Chapter Text
It is a sunny afternoon when they next convene at Randalls.
Knightley, Emma, Augusta, and Jane have all gathered around a table to play a game of whist. To the side, Harriet embroiders a handkerchief with her injured foot up on a stool as the Westons play chess on a nearby table. Elton sits idle behind Augusta as he slips in and out of sleep between conversations.
The game had been rotten from the start. Aside from the fact that Emma kept being dealt bad sets of cards, her lacklustre playing could also be attributed to the way that she had been in a particularly peaky state having been sat next to Knightley.
He'd been tasked with cutting and dealing the cards, and Emma had sat there for the last hour staring at his hands and feeling mildly deranged as she suffers through a myriad of flashbacks involving those very hands that had lain just so against her waist during the dance.
She'd felt very conflicted since, with her nascent awareness of her true feelings towards Knightley and the sudden precarious state of their friendship. She didn't know what she was expecting to be the reason why he had come to Hartfield right after the dance, but it certainly was not a completely unromantic blown out tyre. She could have sworn he walked to the dance. She was so sure of it—so sure of him, of his tendencies so familiar she could chart their courses by heart.
He had been coming to dinner as usual, but there was an emphasized politeness there—his wit blunt and their banter weak.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were attempting to peak at the cards just now, Emma," Augusta remarks, and she feels a familiar rush of warmth bloom on her cheeks at having been caught, albeit for the wrong suspicion.
Knightley glances at her, and she barely catches it before he continues to deal the cards. He places the last card face up, announcing that the trump suit for the round is hearts.
Emma leads the first trick with a Two of Spades. Augusta smiles slyly as she takes her time pretending to pick a card, only to inevitably lay down a King of Spades as she flashes a patronising look at Emma.
Emma starts praying to God to please let Jane have the Ace if only to spite Augusta.
"Jane, what's this I heard about you going to the post office in the rain last week? Why, you sad girl, why would you do such a thing?" Augusta asks as she adjusts her cards in her hand, her rings glinting in the light.
Jane blanches, but refuses to honour Augusta's query with an explanation.
"I won't let you do such a thing again. I'll speak to Mr. E., " she taps Elton's hand then, who startles awake from his slumber, blissfully unaware of Augusta's present denunciation of Jane's post office habits. "He should be able to tell the mailman—or one of the mailmen, I forget his name—to prioritize delivering your packages and letters along with ours as well. I do so hate having to inquire personally due to delays.”
Jane lays down a Three of Spades, and flashes Emma a wan smile in apology.
"Anyways, do you suppose, Emma, that Mr. K. might extend us all an invitation to the abbey?" Augusta asks coyly, extending to Knightley the same moniker she refers to Elton with. Mr. K.? Really? It's more syllables than just George or Knightley.
"I do love exploring great historic houses, and I'm afraid I've long exhausted Highbury," she says with a pointed look at Emma, as though driving home the point of her beloved town being too quaint and dull for her Bristol native.
Emma schools her face to a polite expression, already knowing what Knightley's disposition towards receiving guests at Donwell is. "I'm afraid Knightley's concerns are all for his tenants and none for his own house, Augusta. His ballrooms and picture galleries are quite shut up."
In fact, she hasn't been to visit in years, despite it being only a mile away. There was an unwritten rule that Hartfield was the place to convene for the Knightleys and Woodhouses, and besides, the abbey had not hosted any gathering since the passing of the lady of the house. Which was why both she and Augusta are thoroughly taken aback when Knightley assents to the request.
"I would be glad to open Donwell for your exploration, the welcome is long overdue," he says, staring intently at his cards without so much as a look towards Emma.
He had the Ace of Spades after all, and he lays it down to win the first trick for his and Augusta's team. Augusta claps in delight, then says, "It's settled, then. Name your day and I will come."
"I can't name a day until I've spoken to some others whom I would wish to form the party," Knightley replies, as he leads the next trick with a Queen of Spades.
Emma wordlessly follows suit.
"Oh leave that to me, it's my party, I'll invite the guests," Augusta insists.
"I hope you'll bring Elton, but I won't trouble you to give any other invitations," Knightley replies, and Augusta laughs it off awkwardly.
She urges him to reconsider. "Well, now you're looking very sly. You don't need to be afraid of delegating power to me. Women may be safely authorized, you know."
"There is but one woman in the world whom I can ever allow to invite any guests she pleases to Donwell," he replies.
"Mrs. Weston, I suppose?" Augusta sniffs, visibly disappointed.
"No, Mrs. Knightley. And until she is in being, I will manage such matters myself," Knightley states, in a way that hints there was no shaking his resolve on the subject.
This is the first time that Emma has heard Knightley allude to anything with regards to marriage. She doesn’t know why she’s surprised to learn that he does have intentions to marry—he is economically secure after all—but she can’t help the nagging feeling that settles at the pit of her stomach with his acknowledgment of the matter.
She herself has proclaimed from a young age of her intent to never get married, and somehow finding out that they would not have similar futures has her filled with dread.
Emma looks down at the cards to find that he has yet again won another trick.
✵
The visit to Donwell and an additional picnic trip to Box Hill was expeditiously planned after the card game at Randalls.
However, the trip would be moved after a series of delays—what with Augusta's insistence to invite her extended relations, her sister Mrs. Suckling and her allegedly "quite well off" husband, and the singular mini bus for rent in Highbury—'The Horse' as they called it—suddenly out of commission due to a faulty engine.
After a few weeks of correspondence, it seems that the Sucklings would not be able to join after all, and Augusta's unreserved bragging and the weeks they spent waiting have been for naught.
Despite their misfortune, The Horse had been fixed up quite quickly, the trip was finally settled to the third weekend of June, and those involved seem to still be looking forward to it. Particularly Miss Bates, who, in the last three days that the date was finalized, have not stopped talking about it on the Highbury Facebook group, with her latest post being:
Hetty Bates is feeling excited 🤩 with Jane Fairfax, George Knightley, Emma Woodhouse, Frank Churchill, and 4 others.
2 more days until our upcoming excursion! Should be incredibly FAB!
#Donwell #BoxHill #FINALLY
Emma leaves a heart reaction for the nth time since Miss Bates' posting marathon; admittedly giddy herself as she had not ever been to Box Hill before. They had planned to pick strawberries from Donwell's fields, and she has already saved a handful of pastry recipes she might use to prepare for the Box Hill picnic after.
She hovers her pointer aimlessly at the tags, then finds herself suddenly compelled to click on Knightley's profile.
His photo is the same as she remembers it, she'd been the one to set up the account some two or three years ago as they huddled close to her computer—she'd felt like a barrister who just won a case by encouraging him to make a Facebook profile. It was a grainy shot of him laughing as he looks sideways at her, bent at an awkward angle to try and capture the photo without blocking the computer’s dinky camera lens.
What she doesn't remember, however, is setting up a cover photo for him. There's now a wide shot of the horse chestnut tree in Hartfield's grounds. She zooms in on it, and there, sitting under the tree, were two figures shaded by the dappled sunlight.
'Photo taken by Anne Taylor.' is the only thing the caption says.
She has no memory of the existence of this photo, but she recalls this day as the one when they had set out to buddy read Wuthering Heights after being persuaded by Knightley. It was for her English class, and she'd already decided to resort to looking up a summary online. Her patience was too short to withstand anything requiring as much industry as the intimidating tome.
"Exactly how many of the one hundred books you had on your twelve-year-old self's reading list have you actually read, Emma?" Knightley had asked, and she knew he was baiting her but could not, for the life of her, resist. She did end up reading it out of spite, and found herself completely enthralled within minutes of sitting down under that very same horse chestnut tree with him.
He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
It rang true then and still rings true now. There was no other person that could so intimately know her other than her oldest friend in the world—their lives so heavily intertwined they might as well have not been lives lived by two separate people.
Emma could not possibly let their history be marred now by something so trivial—like wanting him in ways friends should not be wont to do. But, unbeknown to herself and despite her best, most unselfish efforts, she still does anyway.
✵
Donwell looks resplendent in the summer—the surrounding verdure stretched far and wide, looking particularly lush in the day’s warm weather and bright skies. The gardens are full to bursting with roses and peonies, tended, but still kept quite wild in true English fashion.
A table for refreshments and chairs have been procured out on the lawn so that the elderly Mrs. Bates and Mr. Woodhouse could be comfortably sat as the rest of the party explored the grounds to peruse the strawberry patches and the rest of the garden, picking fruit and flowers.
Knightley had been nothing but a gracious host—making sure her father’s anxieties about being out and about were quelled by innumerable distractions—be it a game (or two) of backgammon or an obscure book he’d yet to read. Emma had also overheard him talk to Harriet about farming as they walked together along the garden. An odd pairing, but nevertheless she’s still pleased to see them get along well together.
Indeed this would be what constitutes as an ideal day for Emma, if only she had received more than a perfunctory welcome and a couple of inscrutable stares from the master of the house himself.
✵
Knightley had never known that watching someone bite into a fruit could be quite so enthralling. So riveting, in fact, he does not even realize he had been intently gazing at Emma bite into a particularly sumptuous-looking strawberry—cataloguing it mentally: teeth biting into the tender flesh, mouth—that smart mouth—then red, then the freckle near the corner of her mouth—until she turns and faces him directly with a quizzical look on her face.
Great, now he’s mortified. He feels his face flame as he walks back toward the house.
✵
Frank Churchill arrives late.
It is shortly after Jane had approached Emma, alone in the garden, to let her know that she was leaving. No doubt tired of Augusta’s incessant nagging about accepting a music instructor position with a ‘suitable wealthy family’ whose children she might teach piano. Even Emma knew that she clearly would not take the position—and she had not even been included in the conversation.
Emma had hesitated about letting her walk home alone, but Jane insisted that she feels tired and would like to take comfort in the solitude that the walk would afford her. Truly, Emma felt sorry that she just had to endure the tiresome company of Augusta, who had apparently marked her as a protégé.
“Have I missed the party?” Frank asks now, as he comes up behind Emma in the hallway.
“Not at all, we’re still exploring the house.”
“I was kept by my aunt, she had a fainting spell that lasted an hour,” he says, looking worse for wear. “Had I known how hot it was, I shouldn’t have come at all.”
“I hope your aunt is alright. You’ll soon be cooler if you sit down and have something to cold to drink,” she says, inferring from the edge to his tone that he was in a particularly sour mood.
“As soon as my aunt gets better again, I’m going abroad,” he says decisively as he fidgets with the collar of his shirt. “I’m tired of doing nothing, I want a change.”
She couldn’t quite imagine arriving at a similar decision had their roles been reversed. She could never leave her father especially if he were suffering an illness as Mrs. Churchill was. True, she’d been known to overemphasize certain aspects of her illness if only to keep Frank close, but she is still verifiably ailing to a degree. She fixes him with a stare that means to convey these sentiments.
“I’m serious, Emma. I’m sick of England.”
“You are sick of prosperity and indulgence. Couldn’t you invent a few hardships for yourself and be contented to stay?” she couldn’t help but blurt out. Despite his aunt limiting his movements, he still lived a relatively free life borne of his affluence as compared to the normal middle class Highbury villager.
“You’re quite mistaken. I don’t see myself as either prosperous or indulged.”
Says the sole heir of Enscombe, owner of the only Tesla in this side of Surrey.
“Just come to Box Hill with us tomorrow. It’s not The Grand Tour, but it will be something for a young man so much in want of change,” she says, no longer really in the mood to speak to him about privilege and being conscious of it.
“Well if you insist for me to join, then I will.”
Later, when they leave Donwell, Emma would realise that she might not have had Frank Churchill figured out as she thought she did at first. There was not much symmetry between them after all.
✵
When the party finally made the trip to Box Hill the next day, the last thing Emma expected to be was bored and annoyed. The weather was cooler than it had been the day of their Donwell visit, and they anticipated to enjoy a lovely day ahead.
Upon her father’s insistence, Emma took a separate car and was not able to join the rest of the party on the mini bus. “Once a faulty engine, always a faulty engine. Who knows what could happen during the trip? What if the bus crashes?” he had said—which, alright, he may have had a point—but it didn’t quite stop her from feeling like a massive plonker pulling up next to Frank’s Tesla, the only other car occupied by a single passenger. At least his car was electric.
Her misery over her carbon emissions was then doubly worsened when she discovered that the shortcake she had prepared had become lopsided despite being secured to the passenger seat within an inch of its life. It was triply worsened still, when the party decided to split up to explore and meet after at the top for the picnic later; Elton and Augusta not really wanting to socialize despite the trip technically being Augusta’s plan, Knightley with Miss Bates and Jane, and Emma with Harriet and Frank. Mr. Weston had tried running back and forth between the three groups in an effort to bring them together, but it was all for naught.
Emma had even tried to do a little matchmaking between Harriet and Frank, remembering how Harriet had admitted her feelings for him to her, after he’d carried her to Hartfield following her misfortune of the morning after the Crown Inn ball. “The very recollection of it, and all that I felt; his coming to me, his noble look. Changing in one moment, from misery to… to perfect happiness,” she had said, her eyes alight with what could only be interpreted as the tender beginnings of infatuation.
Despite her best efforts, it seemed there wasn’t a subject of intersection between their interests, and indeed she had expected it—they do not exactly belong in similar social circles—but she was still disappointed to have it proven to her how stark their differences actually are.
When they finally meet up with the others for the picnic, Emma had quite ran out of energy and all she wants to do now is go home.
“You know, I’m much obliged to you for telling me to come today. I was so determined to go away again yesterday,” Frank says as he lays on the blanket beside her.
“Well, you were very cross yesterday. You weren’t quite yourself,” she replies, looking around to see everyone looking just as equally bored. Knightley, in particular, looked as if he would much prefer to be anywhere else but here. There was not much conversation, and the silence was only interrupted by a passing bee which Augusta promptly swats at.
“Our companions are all excessively idle, what should we do to rouse them, hmm? Any nonsense will do.” Frank asks, suddenly back to his usual playful self. He claps then, which makes Emma laugh, and affects the voice of a game show host.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say that she wants to know what you’re all thinking of.”
Everyone suddenly stirs, considering Frank’s statement.
“Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to know what we are all thinking of?” Knightley asks, and Emma has a feeling that he’s alluding to something else entirely.
“Oh no, it’s the last thing I would stand the brunt of just now,” Emma says, and she means it wholeheartedly.
“It’s the sort of thing which I wouldn’t think myself privileged to inquire into, as chaperone of the party,” Augusta says, clearly in distaste.
“True, my love, but some ladies will say anything. Best to pass it off as a joke, everyone knows what’s due to you,” Elton replies in a hushed voice, but still loud enough to make sure that everyone hears it.
“They’re mostly affronted, I should attack them with more address,” Frank whispers conspiratorially as he leans close to Emma. He turns back around to the rest of the party and recants his former prompt.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say that she waives her right of knowing what you’re thinking of, but only requires something entertaining from each of you. She demands either one thing very clever, or two things moderately clever, or three things very dull indeed. She promises to laugh heartily at them all,” he finishes with a flourish of his hands, and Emma laughs, choosing to humour him in hopes of turning the day around into something a little more cheerful.
“Oh, very well then. I don’t need to be uneasy, ‘three things very dull things indeed’. That will do just for me, I’m guaranteed to say three dull things as soon as I open my mouth,” Miss Bates says, and it makes everyone laugh.
“But therein lies the difficulty. When have you ever stopped at three?” Emma counters quickly in an effort to keep the momentum of the conversation.
“Oh,” Miss Bates says, opening her mouth only to promptly close it, clearly at a loss for words. Jane tries to comfort her aunt by putting a hand on her shoulder, but she flinches away and says “No, I-I see what she means. I’ll try to hold my tongue.” She tries to laugh it off but falters, unable to hide the sheer anguish that was so clearly written on her face.
The tension is palpable, and Emma feels its pressure weigh down on her like a rock in the pit of her stomach.
Mr. Weston attempts to ease the silence by pretending that nothing happened. “I like this plan. Uh, agreed, agreed, agreed, agreed. Erm, I’ll do my best. Um… I-I’m making a conundrum. How would a conundrum reckon?” he asks.
“Low I’m afraid,” Frank replies but Emma is barely listening.
Miss Bates leans over to Knightley, and says “George, I must have made myself very disagreeable, or she wouldn’t have said such a thing to an old friend. But I can’t think what I might have done.”
In a rare moment of speechlessness, Knightley has no words of wisdom or comfort to offer her. He simply holds her hand then, his brows furrowed and his mouth twisted into a frown.
“What two letters of the alphabet are there that express perfection?” Mr. Weston finally asks. No one answers, and it takes Emma several beats to reply. “What two letters… express perfection? I-I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Well then I’ll tell you. M and A. Emma,” Mr. Weston replies, and Franks laughs.
“Mr. Weston has shown us how to play this game but also how to end it, for who could improve upon perfection?” Knightley says pointedly as he looks at Emma.
“If you’ll excuse me, I would rather not pretend to be a wit. I really must be allowed to judge when to speak and when to hold my tongue,” Augusta says, rising from her spot and Elton follows suit.
“Should we go, aunt?” Jane asks Miss Bates, and, looking most forlorn, they leave, with Knightley joining them.
✵
Emma hurriedly walks back to her car in shame. She feels her embarrassment cling to her skin in an angry red flush.
“How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Bates?” she hears Knightley say before she sees him approach the side of her vehicle. The last thing she could possibly want in this moment is to have a row with him.
“It wasn’t very bad,” she says, finally looking at him and seeing the hurt marring his otherwise inscrutable countenance.
“How could you be so insolent to someone of her character, a-and age, and situation?”
“Well, maybe she just didn’t understand me,” she replies.
“Oh, I assure you she did, she felt your full meaning, she has talked of it since.” He cards a hand through his hair in frustration, and takes a deep breath as if bracing himself against the sheer force of his agony. “I wish you could have heard how she talked of it—with so much candor, and-and generosity.”
“You must admit that what is good and what is ridiculous are most unfortunately blended in her,” she says now, almost pleading, grasping at anything to simply just lay this conversation to rest.
“They are blended in her, I acknowledge that. And were she rich and someone of status, I wouldn’t quarrel with you for any liberties of manner, but she is poor! She’s sunk from the comfort she was born to, and if she lives to an old age, she would probably sink more. She has seen you grow up and has cared for you like her own.”
She feels the tears start to prickle at her lashes, and she moves to put her key in the ignition but fumbles as her hands begin to shake. “I-It’s too hot, and I’m tired—”
“To have you now, in thoughtless spirits and the pride of the moment, laugh at her, and humble her, and before her niece and all the others—many of whom are entirely guided of your treatment of her! It was badly done, Emma!” he says finally, and she feels his fury in each word pierce through her like a dagger.
She waits for him to walk away before exploding into tears, letting her unbearable guilt and misery rack through her in sobs.