Chapter Text
Harriet Smith never stood a chance, to become the object of infatuation of Miss Emma Woodhouse, who always loved a charity case. She disguised it well, beneath well wishing and ‘innocent’ meddling in her affairs, but Mr. Knightley could sense that Miss Smith was being taken along for a ride.
Miss Smith’s lineage was, of course, a mystery. It was rather tragic, for Miss Smith was such a fair creature, and, were her parents alive, would likely have been as spoiled and doted upon as any other beautiful young woman in Highbury. Perhaps even moreso than Emma Woodhouse herself, most spoiled of all. Instead, Miss Smith’s fine breeding was hidden behind modest frocks and bonnets, her long golden hair curled in the rather irritating fashionable style, when Mr. Knightley knew that her natural hair lay straight and long, the way she preferred to wear it, according to Mr. Martin, who had been extolling the many virtues of Miss Smith all summer to anyone who would listen to his praise. And Mr. Knightley, ever eager to dissuade a man of good sense from following a path to ruin for such middling matters of the heart, found there was less and less reason to dissuade Mr. Martin.
For Mr. Martin, sometimes led astray by thoughts and musings of Miss Smith’s beauty, surely saw true to her character:
Miss Smith was exceedingly kind, even when his sisters had accidentally spilled a bowl of hot porridge on her lap. She hadn’t screamed or gotten cross, and had cleaned it up and given it to the dog before he had even returned with a rag for her, with her soft laughter ringing through the Martin’s home the entire time.
Miss Smith was so patient, with all the girls at Mrs. Goddard’s school, and sometimes helped in leading the lessons herself. She wanted to be a governess, maybe, she had told Mr. Martin once; she loved to see the spark in a young girl’s eye when they walked through the world with a little more knowledge!
Miss Smith was so modest, in everything—her handwriting was so fine, and her mathematics knowledge was so sophisticated, and she had the finest singing voice Mr. Martin had ever heard, even in French. But she would deny any acknowledgment at all of her accomplishments with flushed cheeks and an averted gaze—it was maddening, how little regard she held for herself, he said!
And each time, each story, Mr. Knightley would nod to his tenant, so clearly infatuated with this woman, who was clearly the natural daughter of some scandal, and certainly not the daughter of a gentleman as his neighbor Emma always so grandly claimed.
But even he, in meeting Miss Smith for the first time, could not … entirely dismiss the idea that, perhaps, Emma was right—perhaps there was something rather refined in her lineage, at some point, for Miss Smith was rather captivating in her humble way.
It was such a shame that she seemed to lack the sense to know better than hang onto Emma’s every word. But, it seemed, Emma’s influence did not seem to extend when Miss Smith was not in her company, he realizes with a small smile as he sees Miss Bates and Miss Smith walking rather amiably through the village streets, smiles upon their faces.
“Indeed, Miss Bates, Miss Fairfax is so blessed to have such a doting aunt. Why, I feel as if I know her myself… I imagine she feels so very loved, every day, knowing that you are only a letter away,” Miss Smith says fondly, smiling to Miss Bates, who is also smiling.
“Oh, certainly, Miss Smith. Why, Miss Fairfax has always been so dear a creature not just to me but all of Highbury village, indeed. Her and Miss Woodhouse were so close when they were younger, and I just know she misses her dear friend as dearly as she misses Miss Woodhouse!” Miss Bates says with a warm smile.
“Of course! Now it makes sense, why you are always sharing her letters with Miss Woodhouse. Does she never write to Em—Miss Woodhouse herself, then?” Miss Smith asks, curiosity gleaming in her bright blue eyes.
“No, no, not at all, she writes to nobody other than me. But that is such a curious notion … perhaps I shall discuss it with her in my next letter. For I know it may do Miss Woodhouse’s heart good to hear from a friend, now that Mrs. Weston is being settled in her new home,” Miss Bates says thoughtfully. Miss Smith’s grin widens and she holds her chin a tad higher, at having suggested something that seemed to make Miss Bates happy.
“I think that’s a rather grand idea,” she says, and Mr. Knightley, eavesdropping at a respectable distance, clears his throat to cover his snort. She sounds rather like Emma, when she says absurd things like that.
Both the women turn at the noise, noticing Mr. Knightley inspecting some finery through the window nearby, and he turns, nonchalantly, tipping his hat to them.
“Ladies, how do you do?” He says kindly. Miss Smith grins, as does Miss Bates.
“Mr. Knightley, isn’t it such a lovely afternoon? How delightful to see you out and about in the village.” Miss Bates says, while Miss Smith happily observes the conversation.
“Of course it is, Miss Bates. The sun so rarely shines so brightly in the autumn. It seems we have been spared the showers for just one afternoon.” Mr. Knightley smiles, inclining his head to her, turning his attention to Miss Smith. “And I hope to find you two ladies to remain in such high spirits through the afternoon.”
He isn’t sure what compelled him to say that, but Miss Smith’s light chuckle and the smile she shares with Miss Bates at the flattery makes it worth it.
Mr. Knightley observed Miss Smith’s laugh, softer than Emma’s bracing, unreserved mirth, and how she glanced down, ever so shyly, as if surprised by his simple remark. It was, he realized with some amusement, quite unlike her to so readily blush in his company; perhaps Miss Woodhouse had yet to temper that with her well-meaning interference.
“Ah, Mr. Knightley, you are kind indeed to wish us such a fine afternoon,” Miss Bates exclaimed, her hands clasped with delight. “Why, Miss Smith and I have just been remarking how the day seems quite perfect for a walk, does it not? And such a treat it is to happen upon dear friends along the way.”
Miss Smith smiled, her head dipping slightly, and responded, “Quite so, Mr. Knightley. It is—well, it is a splendid day to enjoy Highbury.”
There was something in her manner, a quality of gentle eagerness as she spoke, that struck him as so genuine. It did not escape his notice how often Miss Smith managed to be…untainted by the Woodhouse influence, something quite against all expectation. Emma’s matchmaking whims, her relentless scheming to dress up Miss Smith’s prospects, he suspected, had not really drawn Harriet from her own amiable nature. Indeed, perhaps nothing could.
“I daresay it is, Miss Smith. And fortunate that your walk today is a simple one,” he said, with a knowing look, “for I understand from Mr. Martin that your last was…well, slightly marred by an enthusiastic stray dog.”
Her laugh was spontaneous, full of unaffected delight. “Oh, yes! Mr. Martin’s sisters were so apologetic afterward; yet, I daresay they felt the dog’s affection more heartening than any harm done. In fact,” she added, smiling at Miss Bates, “I was glad of their kindness and quite enjoyed their company. They are all such dear, dear girls.”
Mr. Knightley’s brow relaxed as he observed her sincerity. There was no artifice in Harriet Smith; her warmth seemed to radiate for all, and her attachment to Emma seemed borne of admiration rather than of calculated aspiration. Perhaps, then, Emma had not completely molded her character into something unsuited to her.
“Well, Miss Smith,” he replied, “if there were more in Highbury with your capacity for finding the good in such matters, our little society would be most harmonious. Miss Bates, don’t you agree?”
“Oh, most certainly, Mr. Knightley!” Miss Bates interjected eagerly, “Dear Miss Smith is so patient, so warm-hearted, indeed quite the model of amiability.”
Mr. Knightley allowed himself a faint smile as Miss Bates continued her praise. Harriet’s unaffected manners and her gentle heart—qualities so unpolished, yet remarkable in their own right—were indeed a comfort in Highbury. For a man as skeptical of society’s pretensions as Mr. Knightley, her presence was a gentle reminder that true refinement came not from birth or privilege but from a certain graciousness of spirit.
“Well, Miss Smith,” he said at last, “I trust Highbury will see much more of your excellent influence, in Miss Woodhouse’s company or not.”
Harriet blushed deeply at this—no coquettish flutter or forced display of charm, only the simple embarrassment of one who scarcely knew her own worth. Mr. Knightley tipped his hat once more and, with a courteous nod, took his leave, a faint smile still playing on his lips. It was a pleasure, indeed, to recognize that some things in Highbury were yet unmarred by Emma’s indulgences, and Miss Smith, it seemed, was one such rare gem.