grew. “Of course he has,” she said fondly.

Mrs Evans smirked a little. “Oh, I see.” She glanced over Emma speculatively. “Will you and Mr Knightley name your first girl for my Rosie?”

Emma started, blushing. “Oh, Mrs Evans!”

The woman laughed. “Beg pardon again, for being so forward.”

“I would,” said Emma before she lost heart, “with your blessing. To remember such a precious child.”

“I would like that.” Mrs Evans began shooing her towards the door. “Now, your Mr Knightley is waiting. Go on, go on.”

Mr Knightley turned at her reappearance. His face creased in concern seeing Emma’s damp cheeks, but eased when Emma smiled. 

“Now, you take care of your woman, Mr Knightley.” Mrs Evans peeked her head out from the door. “She’s a good lady.”

“Yes, she is.” Mr Knightley bowed and offered his arm. Emma slipped her hand around his elbow. They walked slowly towards home. 

“Are you alright, my dearest?”

“I believe I will be.” Emma, still a little weak from her illness, leaned into Mr Knightley’s grip. By the time they reached Hartfield, Emma was struggling to carry on.

“My father?” she murmured.

Mr Knightley set her down next to the entryway, striding inside. He returned, smiling. “He sleeps by the fire.”

Emma gladly took Mr Knightley’s arm again, leaning half her weight on his strength. 

“Are you sure you will not mind such a weak creature as your wife?” she asked, trying to sound airy and light, despite her fears nipping at her heels.

“With all my heart.” Mr Knightley stopped before they reached the sitting room. He wrapped his arms around her, to Emma’s delight. “My dearest Emma.”