Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Handsome, clever, and rich, Emma Woodhouse had lived twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her. The operative word being 'little', which meant that sometimes, said vexation came in the form of her steadfast friend and occasional critic, George Knightley.

"It’s not like I can ask any other man in my life to pose shirtless for me!" she exclaimed, her blonde curls bouncing in exasperation.

It would have been a very ordinary Friday afternoon, much like all others that had passed without her having to resort to begging for a show of nudity in her father’s drawing room, except today it was incumbent upon her to finish a figure drawing she was due to submit in art class. Which—of course—proved difficult, since Knightley was arguably the only person who could neither be moved nor wiled into following her (admittedly many) whims. Despite his staunch reluctance, however, she was determined to finish the assignment within the day, and what Emma Woodhouse wants must come to pass.

Knightley gave her a pointed look in response. "What about Frank, hm? Surely he'd be the exact kind of man to fancy a naked likeness of himself?"

Emma could not even disagree because Frank was exactly the type of person to find it quite diverting.

Unfazed, he continued to thumb through a very tedious tome that he had dug up from her father’s library. The image of him, reading with such a distilled concentration usually reserved for the venerable, conjured up a memory of Harriet remarking on his odd habit of being cooped up at Hartfield on most evenings. “He’s twenty-six—he should be at the club.” Harriet, bless her heart—having only known him in passing at that point—had looked so sad for him that Emma had to assure her that this aspect of his nature was such an immovable fact that not even God himself would be able to drag him to a club if he willed it.

“I already told you, he's to stay and take care of his ill aunt at Enscombe in Yorkshire indefinitely—I think,” she said, adding the latter afterthought as a sort of disclaimer, as she vaguely recalled Frank’s latest Instagram story taken at a very posh restaurant in Chelsea, of all places. She had assumed that it was a late post, but one could never be too sure when it came to Frank's whereabouts.

She left out the part that in truth, Frank had not even occurred to her as an option. When it came to finding a man up for any task, Knightley always stood first in her regard. 

Come to think of it, next to her father, he was always first in her regard for—well—anything, really. In many such occasions of attempting to dissect why this was, she would ponder at the cause, but would inevitably dismiss it as a result of growing up in a small town with only her doting father and her decidedly undoting friend as the most prominent male figures in her immediate circle.

“I don’t suppose he outqualifies the entourage of medical professionals at his aunt’s beck and call…” Knightley mumbled in reply, his eyebrows raised in a manner that Emma knew was supposed to be disapproving. His genial nature never did fully extend where Frank was concerned—he had always thought him foppish and irresponsible, and thus had never quite readily given Frank’s character any credit as he would another person.

“I would acknowledge his merits, but I hear of none, except that he is well-grown and good-looking. When, pray tell, would he deem it a good enough time to grace us with his presence?” he had once argued, after Emma had read to him one of the innumerable missives Frank had sent, seeming to be on purpose to visit Highbury in time for his father, Mr. Weston’s remarriage last autumn. Although written very prettily, these promises all turned out to be for naught. It was only recently, when he finally did arrive—his presence withheld for long enough to be considered a slight to the new Mrs. Weston.

She would admit to being disappointed—after all, it was her who had made the love match between the newlyweds (much to Knightley’s chagrin). Especially on behalf of Mrs. Anne Weston—formerly Miss Taylor to the Woodhouse girls whom she had taught and cared for as a governess in office, but little short of a mother in affection.

However, despite his faults, she was ready to give Frank a wide berth on this front. Sure, she had never met him at that point, but she had always felt an innate affinity towards him for the symmetry between the lives they have lead. They both lost their mothers when they were very young, and he had his aunt to care for as she had her father. She understood what it was to be duty-bound to stay at home and keep his ailing aunt company. It was not as though he had shirked his visitation purely by some flight of fancy. Whether or not Mrs. Churchill’s illness was as contrived as what the general consensus of the rumour mill made it out to be, she was still at least a little sick, was she not? It only made sense that he would dote on his aunt who had raised him as her own during a time when his father could not.

Emma felt compelled to contradict Knightley on his previous comment, but it would not do to be her usual argumentative self today. Today, she needed to be her most supplicant and agreeable. Suppressing a sigh, she plastered on the most angelic expression she was able to muster.

With clasped hands, she did the most un-Emma thing she has ever done in her life. She pleaded.

“Please, oh please, ever gracious, darling Mr. Knightley, would you do me the rare honour of having your nakedness exploited in exchange for my class credits?” She made sure to use her best angle (right side, tilted just slightly down) and bat her eyelashes in a most winsome manner.

“Now Emma, what would your father say if he found his beloved daughter begging to get a man naked in his own home?” came his ready reply, spoken saucily and with ill-concealed mirth, his speech wobbling as he held back the beginnings of a laugh. A few moments passed, but Knightley made no sign of yielding. Amused he may have been, but not won over—yet. She inferred then that she would have to offer up some concession of great value.

“I promise I'll finally read that book you suggested that I've been putting off for forever.”

“But then that would require you sitting still for more than two hours, Emma.”

She stifled an indignant huff. It was times like these when Emma wonders if they simply must spar about everything. Any other person would have indulged her by then, but God forbid the two old friends ever have a straightforward conversation that did not meander like a braided river. And, heaven help her, what a long river this particular exchange was turning out to be.

“And I'll visit the Bateses for tea and a chat every other day for one whole week…?” she added with some hesitance.

It was not that Emma did not already visit or chance upon them in town regularly. However, this proposition would be a considerable undertaking, since Miss Bates had taken to reporting to anyone with an ear the minutia of her niece, Jane Fairfax's goings-on as of late. If she does but once decide to take Chamomile instead of her preferred Earl Grey, one hears of nothing else for a week. After all, why would she deliver one single, concise statement when instead she could prattle out at least six and not nearly get to the point?

But she would worry about the logistics of her promised visit to her well-meaning but impressively loquacious neighbour later. Knightley was always trying to get Emma to be more affable towards the Bateses, and she knew that it would take an act of altruism on her part to get through his steadfast resolve.

“Alright, alright,” he said, as he held up his hands in mock surrender. He smiled fully then, a rare, well-earned one that deepened his dimples and transformed his face into something too lovely by half she could hardly hate him for making her grovel for it.

“But only for an hour. I need to come by later at Abbey Mill Farm and ask Robert how the new crops are faring. And don't complain about my lack of abs. Not everyone can travel back and forth to London to avail of a gym membership or a haircut or something,” he said, as he gingerly twisted his father’s heirloom signet on his little finger.

✵

There was a lack of swimming pools (or any varied activity) in Highbury, and the last time Emma had seen Knightley naked was when they were still children. This was when they could both fit in the inflatable pool that her older sister, Isabella, had begged their father to purchase one summer. No later than a week after its installation, however, the valetudinarian Woodhouse had learned about all the types of microorganisms that could inhabit bodies of water—and thus, ultimately cause his daughters' demise (which, to him, seemed the only end point of any remotely harmful thing). Any activities related to being in contact with water in any of its large and/or untreated forms had been prohibited since.

So that was silly.

The whole exercise was supposed to be silly. In fact, Emma had originally planned to come up with a quip or two to rile him up about having to take his clothes off.

But then he did.

He hooked his long fingers into the hem of his jumper, and suddenly all her planned attempts at wit and all notions of humour evaporated. A heady rush of warmth bloomed at her cheeks, her breath catching at the notion of how intimate it was, having the liberty to observe him as he undressed—and so closely that she could hear the faint brush of wool against his skin.

It felt so strange—not unpleasant, but new—to have a sudden awareness of his physicality. It reminded her of the time she saw a photograph of the Apollo Belvedere in an encyclopaedia and marvelled at the male form. Only this time, Knightley was right there—not of marble but of flesh; all freckles and tan lines and strong sinew born out of years and years of work in the fields he so loved. It was just so like him, to have a body that carried his same inherent roughness in its definition, but at the same time a gentleness in its curvatures and slopes—both strength and tenderness in equal measure.

He stood with his limbs aloft like he did not quite know what to do with them. “Should I, er... pose?” A flush had crept up from his neck to the slant of his jaw, but his unrelenting eyes stayed fixed on her.

She suddenly felt a sense of having been caught—acutely aware of his gaze as she inwardly cursed him for being so intent with it. Then again, he always was, when they argued and teased, only this time it was less of a challenge and more of an open curiosity, and she was not entirely sure if she liked the way it made her falter.

She instructed him to sit on a stool facing partly away from her, which he obliged without much protest, except for a request to continue with the book he had been reading earlier—something about ancient agricultural practices (which, of course, how Knightley of him). “Please be as relaxed as you possibly can,” she said, more to herself than to him.

She wondered then, how, in all their years of friendship had she unconsciously avoided ever asking him to sit for a portrait.

As she began to map out his shape on paper, she began to understand why.

✵

Emma had always considered herself a good artist—her strokes were decisive, her practice was diligent, and her marks were consistently decent—but somehow the task at hand seemed arduous as her thoughts became progressively more impertinent.

She briefly pondered at the ethics of the predicament she found herself in. What self-respecting artist wondered shamelessly if the sitter's skin would feel as warm as it looked, should she press her fingers to the dip above his collarbones? Repressed country maidens, she supposed. The kind that have admittedly always found their very platonic (emphasis on platonic) best friend objectively handsome. Damn him and his straight nose and thoughtful blue eyes and impeccable posture. (Not that she took particular notice or anything of the sort.)

She worked—or at least pretended to work—at the portrait for what seemed like the longest hour of her life until Knightley asked if he could perhaps look at it. He absolutely could not, because she had barely shaded any definition to it. If it was because she was transfixed by the way his arms would move every time he flipped a page of the book, she would certainly not own up to it (at least not to his face). She was quite sure that he would take one look at it and surmise that she had drawn his shoulders with a touch too much attentiveness.

But alas, after his second request, she was persuaded to say yes anyway, because this was Knightley, and—try as she might—she could never truly hide anything from him.

So when the clock struck four he rose from his seat, and Emma tried in vain not to map the freckles on his torso as he walked towards her and her easel. As he neared her, she became increasingly aware of the fact that he had yet to put his jumper back on. She secretly hoped that he would not.

“Emma,” she faintly heard him say, in that distinctly familiar, deliberate way he always did, and she was suddenly hit by the realisation that she cannot remember the last time she called him by his first name.

There was a time when they had to distinguish two Georges by their last names. George Morris' family had left Highbury some seven years ago, and George Knightley had since reverted to being called his Christian name by the rest of the villagers but somehow not by Emma. She had secretly enjoyed the vexation it caused and the argument that followed when he realised that she would not quit with the incessant Knightley-ing.

“George,” she tried then, with a certain degree of effort and consciousness, the letters feeling foreign from disuse. It almost felt as though she was unearthing a secret language she had no recollection she spoke.

She turned around to gauge his reaction, only to belatedly realise that he had been standing behind her closer than she thought. The length of her upper arm grazed his abdomen, and the contact leaves her feeling singed. She thought she might have heard a sharp inhale, but the sound had disappeared so fast she scarcely had enough evidence it was there at all.

It was in that moment that the door suddenly swung open with an unceremonious creek, the sound prompting the pair to jolt away from each other. Knightley proceeded to put his jumper on so incredibly fast, Emma worried he might have strained a muscle or two.

“Has anyone seen my spectacles?” Henry Woodhouse inquired as he strolled leisurely inside the drawing room. If he was aware of how red both his daughter and Knightley's faces were, he did not comment on it.

“Surely it wouldn't be here, Papa. You never read in the drawing room,” Emma replied—half disappointed, half amused that he should have such abysmal timing. “Perhaps in your office, the library, or the dining table?”

“Ah, yes. Terribly large windows here. Best shut it now before either of you catch a cold, or, God forbid, inhale too much pollen! Don’t even get me started on these horrible springtime allergies…” Mr. Woodhouse grumbled as he left the room and an unresolved trail of tension in his wake.

Knightley had stayed quiet throughout the whole exchange. Emma cast him a sideways glance and saw that he was staring resolutely at some faraway spot on the herringbone parquet. As if sensing her gaze, he raised his eyes to catch hers across the room. They shared a dry, awkward laugh.

“I best get going, then,” he said, running his hands through his already dishevelled hair, his expression unreadable. He looked so painfully closed off in that moment that it broke Emma's heart a little—how very unlike him, to be so reserved around her.

He was already headed for the door when she called out after him on impulse.

“Knightley!”

She wanted to say something, but she could not exactly ask him, “Hey, did you feel like you just had a potentially life-altering experience back there? No? Just me?”, and be met with confusion, or worse, indifference. So instead, she said, “Your jumper—it’s inside out."

“Oh,” he said, and his entire posture deflated, like maybe he was hoping she would say something entirely different.

“I'll see you tomorrow at dinner.” He took his leave then, walking out into the afternoon sun with his jumper still reversed.

✵

Outside, the tender flowers of late March swayed in full bloom; for both the earth and hearts kept long asleep in the winter, it was a time for spring.

Chapter Text

Frank Churchill announced his return in the form of a Facebook group post. Within minutes, the electronic missive had been shared at least twice over by everyone and their mothers, and the whole of Highbury had become abuzz with excitement for its most anticipated microcelebrity and the vaunted party he had promised to hold upon his return from Enscombe.

Of course, George Knightley would have known this, had he owned any new electronic devices since the advent of the iPhone. But alas, he did not. So it was to his surprise when his relic of a Nokia vibrated with a barrage of new messages from Emma pertaining to Frank’s arrival.

Frank is back! Remember the party that I mentioned we were planning months ago??? Well it’s finally happening!!!!

I do hope you’re feeling better :’-( Papa and I missed you this past week.

Would love if you could make it later at 3 PM here at Hartfield to help plan?

-Emma, x

He had to reread the messages thrice over because his eyes kept skipping to certain parts. A surprised chuckle reverberated from where his chest had been feeling oddly uneasy lately, and it was all he could do to mitigate the stupid grin that had made its way onto his mouth at the sight of her profuse punctuation marks and the way they radiated her excitement through the pixels of his phone.

But his elation would not last long. As he contemplated a carefully crafted reply, he became increasingly aware of two very important points: first, that there was no love lost between him and Frank, and second, that he had actively been avoiding visiting Hartfield ever since he had sat for Emma’s drawing assignment.

True to his word, he did come for dinner the day after. Knowing that the ever-growing stack of business letters marinating in Mr. Woodhouse’s study would stay untouched without intervention, he had come an hour early to play the part of a much needed secretary. They were halfway through discussing a particularly dodgy invitation for a crypto currency venture when Emma had sauntered in to announce that dinner would be ready in a quarter of an hour. One fleeting look at the disarray of mail splayed out between himself and her father had prompted her to exit the room with only a small smile directed at him in greeting.

Which would have been all well and good and perfectly normal, except Knightley had felt his ears go hot at the memory of what had transpired between them the day before. There was absolutely no way he could stand to sit beside her father and think about Emma and the way that her arm had left a match strike on his skin. If anyone had told him before it happened that Emma Woodhouse would one day be brokering an arrangement in which he had to take his clothes off in front of her, he probably would have suffered a mild heart attack. Which, given the way he was acting, one would think he actually did.

The night of the portrait session had afforded him only a fitful sleep. He had woken up at an irregular hour to find his jumper still reversed and his mind impossibly cluttered with the two ideas he was struggling to reconcile: Emma, his dearest friend in the world, and Emma, his... his...

He did not quite have the words to label it as neatly as he would prefer. Thinking of it as a crush would feel juvenile and inadequate. He had been on the precipice of this feeling for years now, and he was yet to find a word that could encapsulate its complexity.

He had tried to eat dinner with her and her father then, but ended up taking only miniscule bites in between glancing at Emma and wondering if she can see right through his quickly disintegrating façade.

Feeling like a massive fraud, he had left immediately after dinner with a rushed goodbye. The lengthy berating from Serle about not staying for dessert would be endured when the time came.

The next day, he had texted her to say that he had taken ill and could not come to dine with them again in the evenings until he feels well enough to do so.

It had been a week since, and, truly, he had in fact felt ill the entirety of it—his mind and his heart wrought with worry and misplaced, incipient hope. Her voice calling his name had been the soundtrack to his misery. It was as if he had never truly been George until she had spoken it again after all these years.

She had checked up on him multiple times via text during his absence at Hartfield—going so far as to send Dr. Perry over with a prescription for spring allergies and a courier with a basket of produce large enough to last him the whole spring. He knew her of old—knew the generosity that she was capable of, but it still struck to have it be directed at him (and under some false pretence on his part, and he had felt doubly guilty for it).

He had wanted to call her to give his sincere thanks, but then opted instead for a text that said 'You do know I have a literal farm.', followed by another: 'Many thanks for sending Dr. Perry and produce. Much appreciated. -GK'. He had somehow hoped that the enormity of his gratitude would translate through the brevity.

He sighed—resisting the direction of his thoughts—then steeled himself for his inevitable return to Hartfield. He would overcome this as he had done many times before. He could be reasonable and keep the company of his dearest friend without ever selfishly shedding light to what he wants and feels and yearns for.

And besides, he’d be damned if Frank Churchill should get to Hartfield first before him.

✵

Emma sat in the parlour at Hartfield as she waited for the arrival of her friends. Across from her, Knightley's chair by the hearth sat empty, as it had done for the past week. His chair; as in never formally designated or given, but his all the same in the many nights he had spent reclining there. She was almost sure that if she squinted hard enough, an outline in his shape would form and he would materialize out of thin air.

She wished that he actually would.

The lack of his company and the added worry for his wellbeing had kept her in low spirits. Dinners had felt drab without having to parry back and forth with him on every topic possible. By night, Emma felt as though she had a surplus of energy usually reserved for such conversations, and her sleep suffered for it.

Come morning, she would go on groggily about her day. She had turned in Knightley's portrait via mail a few days after he had sat for her, and thereafter had felt such a strange wave of listlessness wash over her that she could barely muster excitement over the start of Easter break.

Desperate for any form of employment and determined to honour her deal with Knightley, she had found herself following the beaten path that led to the Bateses’ cottage in the afternoons. She had been bracing herself with patience for the inevitable chatter that one would expect from Miss Bates, but was pleasantly surprised to enjoy—and was even grateful for—the constant flow of subjects blending seamlessly into one another; that it was able to suspend the incessant overthinking that had plagued her for the past week.

However, this respite did not last long. Not an hour after she had sat down with Miss Bates and her mostly slumbering mother, Jane Fairfax arrived from a walk to the post office. But of course, she would be there—she had been staying with her aunt and grandmother for some months whilst her adoptive family, the Campbells, stayed in Ireland. Emma knew this, but somehow, in the fog that had been hanging over her thoughts, it had slipped her mind.

It was one thing to constantly hear about her, but to interact with her—with tight-lipped smiles and curt greetings—Emma had always felt out of her depth. It was not as though Jane had shown any marked interest in forming a friendship with her, either. In the few instances that she had been to stay at Highbury, they had only interacted a handful of times, and their conversations had brooked no further than the usual formalities.

Emma caught the impression that, to Jane, Highbury must pale in comparison to London. Ever since she arrived, she had exuded such an air of reticence and placidity about everything that it bordered on boredom. How quaint she must think her little village with nothing much to offer for company or entertainment but a gaggle of home-schooled girls her age, and a pub that was so old, it threatened to fall in on itself should one close the door with a little more force than it was used to.

In another life, they might have been very good friends indeed. Everyone else supposed so, for they were about the same age.

But, as fate would have it, they had grown up miles away from each other, and, as a result, she had had to listen to everyone fawn over Jane—prodigious child of Highbury, pianist extraordinaire. Emma could hardly be blamed if the repetitive nature by which this unsolicited information had been delivered to her had started to annoy immensely.

Not two months ago, when the Campbells had delivered her to Highbury, Emma had requested their company at Hartfield so that Jane might enjoy the music room, knowing that the Bateses had naught to offer on this particular front. This act of goodwill would soon backfire when Jane proceeded to sweep everyone off their feet with a ridiculously complex piece, sans sheet music. The way that everyone else had fawned, one would think that she was the second coming of Mozart himself. Emma had afterwards felt a little silly for singing a simple ditty chosen specifically so that she would not have to play anything particularly difficult on the piano.

A few weeks after, on St. Valentine’s Day, news had broken about an anonymously sent pianoforte that arrived for Jane—a lovely, hulking instrument that could barely fit in the Bateses’ tiny flat.

That evening, at a party held at Cole’s, talk of Jane’s secret admirer would only be further fueled with her next musical performance—a beautiful rendition of a Ben Jonson folksong in duet with Knightley, of all people. Knightley—who would only play the violin when at least two pints in and heavily cajoled—had, completely sober, gone up behind Jane sportingly with only so little as a few requests. They had sung beautifully, complementing each other so seamlessly that one could hardly believe that it was an impromptu performance.

Emma only vaguely remembered the details of the evening, but she could clearly recall the keen sense of perturbation that had settled over her like slow fever. That night, she had gone home overwarm and ill at ease—spending an inordinate amount of time contemplating a comment that Mrs. Weston had let slip to her sometime during the evening.

“What say you to this, Emma? George and Jane—they would make a good match, no?”

“Knightley and Jane?” was the only response she was able to muster, the cogs in her mind moving at incredible speeds and yet producing no definitive answer.

“Well, that piano was sent to her by somebody, and Jane’s always been a bit of a favourite with him. Did you know, he’d sent the car out for the Bateses this evening and walked himself? Don’t you think that’s very gallant of him?”

Emma had only mustered a tepid smile in response, and had spent the rest of the evening feeling inert and thoroughly confounded. To be sure, Knightley had always been supportive of Jane and had, on occasion, expressed his appreciation for her talent and accomplishments—but a favourite! Ha! Surely someone else would be better deserving of the word? And to think that he could send such an imprudent, ostentatious gift—with sensibilities like his? The man could hardly buy new socks on a whim.

It had all seemed very nonsensical to her.

A month had passed since then, and both Jane and Knightley had offered no acknowledgement on the matter. Which, as far as the gossips of Highbury were concerned, was confirmation enough.

Emma felt odd, about Jane Fairfax and the chronicle of facts she had learnt about her against her will—some of which she still sometimes finds herself ruminating about nonetheless.

She had sat the remainder of her visits to the Bateses with Jane in the same room, so naturally the conversation was singlehandedly steered by Miss Bates with the sole goal of listing every single accomplishment made from age zero to twenty-two. By the fifteen-year-old mark, Emma already felt like a very bad feminist by comparing another woman’s accomplishments against her own, only to find herself lacking.

She had tried to make a conscious effort to repress her dislike for Jane and instead foster at least a semi-friendly connection between them—all to no avail. She felt as though she would always remain distant and lukewarm to the incomparably accomplished and elegant Jane Fairfax.

✵

Harriet was the first to arrive at Hartfield.

Emma had heard the tell-tale crunch of the gravel path and promptly made for the entrance. She opened the door to reveal her dear friend, stood at the entrance with a most genial expression only a countenance like hers would be able to muster. It was that very disposition—a sort of unfettered awe at everything—that had driven Emma to make friends with Harriet in the first place.

Harriet opened her arms for a hug, which Emma gladly accepted. They then proceeded to jump around in a circle holding hands for all of five minutes with the kind of unsuppressed exhilaration that only two kindred spirits could experience together.

“Honestly, with the way things had been going for me I thought this party was as good as cancelled.”

She had said it jokingly, but internally, Emma could not expel the pang of guilt that nipped at her every time Harriet alluded to the unfortunate events of the past few months which she had played a hand in.

Not a year ago, Harriet was a new boarder at Mrs. Goddard’s school, and they had met when the headmistress had brought her over for teatime at Hartfield. They always were a bit of an unlikely pair—the social strata in which they moved in dictating that Emma be raised in polite society and therefore would not have ran in the same circle that Harriet belonged to were it not for Mrs. Goddard’s introduction.

Although not very genteel, Harriet had such a sincere way about her that endeared her to Emma instantly. What she lacked in refinement she made up for in enthusiasm. Emma was convinced that Harriet needed only apply herself under her tutelage and she would be up to par with any of the other debutantes of Highbury. That is to say, it had only taken one errant compliment from Elton ostensibly aimed at Harriet, and, riding on the coattails of her most recent matchmaking success with the Westons, Emma’s mind had already decided to set into motion a plan that aimed to coax the blossoming romance she had detected between the two.

Never mind Robert Martin, a tenant farmer at Donwell and Knightley’s close friend. Harriet had stayed some months at Abbey Mill as a temporary hire for the summer harvest, and thence a fondness was forged through proximity. Harriet had blushed and sighed as she recounted one of his various gallant acts. “You know, he once walked three miles just to bring me walnuts because I had mentioned how much I liked them.”

However, Emma stayed unconvinced. She had met Robert a grand total of one time, and indeed it was enough to gather that he was very, well, plain. He was a quiet sort of man who seemed hard-pressed to showcase any interest for engaging conversation. She would not have her friend settle for an alright option when a superior one with better standing was well within reach. Elton was a good-humoured man well-loved by the villagers—always so cheerful and obliging—and Emma was sure that he would be an excellent match for her friend.

And yet, after months of scheming—and albeit done with no real malice on Emma’s part—it had still resulted in a blunder of catastrophic proportions, and she had borne an inordinate amount of guilt for it since.

Months after, they ran into Robert Martin and his sisters at Ford’. He had looked at her friend with such open earnestness and hope that even Emma had to look away at their exchange. She could nearly hear Knightley perorate about the dangers of meddling for the umpteenth time—and she had had enough hindsight by then to know that he would be right to.

The Martins had invited Harriet to Abbey Mill for supper that day. She went, and Emma had hoped that her support might be penance enough for the rift she had caused to the connection that Harriet and Robert had forged long before either of them had fallen into her orbit.

But then the next day, when Harriet arrived at Hartfield, nary a word about Robert was spoken, and the subject never breeched their conversations since.

✵

Being of the belief that it was a girlhood rite of passage to experience the ‘makeover montage’—and what with the occasion being Harriet’s first major party—Emma had expressly told her friend to arrive earlier than the rest so that they can prepare accordingly. It had almost been an hour after they absconded to her room to try on a variety of outfits that might be suited for the upcoming party, and it was proving to be challenging, since Frank had been very uncharacteristically mum about the particulars.

They were in the middle of Googling various hair curling techniques when a knock on the door interrupted a particularly lengthy discussion on the rise of no-heat hair styling devices and whether they were worth the investment.

“Yes, but if you think about all the heat damage you could save your hair from—” Emma said, as she twisted the knob and promptly drew back in shock upon finding Knightley stood in her doorway.

“Hi,” he said, sounding a little out of breath. She watched his eyes roam from her face and travel down, and she suddenly remembered that she had been trying on a particularly low-cut dress that she had eschewed underpinnings for. Knightley’s eyes dart to his feet at the same time that Emma crossed her arms across her chest, feeling a deep flush bloom from her neck to the tips of her ears. Across from her, Knightley stared resolutely at the floor, looking equally red and thoroughly mortified.

“Er… So—”

“So—”

“I think my boobs look dodgy in this dress!” Harriet exclaimed from inside the room. Emma tipped her head to the ceiling in silent thanks for her excellent timing and the allegedly ill-fitting garment.

Harriet ambled towards the door with an armful of dresses, her head peaking over a plethora hems and flounces that tumbled down like an overzealous bouquet of flowers. “Oh, it’s George! Come, we’re in need of a third opinion.” She attempted to wave him inside as multiple hangers clattered to the floor.

Knightley balked. “I don’t think it’s entirely appropriate—”

“It’s the twenty first century, Knightley. Single women and men may now be allowed to mingle unattended. Besides, it’s only picking a dress, we have a multitude of screens for changing behind.” Emma pointed to the makeshift fortress. They must have had at least six, all of which were readily supplied by Mr. Woodhouse, all too eager to point out the ones best suited to fend off any potential draughts.

“Yes, you’ll help vary the feedback, what with your male gaze and all,” Harriet added, as she haphazardly deposited her selection of dresses on a nearby rack. She turned to them with a flourish. “Well, what do we think?”

Dodgy boobs indeed, Emma thought. The thirties frock she had on was nothing short of fabulous, but the gathering at the bust was obviously intended for someone with a fuller décolletage. “Why don't you show us other options, and then we'll compare?”

"I did have another one in mind..." Harriet said, as she held up another dress that looked almost exactly the same as the one she had on, except in a darker shade of blue.

Emma squinted to ascertain any further discrepancies she might have missed at first glance. “Oh. They’re practically identical.”

“Of course, if the dark one gets dirty it wouldn’t show as much…”

“Yes, let’s go with the dark then. I’m sure the cut would also look more flattering in a darker shade.”

“But the light looks a great deal prettier…” Harriet continued to lament, even as Emma gently nudged her behind the screens to expedite the process. Their time was almost up, and she would prefer it if her friend was able to make a choice before the inevitable barrage of party planning finally commenced.

"So George, what's this I hear from Emma about you being sick last week? I do hope you're feeling better now?” Harriet asked, her voice subdued by much shuffling and zipping.

“Yes, thank you. I was quickly on the mend.”

“Okay, good—because I had to watch Emma agonise over which rhubarb stalks to include in that basket she sent. It was painful to watch—I mean, they all looked pretty much the same to me.”

Emma watched as Knightley’s head swivelled towards her like an owl, a small smile tugging on one corner of his lips. There was a mustering banter there, and she would have been utterly embarrassed at being found out except his expression was belied by the softness of his gaze. She felt a sudden urge to stroke his forehead to soothe away any fever that might have lingered there. She wondered if he would let her.

Her impetuous thoughts were interrupted by Harriet finally emerging from behind the screens, and she watched as her friend walked towards an adjacent mirror to appraise her reflection. After a few pensive turns and swishes, she declared her verdict. “This does look so much better.”

They murmured their collective approval, and when finally after a few more minutes of putting together the right ensemble for each of the girls to their hearts’ content, with the screens put away and the three of them poking their heads out of the window to catch the crisp breeze, Harriet said, to no one in particular, “Emma Woodhouse, always right!”

If the doorbell had not sounded at that very moment, Emma could have sworn that she had heard Knightley make a noise that could only be accurately described as halfway between a laugh and that of utter disbelief.

✵

A hushed conversation reverberated from the parlour as they made their way downstairs—loud enough to carry through the partitions, but quiet enough to remain incoherent.

Emma craned her neck surreptitiously to catch the exchange, but found herself unable to hear anything intelligible beyond some disjointed words and prolonged fricatives. Something about the post? And possibly letters? Either way, she deemed it mundane enough to be unworthy of sleuthing further into.

Upon rounding the landing that connected to the parlour entrance, she saw Frank’s figure partially secluded by the furniture, his back to the doorway. With one last furtive swipe of her hand to smooth her hair, Emma cleared her throat to announce their arrival. Frank turned at the sound, and in doing so had revealed the presence of another guest seated in front of him—Jane Fairfax.

The two had apparently met last summer at Weymouth on holiday. It had irked Emma that she should meet Frank by some happenstance at the seaside, before everyone else, when all of Highbury had been anticipating Frank's arrival since his father’s marriage. All the villagers had already staked some semblance of claim over the illustrious young man that had not graced their parish since he was adopted by his Aunt Churchill.

Despite their previous acquaintance however, the two had hardly been seen interacting at all since their succeeding arrivals at Highbury. When asked about the depth of their connection, both had seemed detached enough to only be able to describe the other in general terms, which had in turn satisfied Emma and helped temper any annoyance at Jane in this aspect. She might have met him first, but Emma was most determined to be the one to get to know him better.

“Emma! I picked up Jane on the way so she could help us with the music for the party, surely you won’t mind,” Frank said, nodding at Harriet and Knightley in greeting. Jane offered only a tight-lipped smile.

She did in fact mind, but her father had not raised a heathen for Hartfield’s mistress. Ever the gracious hostess, she replied, “Of course not! It's your party we're planning after all”. Although, she wondered what kind of advice a classically trained musician could offer on a soundtrack that would inevitably end up being composed of Top 40 songs anyway.

“Fantastic! Now that we’re all here, we can finalize the details.” Frank’s face had now broken into a charming grin, showing off a row of his perfectly straight teeth. Like a moth to a toothpaste commercial-worthy flame, Emma was compelled to move closer and settle near him beside the ottoman.

“I assume everyone knows that the party is to be held at the old Crown Inn?” he asked, and they all nodded a collective yes. The inn had been in disuse for a few years, but Frank had taken one look at the function hall last winter—cluttered, but fundamentally spacious—and immediately saw an opportunity to throw a party of a scale unheard of in Highbury. Hence, everyone’s excitement. It helped that he had denied any offers of monetary contributions from the villagers and have put it upon himself to pay for everything that the party would require. "I owe it to Highbury for all the years that I've been away," he had said when they scoped the inn, and the caretaker's wife just about fainted at his gallantry.

“There is the issue of the inn being used as a storage space. We should probably start cleaning this week if we want to be able to throw the party anytime within this century,” Knightley piped up from his seat by the hearth. “I can call on the farm tenants to help us move all the furniture. I’ll cover the cost of work, of course. It’s a bit of an undertaking, but if anyone can help us do it, it’s them.” He had never much liked Frank even before he arrived, and indeed he had not been afraid to tell her his opinion on several occasions, but Emma knew that she could always count on him to be civil and cooperative when needed.

“No need to concern ourselves with all that menial work—I’ve already hired a cleaning company and decorators to spruce up the place. They’ve been here since last week,” Frank replied blithely. Despite visibly bristling at his wording, even Knightley seemed impressed enough by Frank's commitment so as to not mention anything further. It would appear that Frank was a seasoned professional at planning parties, after all.

“Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get on with the exciting bit, shall we? Did you know, that themed parties are all the rage nowadays?” Frank tilted his head towards Emma. There was a glint in his eye that made her sit up straighter and inch forward in her seat, feeling as though she was being let in on a secret.

"Have any of you seen Bridgerton?"

The ladies erupted into effusions. Harriet squealed with delight, and even Jane was sporting a full smile—the most emotion she had exhibited since arriving at Highbury. Meanwhile, Knightley was watching their reaction with a look of utter confusion. God, for someone who epitomised erudition he can be quite clueless sometimes, Emma thought.

“You know, if you had the internet on your phone you might actually be able to look up what Bridgerton is,” she said, walking over to sit on the arm of his chair. She leaned in closer to show him the Wiki page and tried not to be distracted by the fact that he smelled like lavender detergent and freshly cut grass.

When he had deemed his knowledge sufficient enough to stop scrolling (that is, no more than ten seconds in), he looked up at her, and through his lashes she could see in his widened eyes the sort of fear that only the possibility of wearing Regency breeches could invoke in a man of his stature.

Oh this is going to be very delightful indeed.

Chapter Text

In all its years existing, the tiny village of Highbury has not quite had an event of this scale. It was last autumn when the Westons were married, and even then, having been held in Mr. Weston’s newly procured property at Randalls, and with the house and guests dressed to the nines, it had not been as grand as Frank’s party is shaping up to be.

Granted, no one had been dressed in full Regency garb and a string quartet had not been commissioned to play live music like today.

In the week prior, the Highbury Facebook group had been astir with various posts of schedules for fitting, dance practice, and even an afternoon of etiquette lessons. From an outsider’s perspective, it would look as though Frank was vying to orchestrate the next most historically accurate period drama. In the short time he had been back, he has earned the admiration of the village for the sheer dedication he had in holding, according to his own words, ‘A real, proper ball. We’re not half-arsing anything’. And indeed they had not.

One by one, the villagers start to arrive at the Crown Inn, dressed in head-to-toe Regency attire, courtesy of the theatrical costuming crew that Frank had hired to dress them for the occasion. Emma’s heart swells with joy and excitement at seeing everyone immediately become transported back into time as they mill about the venue.

“Excellently contrived!” Miss Bates exclaims as she, Emma, and Harriet walk past a long table sprawling with an assortment of food. “Such a transformation!”

“I couldn’t fathom how much the Churchills must have given Frank to obtain all this! He must have had Aladdin’s lamp! I can only imagine his inheritance…Oh there’s Jane!” she trails off, distracted by the arrival of her niece.

Jane walks in, arm in arm with Elton’s brand new girlfriend, Augusta Hawkins. He’d conveniently come back with her a few weeks ago after returning from a theology colloquium where they had apparently met.

He’d left Highbury to lick his wounds as soon as Emma had rejected him after a drunken confession last Christmas, in which he had vehemently rebuffed any notion of interest for Harriet. All Emma’s ministrations for matchmaking had been for naught—she’d broken Harriet’s hoping heart, which she had encouraged, and had inevitably been accused by Elton of leading him on.

“Does my dress look overtrimmed?” Emma overhears Augusta ask Jane.

Before Jane could have any real chance to answer, Augusta immediately follows with another comment. “I just think that it’s such a fashion faux pas to be overtrimmed, isn’t it? My natural taste is more inclined towards simplicity,” she says, standing in a yellow frock peppered with more notions than one could find in a sizable haberdashery. Elton simpers in agreement, and Emma steers Harriet towards the punch bowl before they could hear any more of their joint snobbery.

As they sip the fruity concoction from their glasses, Emma spots Knightley arrive, slipping in later than most guests. Typical of him, arriving a bit tardy and slightly disheveled—Emma is sure he walked—'Only a mile!', she could almost hear him say.

She sees him look around and stop when he catches her already staring, and she gives him a wave and a reprimanding look that means to convey how she feels about his habit of foregoing riding in a vehicle, even in attendance to an event such as this. He gives her one of his rare dimpled smiles in penance.

She half-expected him to look absolutely ridiculous and discomfited in a severely starched collar, but he moves with such unbothered ease and quiet confidence that her breath catches—something about the way that he looks like a veritable Regency gentleman amongst everyone else playing dress up.

The host says something about the quadrille starting in a few minutes, and, with one last look at her, Knightley immediately beelines for the table where the men had gathered to play cards. The quartet had been playing a classical style cover of a Taylor Swift song, and the couples who had been swaying on the dance floor start to assemble into the quadrille formation they had practiced just this week.

Harriet excuses herself to the loo and tells Emma that she’ll sit out the first set as she’s not entirely confident of her dancing skills. “But you were already good when we practiced!” Emma protests. They had stayed up until well past midnight in a fit of giggles last night as they powered through the choreography of the quadrille and waltz.

“But I was mostly pretending to be Frank! I just have to watch the first set to confirm the ladies’ steps before joining in on the second,” Harriet replies, and Emma feels a bit guilty for having her be a proxy for Frank last night.

“You’re sure?” Emma asks, still uncomfortable with the idea of leaving Harriet to sit out the first set—they’d both been so excited for the dances.

“Yes! Now go, I think I see Frank coming over. Plus, I drank like, three glasses of punch and I need to pee immediately,” Harriet says, as she pushes Emma gently towards the dance floor.

As if on cue, Frank walks up to Emma, bows, then says, “Miss Woodhouse, I believe I promised you the first two dances,” he says, all mock Regency propriety. It made her giggle and feel giddy at the prospect of dancing all throughout the night.

“Why, yes, Mr. Churchill, I believe you did,” she replies, curtsying in turn, and they walk hand in hand to the middle of the room where the guests shuffled into place. The quartet counts them in, and the dance begins.

✵

One would assume that the older Knightley brother would be well fit to dance in an assembly such as this one, but then one must not have the privilege of knowing the man and his particular reluctance to participate in such social activity as dancing.

He had, for as long as Emma had known him, very much preferred to stand to the side and engage in activities befitting of older gentlemen. He is no teenager, to be sure, but at the age of twenty six, one simply cannot finally proclaim that he has lost all his interest in the particular joy that can only be found in rhythmic movement. It's too tender an age to be resigned to spending social gatherings huddled amongst the patriarchs of Highbury, discussing the most improbably boring subjects ranging from agriculture to finance. Indeed, George Knightley is young yet.

But if there was one thing he could be counted on, it is to always, almost without fault, prove Emma Woodhouse wrong.

So he surprises her when, halfway into the second set, he asks Harriet for a dance.

Emma’s heart swells with pride and relief, for she had been wrought with worry when the second set had started and Harriet had yet to join on the dance floor. She’d spotted her in a most unfortunate predicament, sitting beside Elton, the very man who had jilted her just last winter.

She couldn’t hear much of what was happening, but she’d surmised from what she’d seen that Anne Weston had asked him if he was going to dance, and he looked like he was about to agree until he realized that Mrs. Weston was not asking for herself but for Harriet. He’d quickly shifted gears and pretended to receive an important call on his phone and proceeded to walk away.

Harriet had looked crestfallen as she was left to sit alone after being so blatantly slighted. Elton, the insufferable creature! Emma wished that it was socially acceptable to just flat out slap an entitled man who has so obviously stepped out of line. The world would be better for it. Just because he dabbles in theology doesn’t mean he’s God’s gift to man, the pompous arse!

Just when she was considering leaving the dance floor to come to console Harriet, there was Knightley, the most improbable partner, asking Harriet to dance. Harriet beams at him as she says yes, and Emma feels so grateful to Knightley for rising to the occasion despite his aversion to dancing.

He leads her to the dance floor, and Emma gives Harriet an encouraging smile as the quartet starts anew with a lively number.

To her astonishment, Knightley moves with as much grace as anyone who actively took pleasure in dancing. Not once had she seen him dance, but now she is determined to have him do it at every occasion, if only to see him look so carefree and youthful as he does now. She understands the weight that he’s had to carry with the passing of both his parents when he had barely started university, and it warms her heart to see him in a moment of respite from the burden of his tumultuous responsibilities. She so rarely sees him without a look of contemplation on his face, resigned to living the life of a wizened old bachelor alone at Donwell.

From across the floor, she could see Harriet’s face radiate with joy as Knightley leads them through a particularly tricky twirl sequence. They share a laugh and Emma’s heart suffuses with affection for two of her dearest friends.

Notwithstanding the exaggerated flourishes of additional shimmies and steps that Augusta randomly throws in here and there, Emma revels in the moment and commits to her heart this one precious memory of her friends caught up in dance, alive with the thrum of music and movement.

✵

After dinner, Emma finds herself surveying the crowd from the narrow hallway that led to the coat room. A substantial amount of the elders had promptly dozed off right after, and most of the other guests had queued up to the photo booth at the other side of the room.

She’d been in the middle of watching Miss Bates argue with her half-asleep mother whether it was a pear or apple tarte tatin they had served for dessert (it was apple, from Donwell), when Knightley walks towards her.

She has yet to speak to him at all during the entirety of the evening. But like any other occasion in which they are both in attendance, they somehow always end up finding each other anyway. He pauses, remembers his Regency etiquette lessons, and then bows.

Emma smiles and gives him a slight curtsy—he’d have been the perfect gentleman in Regency England; all manners and virtue, which he had exhibited just earlier this evening in his chivalry towards Harriet.

“Thank you,” Emma says, “for being kind to Harriet.”

“You don’t have to thank me, Emma,” he says, bowing his head in modesty. “He was so unforgivably rude, and I think that you and I both know that he aimed at wounding more than Harriet.”

A few months ago, Emma would have countered his remark, but she knows better now. “I was completely wrong about him. There is a littleness about him that you saw from the start and I didn’t,” she says, laying down her defences in an act of humility and contrition.

“To be fair, you would have chosen for him better than he chose for himself. Harriet has some admirable qualities that Augusta is completely without,” he replies, with a hint of a smile on his lips. He looks at her, then says with utmost sincerity, “She does you credit, Emma, as you do her.”

She looks at him directly then, and offers a small smile of gratitude. Here they are, unearthing a months-old argument—finally settled in a rare moment of standstill.

“Knightley! Emma! Come! Set these guests an example—they’re all lazy. They’re all asleep!” Mr. Weston bellows as he passes them in the hallway. He walks up to the quartet, and a few moments later the host announces that it’s time for the waltz.

Knightley looks around the crowd, then asks, “Who will you dance with?”

“With you,” she replies instinctively, then immediately backtracks with some uncertainty. “That is, if you’ll ask me.”

He looks a bit taken aback, and Emma blanches at the possibility that maybe dancing was only a one-time thing for him tonight. But then he holds his hand out to her in silent question, which she gladly accepts as she slips her hand into his.

His palm feels rough-hewn but warm as he guides her to the dance floor. In a flash, a glimmering sensation runs through her—eerily similar to what she felt during the portrait incident.

She looks around and realizes that everyone else had their gloves on—both her and Knightley had forgotten to put them back on after eating dinner. She briefly considers retrieving them from her seat, but then the conductor waves and the band starts up.

They move along with the others, exchanging partners throughout the first few sections of the dance, and for a while she forgets to be conscious about her glovelessness and allows the rhythm to flow through her.

But then the music swells, and Knightley is holding her hand again. This feels something like their playful spats, a push and a pull, two contrarians separating to their opposing corners, only to inevitably meet again in the middle.

One, two, three. One, two, three. She counts the beats, then falters when Knightley’s hand lightly brushes against her waist. Her mind could only attempt to catch up with the sensations that sweep through her in rapid succession.

They had touched before, of course, but never with the sole intent of touching for touching’s sake. Never with the spark of something akin to want.

She finds herself face to face with him again, close—too close—and God, had his eyes always been so blue? He gazes at her, intently, and there was a question there, unspoken and puzzling—and yet at the same time making perfect sense.

This, whatever this was, unbidden and quiet and fervent—ever since the portrait incident? No. Longer. The warmth and the shape of it so familiar even though she's only now realizing the kindling to have started long before either of them knew.

They stand there, hands clasping each other's between them, a current flowing through them like a river run wild.

She wants to tell him this, to bare to him the enormity of her realization and what it might possibly mean for the current state of their relationship, but she cannot find the words. So instead, she wills him to decipher it through lingering touches and prolonged gazes.

Had this not been the same passion that urged their sparring arguments? The same warmth that their friendship has afforded her all these years? The silent, keen desire that stokes a fire in her heart, already his, even before she had the chance to consciously permit it so?

Their prideful righteousness finds a place to retire in the touching of their palms, and in the slide of their fingers, an earnest yearning unfurls.

✵

Knightley had never felt as much anxiety entering Hartfield’s courtyard as he does now. The sound of the gravel crunching under his feet grates with the thundering of his heart, and it’s discomfiting enough that he thinks he might actually suffer a conniption just now.

But then he looks up at the window just above the entrance, and there she is—Emma—the only woman he would run miles for at six in the morning, in non-conducive slippers and tight-fitting breeches. He’d run for years if it meant seeing her at the destination.

The party had lasted well until the early morning, and somewhere between the dance they shared and the revelries that followed, he had not had the chance to talk to her since. But the way she had looked at him—and held him—it had given him hope. Hope enough to come up to her car just a few moments late before it drove away, and hope enough to chase after her on foot with no thought other than to see her, and talk to her, and to resolve whatever this was before the spell is broken.

Something had shifted, and he feels as though they cannot go on as they had before. Something had to give. And if it had to be him, out of breath and feverish, mustering up every ounce of courage to tell her how he feels, then so be it.

As if she’d known he’d be there, Emma peers out of the window and their eyes meet. Her eyes widen, and he sees her move away from the window. A few moments pass and he hears her footfalls become louder. And then there she is, in front of him, eyes wild and searching, urging him to say what he has to.

Just as he was steeling himself for the mortifying ordeal, he hears a yelp from somewhere near the gate. He thinks he might have imagined it, but then Emma frowns at something behind him as the yelps start to grow louder and more persistent.

What in the world?

“Frank! Harriet! What happened?” Emma says, as Knightley spins around to find Frank carrying Harriet across the courtyard.

“She was mugged by a couple of men on the way home,” Frank says, his breathing belaboured. “When she tried to escape, she fell. She had a cramp.”

“Is she hurt?” Emma asks through the cacophony of Harriet’s yelps. They hover on the sides as Frank manoeuvres Harriet towards the entrance.

“I didn’t see, I arrived just after they’d left. I couldn’t think of another place closer so I brought her here,” Frank replies, his face already flushed with the exertion of carrying Harriet.

“Let’s take her to the drawing room,” Emma says.

“It was on account of the scissors!” Harriet manages in between yelps.

“The scissors?” Emma and Knightley ask at the same time.

Frank deposits Harriet onto the sofa with some difficulty. “I borrowed a pair of scissors from Miss Bates. I was halfway home when I remembered so I had to double back,” he huffs.

Knightley immediately set about arranging Harriet on the sofa, ensuring to keep her injured foot elevated. When he goes to touch the sole of her right foot, she lets out a high-pitched moan.

“Why are you here?” Frank asks, and Knightley is a bit taken aback by the question.

“Uhmm… My - my car… Err, my car blew a tyre,” he lies through his teeth. He couldn’t exactly say that he was just about to profess his undying affection before they’d walk in on him and Emma.

“You took your car to the party?” Emma asks, perplexed. He replies with a weak “Yes,” having trouble looking at her directly.

“What might have become of me if not for the scissors?” Harriet keens.

“We should call Dr. Perry,” Emma says, and it propels Knightley into action.

“Right, I’ll fetch him right away,” he says, not exactly knowing how, since he doesn’t actually have a car at present. Bollocks, he’ll just have to ask Frank to drop him off.

“You should go to the police station and report the incident. We’ll take your car,” he says to Frank with some authority, and they make for the door.

“Wait, don’t go!” Emma calls out, and they both come rushing back inside. “Frank, please stay.”

Something like a smarting pain nips at his chest.

Frank?

But of course. What was he thinking, coming here and rushing after her? He ought to have stuck to his strict rule of never crossing the line of friendship with her. He’d been a complete and utter fool.

Henry Woodhouse comes barrelling through the door. “What’s the matter? What has happened? Is she alive?” he asks in rapid succession.

“Harriet’s unharmed, father. We have Frank to thank for,” she replies. Then, to Frank, she says, “Please stay, Knightley can sound the alarm.”

In a bout of spite, Knightley finds himself saying, “We’ll both go.”

And so they did, leaving Hartfield and his burgeoning hope with it.

✵

Knightley already feels faint by the time he reaches Donwell.

He removes his coat with alacrity, then claws at the cravat on his neck and tears at his waistcoat. He tosses them to the ground with as much violence as he can muster. He feels lightheaded and goes to lay down on the carpet.

Don't go. Frank, please stay.

It was as much confirmation as he is going to get. She does not want him at all. He has no qualms about being dutifully true to himself, but he would be lying if, in this moment of weakness, he does not admit to allowing himself some vanity in wishing that he might have been more interesting and novel and carefree like Frank.

But he has Donwell and its tenants to look after, alongside being a magistrate of Highbury, and he could not exist in the world without the baggage of having to forgo his youth in exchange for stability. He was dependable and constant, and all he could ever hope to give Emma is himself as he is, not as who he ought to be.

He feels wretched with jealousy.

The word he had been grasping at like water in his hands, all these years, it was love, wasn't it? He is in love with Emma Woodhouse. And he is certain he is going to go mad with it.

For the first time in his life, George Knightley lets himself come completely undone.

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.