Author's Forward: Merry Christmas! Hope you enjoy this! There's final scene to this chapter with Knightley, I should post it soon. Then it's one final post and back to the future (pardon the phrase), transitioning the story to where it started in Beautiful Friendship.
I was definitely happy to go back to the original Bennet family names, you'll see those below ;). The Emma sections are quite different here--I know it's new, which might take some adjustment, but I hope you all enjoy it. :)
Chapter 3
Anne lingered in the doorway. Summoned or not, even an Elliot daughter didn't barge into Lady Elliot's study. She made her presence known and politely sought out her entrée.
“Mother?” Anne spoke quietly, hands clasped. “You asked to see me?”
“Yes,” said her mother, not glancing up. Her mother was currently perched behind her desk, scribing a letter in her even, elegant hand. Time and technology marched on, but missives from the Baron's estate remained hand-written affairs. “Please do have a seat next to your sister, Anne.”
Elisabetta was here. Whatever the announcement, it applied to more than Anne's mare. A quick glance to her sister gleaned nothing more than an apathetic shrug and a nod towards their mother.
Anne smoothed out her green riding jacket. She couldn't regret the ride, or the rain, but she could regret the mud. The chair's upholstery was white, patterned with pale peaches and leaves. Kellynch mud brown wasn't an accent Lady Elliot would care for.
“Mother, I'd rather stand.”
“Adrianna,” frowned mother.
“I've been riding-” Anne frowned. “Truly, I shouldn't-”
“Sit,” repeated her mother as she scribed the last of her note. “I won't have my own daughter hovering like a maid.”
Elisabetta snickered. Anne frowned. She could take a stand with her sisters, with her horse, but when faced with her stern mother her resolve folded faster than the letter Lady Elliot was so intent on writing.
She sat.
There were no companionable silences in Kellynch Hall. There was mute disapproval. Silent expectation.
Betta studied her nails. Anne studied the room. Most of the items here dated two centuries back. The bronze urn, for example, beneath the window. Her mother's polished bureau with its cabriole legs.
A marble plant stand and the rarely-watered fern that sat atop it both served to shield a small, green and gold tapestry from view. Move the plant half a foot and one would see green hills and a royal entourage, a castle wall and tall minarets. The tapestry was an antique. A gift from Anne's grandmother. Castile la Manche. Lady Elliot's home.
She'd never understood why they'd hidden the tapestry. Lady Elliot seemed proud of her heritage, her family, her prestige in her native Spain. And her father seemed proud of Lady Elliot's beauty.
It was disconcerting for Anne to realize if this truth about her mother's beauty, it was true for Anne herself. With every passing year, Anne seemed closer and closer to the image of her mother. They shared the same thick chestnut curls. The same olive-bronze complexion. The same heart-shaped jaw and intensely dark eyes.
Anne was used to being overlooked. She preferred it. Elisabetta was the beauty of the Elliot daughters. More than that, she was suited for the role. Elisabetta always knew what to say, what to do, how to act. Especially around a boy. Anne could silently admire one in the hallway, but she hardly knew what to do if he admired her right back.
As for Lady Elliot, her daughters had finally earned her attention. Bad news for Anne, perhaps, as her first announcement was, “Anne, dear, did you have an argument with a mud puddle?"
Lady Elliot's gaze usually felt as sharp as a well cut blade. Never more so than this morning. Slowly, silently, any verve she'd had with Marguerite was being cut out of her. “I'm sorry, Mother. I did mention...”
“Riding,” frowned Lady Elliot. “Yes, I heard you.”
“This hobby has to stop, Anne,” Elisabetta sighed. “I can't be seen with a sister that comes home looking a farmhand.”
“Betta, sarcasm flatters you not at all." Leticia frowned. “And Anne, riding in this weather is a foolhardy venture. Beyond that, it is the surest way to catch pneumonia. If you develop so much as a sneeze, you'll find no sympathy from me. You'll have no one to blame but yourself.”
Anne managed a nod. “Yes.”
“Furthermore, illness would preclude you from attending the Darcy funeral. As I wish you to extend our respects to young Fitzwilliam Darcy in a manner that befits our name, I believe we would both be disappointed if you failed to attend.”
“I want to go, too,” pouted Elisabetta. “Why should Anne be the only one who-”
“Elisabetta Elliot, interruption is a graceless art,” Lady Elliot snapped. “If you would wait half a breath, you could save yourself a lecture and me the burden of lecturing you. Twice. Yes?”
Elisabetta reddened, shrinking back in her chair. “Si, Madre.”
Something was digging into their mother this morning. This was like watching Nubio with a burr stuck in his skin. He would swat and swat until he managed to free it.
“Mother,” said Anne, “perhaps we should leave you to your letters.”
“Unnecessary, Anne. I assure you, I've had my fill of letters today.” Lady Elliot's small mouth thinned. Anne was so accustomed to seeing her mother as the source of all strength; steely, resolved, unshakable. Suddenly she saw lines that puckered around her mother's lips. Tension that darkened her eyes.
After a long silence, Anne whispered, “Madre, I know the death of Mr. and Mrs Darcy is upsetting...”
"Certainly it is, though that's not what distracts me."
It was odd, Anne thought as she watched Lady Elliot open a small drawer in her desk, feeling like the only Elliot with a heart.
“Marguerite is only twelve," her mother continued. "Much too young for this discussion. Your sister puts on a good show, of course, because she's desperate to keep up with you both. She wants you to confide in her. Yes, even you, Anne. Didn't you realize?”
“I-” Anne blinked. “No, Madre. I didn't.”
“Oh, yes.” Lady Elliot balanced a slender missive between her hands as she studied her daughters. “Your little sister looks up to you both. But a child requires shielding from certain realities. I would appreciate if both of you kept this conversation to yourselves.”
Anne nodded. Even Elisabetta managed a bewildered 'yes'.
“Good.” Lady Elliot leaned forward, “Is the name Wade Elliot familiar to either of you? Has he ever written you? Ever contacted you in any way?”
Elisabetta's piercing blue gaze looked that much more bewildered. Anne shook her head with puzzled frown.
“Good.” Lady Elliot exhaled. “One never knows, with strangers.” The letter she'd gripped was now placed in open view on the desk.
It was addressed to Lord Elliot. The return address, in bold typeface, was Graham and Graham, LLP.
“Graham and Graham?” read aloud Elisabetta. “Don't they make crackers?”
“Betta, it's father's solicitor,” said Anne. “Madre, may I?”
Lady Elliot's nod looked forced.
“I don't wish to confide in you both. Don't misunderstand me; you're intelligent children and a credit to the Elliot name. But at fifteen and sixteen, a barrister's notice should be the least of your concerns.”
Anne opened the letter and read.
Cecil P. Graham, Esq
Graham and Graham, LLP
15 Hillston Road
London
Much Honored Walter Elliot, Baron of Kellynch
It is the obligation of this firm to inform you that your request for action as a claimant on behalf of Kellynch Hall, the Elliot Barony, and yourself, the sixth Baron of Kellynch, has been rejected by the court. Arguments of either undue influence or dependent relative revocation were dismissed. The fortune of the late Dowager Marchioness of Dalrymple, sound in both body and mind at the time of her death, remains in trust for one Wade Elliot, to be transferred in toto to the recipient upon reaching his majority.
In all things this firm remains your obedient,
Cecil P. Graham, Esquire
Graham and Graham LLP
“You remember the death of your great aunt, Lady Dalrymple,” prompted their mother.
“Yes,” said Anne. “She died a year ago.”
“Almost to the week.” agreed Elisabetta. “Last year, the first week of the New Year.”
“She used to come here every Christmas,” finished Anne.
“And she had those little dogs,” Elisabetta continued, memory alighting her eyes. “Frisco and Freesia, remember? She'd carry Freesia in her purse. Frisco used to sniff around my feet and bite at my ankles.”
“Yes, he bit Marguerite once,” their mother confirmed with a grimace. “The things I wanted to do to that dog. What I wanted to say to that wretched old lady. Elisabetta, you are very much like me. You have my temper. If I am hard on you, it is because I understand you. I held my tongue with the Dowager Marchese. For all these years, I said nothing. And still she hurts us in the end.”
The statement, and the regret it held, was sinking into Anne's bones. In life, Lady Dalrymple had been a childless widow with only a great nephew, Walter, to dote on.
She'd also been a cruel woman. Vindictive and petty. Never more so than in death, it seemed. She couldn't take away Walter Elliot's estate, the title he'd gained from his father, the Hall he lived in. Those were Walter's by birthright. But she could take away the fortune she'd once bequeathed to it.
“Why should we care if we get her money?” demanded Elisabetta with a toss of her black hair. “She's gone now. I don't understand what some barrister's letter has to do with any of us.”
“Everything,” admitted her mother quietly. “While she lived, Lady Dalrymple gave your father a yearly annuity. Those funds are used to run the estate. To tend the lawns, to trim the hedges, to pay the staff. What remained of her financial estate was due to go to your father upon her death.”
Elisabetta's cheeks flushed a deep, rosy red. “And now?”
“Betta,” said Anne quietly, “Lady Dalrymple found another Elliot.”
“Wade Elliot," said Lady Elliot. "He's the only son of your father's fifth cousin, thrice removed. You've more common blood with the gardener than you have with this Elliot boy, but the will stands. Your father retains the title of baron, of course. And the estate itself. But the funds to run it, the stipend he received while she was alive--”
“Gone?” Panic lifted Elisabetta's voice to a squeak. “Just gone?”
We've known for months,” Lady Elliot continued. “But arbitration is a slow and tedious process. Now that we've received confirmation that the will cannot be contested...”
“The money goes to Wade!” snorted Elisabetta. “An Elliot would never name their son Wade. I don't know who he thinks he is, but-”
“Lady Dalrymple may give the money to whom she pleases,” said Anne quietly.
“Don't defend her!” snapped Elisabetta. “It's the fortune that funds Kellynch! And it's transferred to some nobody. Some-some--oh, I'm getting dizzy. I'm getting dizzy! Are we poor?”
“No,” said Leticia sharply. “Betta, calm down. I have a healthy inheritance of my own. I owe my parents for that. It's certainly enough maintain Kellynch Hall in the style to which we're accustomed for quite a few years. Five years, possibly even more, depending on the strength our investments. Your father and I have always agreed that we'll provide nothing but the best for our children. But one day—not soon, but one day—you both must understand the reality of your futures.”
“Which is?” cried Elisabetta.
Lady Elliot's fingers clenched. Her attention wavered briefly to the tapestery, then, with a grimace, back to her daughters. “To marry well.”
**
A band of rowdy Irishmen had invaded her room. And they were placing bets.
“A bob says you don't last half an hour, lads,” warned Seamus as he cracked the dvd box open.
“I'll be fine as the day is long,” defended Liam, kicking back in a chair he'd propped beside her. “What do you say, Eilis. A wee cuppa, a chance for the weight off my legs, and--”
“No.” She signed with a wan smile. She hadn't talked since that first painful effort. There was no reason for the effort with the lads for company. “You won't like it. Though it's grand of you all to try.”
“We're grand lads,” Liam gave her a playful grin. “I hope “Cinderella” is a fine choice for you, lassie. It was the best of the lot in the playroom.”
The title credits flashed across the screen. It was silent Magnus who reached out and grasped her hand. For the first time in weeks, she felt a rush of warmth. Of protection. Of home.
Seamus might have given them half an hour, but Elizabeth only needed fifteen. She was sound asleep before Cinderella reached her first song.
When she woke again, voices were drifting into her dreams.
“Maybe we could go back and find him again...” spoke a woman. “Do you think he's still here?”
“Moira, don't fixate,” replied a man.
“I have never seen such a lonely child, Ronan. I'm telling you-”
“You think I liked letting them go?”
“Did you read the paper?” Moira pressed in a whisper. “Did you? Listen, Ronan. Just listen to what the article says. Both the driver and the front side passenger were declared deceased at the scene. Names of the victims have been withheld whilst authorities notify next of kin. They're not coming back. There's no one to come for him.”
There was a long pause. Elizabeth couldn't help but be grateful for that. Moira's words were painful to the ear. And the heart.
“We offered our aid last night and the boy said no. I'm sure he has heaps of family ready to fetch him home.”
She heard Uncle Ronan's doubt. His waver. His hesitation. He didn't believe what he'd said any more than Moira did. How many times had a doctor, a nurse, a hospital aids, murmured:
This will only sting a little.
And..
Tomorrow, perhaps, the doctor will let you in the play room.
The worst one of all was:
You'll feel stronger tomorrow. I promise.
But why would Uncle Ronan pretend? Uncle Ronan never pretended. He wouldn't drink eggnog if he'd prefer a warm whiskey and water. He wouldn't dance if he'd rather sit (although Aunt Moira could nearly always charm him into dancing). He wouldn't say something to Aunt Moira, the love of his life, if he hadn't truly believed it.
Or desperately wanted to believe it. Perhaps that was the difference.
Slowly, forcefully, she opened her eyes. Aunt Moira and Uncle Ronan were perched at the foot of her bed, quietly talking as they waited out her nap. Magnus remained in a chair by her bedside. He was reading a newspaper. Unbeknownst to him, the headline “New Year's Eve Accident” bobbed back at her.
She couldn't remember much of her morning, or asking him to stay, but for once the memory gap caused no anxiety. Of course she'd asked him to stay. This was Magnus.
If Moira and Ronan failed to catch her slight movements, Magnus did not. He lowered his nespaper and followed her hands with his eyes.
“Morning?” she asked.
“Afternoon,” Magnus signed back. “Just past one o'clock.
“Where are the lads?
“With Mum and Dad, in the cafeteria.”
“And how's the food?
“Bad.” He met her question with a calm smile. “But it tastes better when you're feeling good enough to ask.”
She smiled back. “How long have Aunt and Uncle been here.”
“Half an hour.” Mirth quickly faded from his eyes. ”They had a hard time of it, driving to London.”
She frowned. “Hard, how?”
“Mum said not to tell you,” he admitted. “It's their story, Eilis. Aunt Moira's and Uncle Ronan's. If you wish to hear the answer, you should ask it. When you're ready.”
The truth of those words sunk in. If she wasn't ready to speak a question aloud, perhaps she wasn't ready for the response. Not yet.
For now she knew enough. She knew that somehow the Gardiners had found a boy last night who'd suffered very deeply. Who knew, as Moira put it, that there was no one to come for him.
It was a reminder, she thought with a stab of guilt, that she wasn't the only one suffering today.
“Miss Eilis, just how long have you been bright eyed and wide awake?” Ronan's booming question interrupted the pair. Though Magnus couldn't hear it, Elizabeth's green eyed gaze shifting to the far end of the bed was warning enough that they'd been found out.
Magnus, ever unobtrusive, was already on his way out when their aunt and uncle gave him their greetings.
Which meant Lizzy would have to be strong enough for speech all on her own. Lacking daily exposure, neither Moira or Ronan had gained much fluency with sign.
“Happy New Year, Luvie,” said Uncle Ronan. “Brought you a present, we did. Just a little something Moira thought you'd fancy.
As they moved to sit closer to her, Elizabeth fumbled, grasping between monitor cords and IVs to find the button that would lift her bed up. Something about this—maybe the sight of their active niece reduced to an engineered bed—made Moira's eyes water.
“Here, Luvie, let me.” Ronan fumbled with the controller, boosting her. “We sure are happy to see you.”
She smiled and said nothing. Moira placed her gift in her hands.
The box was a dark, midnight blue. For that alone, she loved it. It reminded her of a Christmas star. It was the first beautiful thing she'd touched in weeks. Only a box. But she loved it.
“Lizzy?” Moira prompted gently.
Carefully, she cracked the box open.
Inside, resting on a soft satin pillow, were a pair of dainty red rubies. Small, but still enough to overwhelm a little girl's ears. They were grown-up earrings. A gift for the adult she would one day be.
Beneath the earrings was a ruby cross. Sweet and understated. A symbol, just as that boy had been, that she wasn't the only one to suffer.
“You like it?” Aunt Moira
Her fingers wrapped protectively around the jewelry, as if clutching a secret close. At last, she found the strength to rasp her answer. “I love it.”
Chapter 4
Dear Penpal,
Thanks for sending me a book from your dad's library. I've never heard of banshees. My sister and I read it aloud at bedtime. I loved the part where--”
The last half line was erased in a scrub of pencil rubber. Twelve-year-old Emma tapped her pencil on the edge of her mahogany desk. She'd like the book. She hadn't loved it.
Still, she didn't want to offend her far-off friend. What was it Isault was always telling her? Better a sweet concession than a sour truth. Emma didn't entirely believe that axiom. More that politeness was politic. And the politic option would be a polite non-answer.
I thought it was so, so
A draft teased at her skirt hem. Emma shivered, drawing up her knees. Her dress was made of shimmering gold silk with an equally golden bow. A lovely dress, though this wasn't the loveliest day for a wedding, even if it was Valentine's Day. Rain streaked the windows.
Down in the courtyard below, a flock of bridesmaids in pink silk were flitting toward Hartfield's conservatory. A pair of ringbearers (an eight year old “cupid,” a seven year old “eros,” and nine year old “amour”, with feather pillows to boot) were giggling behind them.
Emma loved weddings. She loved the silk dresses and the ceremonial flowers. The festivities, the music, and the fairy lights. She would rejoice in her friend's joy, and summon the sweetness expected of her at the ceremony.
It was her own misfortune, Emma Woodhouse thought, that this day was also paired with the loss of her best friend. She couldn't even seclude herself here and enjoy her own misery.
Her fingers reached for the locket that hung around her neck—a nervous habit she'd held all her life. This was her mother's locket. She toyed with the heart charm whenever she was thoughtful, nervous, anxious. Her attention drifted to the window once more.
It was hard to be sour with the postcard perfect view before her. Hartfield held the loveliest spot in town, the highest hill among Highbury's gingerbread cottages and flagstone paths. The town itself seemed built for a duel purpose. Beauty and romance.
It was the loveliest town on the Blue Ridge trail. It had earned it's reputation as one of the best vacation spots in the South for a reason. Even in the tourism lull between the Christmas Festival and the summer wedding rush, the town was nothing less than beautiful.
It wasn't the town that dissatisfied her. Not exactly. It was the house that neighbored hers, literally a stone's throw away. Donwell Abbey.
The Knightleys were one of the oldest families in Highbury, and one of the finest. They were erudite and dignified, gracious and kind.
Oh, why was she kidding herself? George was what mattered to her. It was his absence she grieved. He was her best friend. Her co-adventurer. He'd taught her how to ride, how to swim, how to skate. He shared all her secrets, and her birthday as well (August 7th, two years apart). The thought of him moving? It was beyond words. Yes, the house was being vacated but not abandoned. They would come back in the summers and on holidays. But it wasn't the same.
I thought the book was just beyond words! she wrote at last, dully. There. That suited her mood perfectly.
She scrubbed tears from her eyes.
I'm mailing you two things. First, a pinched poppy sprig, freshly pressed. They bloom through March here, if the frost doesn't pinch them first, and it's been as warm as a hothouse all winter (despite the buckets of rain). My mother loved botanical illustrations, and my Papa loved my mother in return, so guess what our home is surrounded by? Gardens. We have annuals and perennials, herbs and fruits.
I nearly sent a history book about English privateers in King George's war, but I thought you see plenty of both the sea and the English living in Ireland. Both are quite exotic here. You've read the Book of Matthew, and the city on the hilltop seen by all? Highbury is a town surrounded by mountains. We call it God's Country because none but Him could find it.).
The book I'm sending you instead is about ancient Egypt. If you prefer Norse history, or Japanese, or Mexican, just let me know. I have a big collection about many different cultures. I look forward to hearing about Ireland.
Your friend,
Emma[/i]
Someone tugged at her braid. “What sphinx riddle are you puzzling over today, Emma?”
Emma glanced up. Smiling down at her was nanny, bride, and mother-in-absentia, Taylor Pillai. Already, her tutor's wedding preparations were largely underway. She wore an orange silk robe. Her dark hair was pinned up in rollers and her lips were rouged with lipstick.
“Ready for the ceremony, Emma?”
Emma folded her letter with a quiet smile. “Oh, yes.”
“You look pensive.”
“I feel it.”
"I am too, to be honest," Taylor admitted. "Do I look as nervous as I feel?"
Emma reached for her tutor's hands, turning one palm over to admire Taylor's mehendi flourishes. They'd had the ceremony here the night before. It had included laughter, and food, and music, and quite a few tears. Happy tears, Emma decided, feeling them overwhelm again.
“Taylor,” Emma announced with a tremulous smile. “You look ready.”
**
Were this the height of summer, they'd serve breakfast on the terrace, with Florida orange juice and strawberries fresh from the field. Today, in mid February, the dining room would have to suffice
“You're excited for the wedding, Emma?” Isault asked when she arrived.
“Sure,” Emma said with a quiet smile, snatching a pastry from the sideboard. “Papa, you'll remember to be on time, won't you?”
"Hmm?" Harlan Woodhouse was scribbling schematics in the newspaper margin. A lock of his loose sunbeam red curls had fallen over his brown. She didn't know why they ordered the Highbury Gazette for him every morning. His mind hardly drifted from schematics long enough to read it. “What would I be late for?”
“For Taylor's wedding this evening,” Isault prompted gently. “Seven o'clock. I've had your tuxedo pressed, and Miss Bates polished your shoes.”
“We can't be late, Papa,” Emma reminded him. Distracted by George Knightley's departure or not, she would find him in his work room and drag him to the reception herself if need be.
“I'm never late for a wedding,” he answered hazily, chewing on his pen as he studied his drawing. “Not by much...”
“Think of it this way, Papa. Today, a poor, dejected widower says to the world that he can live again. Joy finds a home. Love---” A firm hand grabbed Emma by the bow of her golden dress, hoisting her up by inches. “Jamie Knightley, put me down!”
“I thought you wanted a speaking platform,” James said drolly, dropping her to the ground again. “Nice speechifying. And how'd you know it was me?”
She turned on her short, patten leather heel to see his toothy grin. “Few take the liberty,” she sniffed.
Seventeen-year-old James grinned back. “Shortstop, you're gonna slay every good ol' boy in town with that line in a few years.”
“Mrs Bates let you in, did she?” she guessed. “Your tie is crooked.”
“So's your bow,” he shot back with a wink.
What was it about James Knightley that could turn her into a prickly porcupine? Was it the fact that he pestered her like a big brother when George trusted her like a friend? Was it because he had all of George's charm but none of his gallantry? Because every time he stood before her, she was struck by the thought that she'd prefer to talk to his younger brother?
Which prompted the question, “Where's Knightley?”
“Helping my dad pack. Don't worry, he'll be here tonight.” James Knightley's merry hazel gaze drifted past her and over to her sister. “Morning, Isault.”
Was that a blush on her sister's cheek? Isault chose not to look at their visitor, reaching for a silver pot of hot chocolate instead. “Good morning, James.”
“Mr. Knightley,” Harlan spoke up. Perhaps he wasn't so easily distracted, after all. His paper was tossed aside. He'd leaned his lithe frame back into his chair and fixed their interloper with his keen gaze. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
In this conversational dance, Emma had most certainly missed a step. He did not sound at all pleased. Emma glanced back up at Jamie. He suddenly looked nervous enough to dance a jig.
“I, uh-” James choked, “you see..the thing is—my family's set on flying out. Tomorrow, as it were...”
“I'm well aware.” Harlan Woodhouse's focus didn't waver. Neither did his frown. “Your father's fellowship was well earned.”
“Right. Yeah. Definitely. Anyway,” James rushed. “I was thinking, maybe Isa and I could go for a drive?”
“It's raining,” said Harlan. “You'll have to be content seeing my daughter this evening.”
“Right,” James rubbed his neck. “but before that. There's this great spot a few miles north on Strawberry Hill and--”
The name provoked a flinch. "No," said Harlan tearsley.
“Papa, James is a very responsible driver,” Isault spoke up softly. “Please?”
"Absolutely not.”
“I'll bring her back by lunch,” James promised.
“When absolutely not means anything but no, then I shall reconsider.”
“But Papa-” Emma spoke up. If anyone had the gift of turning Harlan's occassioal iron 'no' into a golden 'yes,' it was his youngest child.
“Emma,” Harlan frowned. “I said no. The subject is closed.”
**
It rained through the wedding. A cold, gray drizzle that trampled the pansies and turned the walkways slick. Nearly all of Highbury turned out. Everyone knew the Woodhouse family. Those who didn't love the family Taylor worked for, loved the Sheriff instead. Or at least loved to gossip about him. If a few attendees clucked their tongue about Mr Wesson's age (a very youthful forty-seven) or Taylor's youth (a very mature twenty-nine), they had the grace to keep the clucking to themselves until the reception.
And cluck they did. All grouped together, Emma thought they sounded like a herd of chickens. Between dances, she waltzed over to the band and pleasantly requested they play louder.
As the daughter of the biggest name in town, she was expected to make the conversational rounds. Isault was too shy for the task, and Harlan was too distracted (he'd skipped half the dinner and retreated to his work room). Normally she found conversation a happy task. She loved to talk, she loved people, and she loved people talking most of all. She didn't usually think they sounded like chickens.
But Knightley had a way of making everything all topsy-turvy. Especially since, as a son of the second biggest name in the room, he too was expected to mingle. Often this translated into landing on opposite sides of the room. Now, for example. George Knightley was attempting the art of getting a word in edgewise with Miss Bates. He handled the task valiantly. As for Emma, a few polite 'how-do-you-do's' to Highbury's matriarchs, and she found herself waylaid.
“If ever there was a definition for the word beauty” declared Mrs. Eulalia Cole, “It must be your face, little Emma.”
“No Ma'am,” Emma smiled at the domineering matriarch, “it's a picture of the town that raised me.”
“She is a doll,” agreed Mrs Banks.
“More lifelike one hopes?” Emma spoke up and took a small sip of her soda. She shifted on her heel, trying to look past Mrs Banks and catch Knightley's eye. The space he'd filled seconds before was now empty.
“And her hair! Blond, with just a hint of red...” said another.
“She's the best of both her parents,” agreed Mrs Cole. “Even more so than Isault, and that's a plain fact. Your mother Emma, the late Mrs Woodhouse, was as pretty a creature as I ever beheld.”
"My sister is beautiful." Emma's smile tightened. “Yes, my mother was lovely.”
“And as for your Papa-”
“Curious young man.” said Mrs Banks.
“Most curious,” echoed Mrs Parsons.
“He's too young to raise a pair of children by himself,” Mrs Cole announced. “He was barely twenty when he married your mother. And she was a teenage wildcat from God knows where!”
“Harlan Woodhouse is too intellectual. What child could make heads or tails of half the things he says!”
“He's too distracted by his own inventions to run a household.”
Even at twelve, Emma outpaced half the town in social skill. Polite chatter. Political debate. Diversion and redirection when a conversation veered off track What she didn't have, however, was the gift of remaining docile in the face of criticism. Especially concerning her father.
“Judge him as you will,” Emma said, “but my father is a kind, creative, intelligent man. He's loved me and protected me.”
“And he's donated more money to Highbury's preservation than the rest of the town combined,” George Knightley announced beside her. A warm hand touched her elbow. “That's a feat no one in this town can equal. Not even you, Mrs Cole.”
Mrs Eulalia Cole sputtered. Mrs Banks gaped. A minute longer, and Emma was convinced that they would start squawking at her.
Which is why he probably chosen that moment to pull her away.
“She's a vicious old goose,” said Emma.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Really, Knightley. A minute later, and I swear I would have-”
“I know.” He grinned down at her, that crooked, heart-stopping grin that turned all her thoughts to mush. Which was probably why she didn't notice the plate he pressed into her hands. “Meet me in the library in half an hour, will you?”
“Half an hour?” She blinked. “Why half an-”
“After you take that to your dad.” He nodded to her hands.
She stared down at the piece of cake she hadn't realized she was holding, then up at him. “Oh,” she said blankly. “Did I just say what I think I said to Mrs Cole?”
“Yes.”
“Did she look mad?”
“Yes,” Knightley said frankly. He squeezed her shoulder. “Don't worry about it. A week will go by and they'll find something else to gossip about.”
Yes, she thought, but you won't have to live here for that week. I can't do this without you. This wouldn't work at all.
“My Papa...he really doesn't like cake...”
Knightley laughed. “The library. Half an hour. You'll be there?”
She nodded. Of course she would. Wherever he was, that was the best place to be. And everyone always said she was clever.
**
At the far end of the Hartfield's western hallway, secluded by a solid oak door and a double barrel lock, was a Curiosity Room.
Emma had called it this when she was barely tall enough to reach the door's handle, or side her key into its brass lock. Only three people could access this room. Herself, Isault, and her father.
Her father didn't care what they called it. He cared more for the creations the room held than for the name of the room that bore it. His daughters knew this, and loved him for it, just as they loved every wind up toy he'd ever made them. Emma herself had reaped the benefits of her father's unorthodox profession. As a child she'd had every kind of novelty she could dream up, and more besides. Whirligigs and dancing soldiers. Clocks that wound themselves. A music box that played Mozart.
She knew her father's reputation. Highbury thought him distant, distracted, muddled.
He was eccentric; certainly she could attest to that. To her father, electronics were an anathema. He'd never touched a computer. Cars prevented a morning's hike in the mountains. He didn't drive. Gramophones were more interesting than telephones. Central heat was for those with feeble blood. Indeed, the only technology he truly liked in the last century was the improvement of the water closet.
Of course he made concessions. They had central heat, and electricity. And something beyond a gramophone to play music (though courtesy of her father, they had tat too). But she liked that her father had philosophies, ideas he stood for, even if she didn't always agree with them. Few people in Highbury stood for things.
Isault and Emma loved him for what he was, and forgave him for what he wasn't. Wasn't that enough? How many children had wind-up butterflies and hand made unicycles? Beyond that, he gave them a library filled from floor to ceiling, a tutor, and the freedom to roam large.
AMrs Cole would never understand. But her father wasn't the premier cog and wheel craftsman in America. Not just wind up toys or self sustaining clocks, but antique steam engines and more besides. And all his inventions were created without a wire in sight.
No one, no one, could disturb him while he worked.
Save, of course, for his daughters. As Emma slipped the door to his work room shut, a gold plated humming bird whizzed above her.
“Papa?” she called out. This room, nearly the span of another hall, was a labyrinth to navigate. Long tables were piled with complex works-in-progress. Finished toys roamed about. She stepped over a copper, wind-up cat. “Papa?”
At the far corner of the room, working beneath the soft glow of a halogen lamp, was her father. He had a small, pencil thin screwdriver in one hand and the heart of a brass clock in the other.
Harlan did look too young for his children, Emma thought as she slid the cake piece onto his work table. He still possessed a full head of sun-red curls, and a lean, boyish frame. He still stayed up too late, and worked too long. But he protected his daughters. He loved them. With everything he had, he loved them.
“You miss Momma tonight, don't you?” Emma spoke quietly.
Harlan Woodhouse's hand stilled. He brushed back a lock of hair that obscured his gaze, looked up, and met her inquisitive gaze.
Amelia Woodhouse was always the fastest way to gain his attention.
“Especially tonight,” he confirmed quietly.
“Is that why you left early?”
“That...” he was squinting at gears. “And an effort to avoid Mrs Cole.”
Emma winced. “I may have insulted her. And Mrs Parson, and Mrs Banks...”
"Did you?" He gave a tired smile. “That's my girl.”
“She deserved it,” Emma frowned. “She insulted you first!”
"Hmm.." He set the clock heart down. “You have your mother's loyalty.”
Emma leaned against the work table. “I do?”
“Yes. And her strength. She was a romantic, just like you are. And-” he drew out the thought, his fingers raking through his hair, “she liked talking to people, and hearing about their lives. Just like you do.”
“I remind you of her, then?”
“In certain ways. Anyone can see you have her beauty, Emma. And her courage. But you have my curiosity. And my--admittedly maddening--need to be right.” This provoked a grin on both sides, though his quickly faded. “You're far too mature for your age, intellectually. I was the same. You look like a child, of course, but talking to you...it's easy to forget you're only twelve.”
“Does that mean I can have a later bed time?” she asked hopefully.
“No,” Harlan laughed, kissing her forehead. She wasn't blind to the flash of fatherly pride in his eyes. “Why aren't you still at the reception? Isn't Isa looking after you?”
“Oh--” she faltered, “yes. Of course she is.”
The truth was, she'd lost track of Isa shortly after the toasts were conducted. And James Knightley too, to tell the truth. If that flicker in her father's eyes was suspicion, he mercifully let the moment pass.
“I should get back to the party,” she said. “Are you hungry? I brought you cake.”
“Never cared for the stuff, to be honest.” He picked up his screwdriver again. “But for you, I'll eat it.”
“Good.” She nodded. “And Papa?”
“Hmm?”
She tiptoed, kissing his cheek. “Promise me you won't stay up too late, okay?”
Her father grinned. “You either, Emme.”
I was definitely happy to go back to the original Bennet family names, you'll see those below ;). The Emma sections are quite different here--I know it's new, which might take some adjustment, but I hope you all enjoy it. :)
Chapter 3
Anne lingered in the doorway. Summoned or not, even an Elliot daughter didn't barge into Lady Elliot's study. She made her presence known and politely sought out her entrée.
“Mother?” Anne spoke quietly, hands clasped. “You asked to see me?”
“Yes,” said her mother, not glancing up. Her mother was currently perched behind her desk, scribing a letter in her even, elegant hand. Time and technology marched on, but missives from the Baron's estate remained hand-written affairs. “Please do have a seat next to your sister, Anne.”
Elisabetta was here. Whatever the announcement, it applied to more than Anne's mare. A quick glance to her sister gleaned nothing more than an apathetic shrug and a nod towards their mother.
Anne smoothed out her green riding jacket. She couldn't regret the ride, or the rain, but she could regret the mud. The chair's upholstery was white, patterned with pale peaches and leaves. Kellynch mud brown wasn't an accent Lady Elliot would care for.
“Mother, I'd rather stand.”
“Adrianna,” frowned mother.
“I've been riding-” Anne frowned. “Truly, I shouldn't-”
“Sit,” repeated her mother as she scribed the last of her note. “I won't have my own daughter hovering like a maid.”
Elisabetta snickered. Anne frowned. She could take a stand with her sisters, with her horse, but when faced with her stern mother her resolve folded faster than the letter Lady Elliot was so intent on writing.
She sat.
There were no companionable silences in Kellynch Hall. There was mute disapproval. Silent expectation.
Betta studied her nails. Anne studied the room. Most of the items here dated two centuries back. The bronze urn, for example, beneath the window. Her mother's polished bureau with its cabriole legs.
A marble plant stand and the rarely-watered fern that sat atop it both served to shield a small, green and gold tapestry from view. Move the plant half a foot and one would see green hills and a royal entourage, a castle wall and tall minarets. The tapestry was an antique. A gift from Anne's grandmother. Castile la Manche. Lady Elliot's home.
She'd never understood why they'd hidden the tapestry. Lady Elliot seemed proud of her heritage, her family, her prestige in her native Spain. And her father seemed proud of Lady Elliot's beauty.
It was disconcerting for Anne to realize if this truth about her mother's beauty, it was true for Anne herself. With every passing year, Anne seemed closer and closer to the image of her mother. They shared the same thick chestnut curls. The same olive-bronze complexion. The same heart-shaped jaw and intensely dark eyes.
Anne was used to being overlooked. She preferred it. Elisabetta was the beauty of the Elliot daughters. More than that, she was suited for the role. Elisabetta always knew what to say, what to do, how to act. Especially around a boy. Anne could silently admire one in the hallway, but she hardly knew what to do if he admired her right back.
As for Lady Elliot, her daughters had finally earned her attention. Bad news for Anne, perhaps, as her first announcement was, “Anne, dear, did you have an argument with a mud puddle?"
Lady Elliot's gaze usually felt as sharp as a well cut blade. Never more so than this morning. Slowly, silently, any verve she'd had with Marguerite was being cut out of her. “I'm sorry, Mother. I did mention...”
“Riding,” frowned Lady Elliot. “Yes, I heard you.”
“This hobby has to stop, Anne,” Elisabetta sighed. “I can't be seen with a sister that comes home looking a farmhand.”
“Betta, sarcasm flatters you not at all." Leticia frowned. “And Anne, riding in this weather is a foolhardy venture. Beyond that, it is the surest way to catch pneumonia. If you develop so much as a sneeze, you'll find no sympathy from me. You'll have no one to blame but yourself.”
Anne managed a nod. “Yes.”
“Furthermore, illness would preclude you from attending the Darcy funeral. As I wish you to extend our respects to young Fitzwilliam Darcy in a manner that befits our name, I believe we would both be disappointed if you failed to attend.”
“I want to go, too,” pouted Elisabetta. “Why should Anne be the only one who-”
“Elisabetta Elliot, interruption is a graceless art,” Lady Elliot snapped. “If you would wait half a breath, you could save yourself a lecture and me the burden of lecturing you. Twice. Yes?”
Elisabetta reddened, shrinking back in her chair. “Si, Madre.”
Something was digging into their mother this morning. This was like watching Nubio with a burr stuck in his skin. He would swat and swat until he managed to free it.
“Mother,” said Anne, “perhaps we should leave you to your letters.”
“Unnecessary, Anne. I assure you, I've had my fill of letters today.” Lady Elliot's small mouth thinned. Anne was so accustomed to seeing her mother as the source of all strength; steely, resolved, unshakable. Suddenly she saw lines that puckered around her mother's lips. Tension that darkened her eyes.
After a long silence, Anne whispered, “Madre, I know the death of Mr. and Mrs Darcy is upsetting...”
"Certainly it is, though that's not what distracts me."
It was odd, Anne thought as she watched Lady Elliot open a small drawer in her desk, feeling like the only Elliot with a heart.
“Marguerite is only twelve," her mother continued. "Much too young for this discussion. Your sister puts on a good show, of course, because she's desperate to keep up with you both. She wants you to confide in her. Yes, even you, Anne. Didn't you realize?”
“I-” Anne blinked. “No, Madre. I didn't.”
“Oh, yes.” Lady Elliot balanced a slender missive between her hands as she studied her daughters. “Your little sister looks up to you both. But a child requires shielding from certain realities. I would appreciate if both of you kept this conversation to yourselves.”
Anne nodded. Even Elisabetta managed a bewildered 'yes'.
“Good.” Lady Elliot leaned forward, “Is the name Wade Elliot familiar to either of you? Has he ever written you? Ever contacted you in any way?”
Elisabetta's piercing blue gaze looked that much more bewildered. Anne shook her head with puzzled frown.
“Good.” Lady Elliot exhaled. “One never knows, with strangers.” The letter she'd gripped was now placed in open view on the desk.
It was addressed to Lord Elliot. The return address, in bold typeface, was Graham and Graham, LLP.
“Graham and Graham?” read aloud Elisabetta. “Don't they make crackers?”
“Betta, it's father's solicitor,” said Anne. “Madre, may I?”
Lady Elliot's nod looked forced.
“I don't wish to confide in you both. Don't misunderstand me; you're intelligent children and a credit to the Elliot name. But at fifteen and sixteen, a barrister's notice should be the least of your concerns.”
Anne opened the letter and read.
Cecil P. Graham, Esq
Graham and Graham, LLP
15 Hillston Road
London
Much Honored Walter Elliot, Baron of Kellynch
It is the obligation of this firm to inform you that your request for action as a claimant on behalf of Kellynch Hall, the Elliot Barony, and yourself, the sixth Baron of Kellynch, has been rejected by the court. Arguments of either undue influence or dependent relative revocation were dismissed. The fortune of the late Dowager Marchioness of Dalrymple, sound in both body and mind at the time of her death, remains in trust for one Wade Elliot, to be transferred in toto to the recipient upon reaching his majority.
In all things this firm remains your obedient,
Cecil P. Graham, Esquire
Graham and Graham LLP
“You remember the death of your great aunt, Lady Dalrymple,” prompted their mother.
“Yes,” said Anne. “She died a year ago.”
“Almost to the week.” agreed Elisabetta. “Last year, the first week of the New Year.”
“She used to come here every Christmas,” finished Anne.
“And she had those little dogs,” Elisabetta continued, memory alighting her eyes. “Frisco and Freesia, remember? She'd carry Freesia in her purse. Frisco used to sniff around my feet and bite at my ankles.”
“Yes, he bit Marguerite once,” their mother confirmed with a grimace. “The things I wanted to do to that dog. What I wanted to say to that wretched old lady. Elisabetta, you are very much like me. You have my temper. If I am hard on you, it is because I understand you. I held my tongue with the Dowager Marchese. For all these years, I said nothing. And still she hurts us in the end.”
The statement, and the regret it held, was sinking into Anne's bones. In life, Lady Dalrymple had been a childless widow with only a great nephew, Walter, to dote on.
She'd also been a cruel woman. Vindictive and petty. Never more so than in death, it seemed. She couldn't take away Walter Elliot's estate, the title he'd gained from his father, the Hall he lived in. Those were Walter's by birthright. But she could take away the fortune she'd once bequeathed to it.
“Why should we care if we get her money?” demanded Elisabetta with a toss of her black hair. “She's gone now. I don't understand what some barrister's letter has to do with any of us.”
“Everything,” admitted her mother quietly. “While she lived, Lady Dalrymple gave your father a yearly annuity. Those funds are used to run the estate. To tend the lawns, to trim the hedges, to pay the staff. What remained of her financial estate was due to go to your father upon her death.”
Elisabetta's cheeks flushed a deep, rosy red. “And now?”
“Betta,” said Anne quietly, “Lady Dalrymple found another Elliot.”
“Wade Elliot," said Lady Elliot. "He's the only son of your father's fifth cousin, thrice removed. You've more common blood with the gardener than you have with this Elliot boy, but the will stands. Your father retains the title of baron, of course. And the estate itself. But the funds to run it, the stipend he received while she was alive--”
“Gone?” Panic lifted Elisabetta's voice to a squeak. “Just gone?”
We've known for months,” Lady Elliot continued. “But arbitration is a slow and tedious process. Now that we've received confirmation that the will cannot be contested...”
“The money goes to Wade!” snorted Elisabetta. “An Elliot would never name their son Wade. I don't know who he thinks he is, but-”
“Lady Dalrymple may give the money to whom she pleases,” said Anne quietly.
“Don't defend her!” snapped Elisabetta. “It's the fortune that funds Kellynch! And it's transferred to some nobody. Some-some--oh, I'm getting dizzy. I'm getting dizzy! Are we poor?”
“No,” said Leticia sharply. “Betta, calm down. I have a healthy inheritance of my own. I owe my parents for that. It's certainly enough maintain Kellynch Hall in the style to which we're accustomed for quite a few years. Five years, possibly even more, depending on the strength our investments. Your father and I have always agreed that we'll provide nothing but the best for our children. But one day—not soon, but one day—you both must understand the reality of your futures.”
“Which is?” cried Elisabetta.
Lady Elliot's fingers clenched. Her attention wavered briefly to the tapestery, then, with a grimace, back to her daughters. “To marry well.”
**
A band of rowdy Irishmen had invaded her room. And they were placing bets.
“A bob says you don't last half an hour, lads,” warned Seamus as he cracked the dvd box open.
“I'll be fine as the day is long,” defended Liam, kicking back in a chair he'd propped beside her. “What do you say, Eilis. A wee cuppa, a chance for the weight off my legs, and--”
“No.” She signed with a wan smile. She hadn't talked since that first painful effort. There was no reason for the effort with the lads for company. “You won't like it. Though it's grand of you all to try.”
“We're grand lads,” Liam gave her a playful grin. “I hope “Cinderella” is a fine choice for you, lassie. It was the best of the lot in the playroom.”
The title credits flashed across the screen. It was silent Magnus who reached out and grasped her hand. For the first time in weeks, she felt a rush of warmth. Of protection. Of home.
Seamus might have given them half an hour, but Elizabeth only needed fifteen. She was sound asleep before Cinderella reached her first song.
When she woke again, voices were drifting into her dreams.
“Maybe we could go back and find him again...” spoke a woman. “Do you think he's still here?”
“Moira, don't fixate,” replied a man.
“I have never seen such a lonely child, Ronan. I'm telling you-”
“You think I liked letting them go?”
“Did you read the paper?” Moira pressed in a whisper. “Did you? Listen, Ronan. Just listen to what the article says. Both the driver and the front side passenger were declared deceased at the scene. Names of the victims have been withheld whilst authorities notify next of kin. They're not coming back. There's no one to come for him.”
There was a long pause. Elizabeth couldn't help but be grateful for that. Moira's words were painful to the ear. And the heart.
“We offered our aid last night and the boy said no. I'm sure he has heaps of family ready to fetch him home.”
She heard Uncle Ronan's doubt. His waver. His hesitation. He didn't believe what he'd said any more than Moira did. How many times had a doctor, a nurse, a hospital aids, murmured:
This will only sting a little.
And..
Tomorrow, perhaps, the doctor will let you in the play room.
The worst one of all was:
You'll feel stronger tomorrow. I promise.
But why would Uncle Ronan pretend? Uncle Ronan never pretended. He wouldn't drink eggnog if he'd prefer a warm whiskey and water. He wouldn't dance if he'd rather sit (although Aunt Moira could nearly always charm him into dancing). He wouldn't say something to Aunt Moira, the love of his life, if he hadn't truly believed it.
Or desperately wanted to believe it. Perhaps that was the difference.
Slowly, forcefully, she opened her eyes. Aunt Moira and Uncle Ronan were perched at the foot of her bed, quietly talking as they waited out her nap. Magnus remained in a chair by her bedside. He was reading a newspaper. Unbeknownst to him, the headline “New Year's Eve Accident” bobbed back at her.
She couldn't remember much of her morning, or asking him to stay, but for once the memory gap caused no anxiety. Of course she'd asked him to stay. This was Magnus.
If Moira and Ronan failed to catch her slight movements, Magnus did not. He lowered his nespaper and followed her hands with his eyes.
“Morning?” she asked.
“Afternoon,” Magnus signed back. “Just past one o'clock.
“Where are the lads?
“With Mum and Dad, in the cafeteria.”
“And how's the food?
“Bad.” He met her question with a calm smile. “But it tastes better when you're feeling good enough to ask.”
She smiled back. “How long have Aunt and Uncle been here.”
“Half an hour.” Mirth quickly faded from his eyes. ”They had a hard time of it, driving to London.”
She frowned. “Hard, how?”
“Mum said not to tell you,” he admitted. “It's their story, Eilis. Aunt Moira's and Uncle Ronan's. If you wish to hear the answer, you should ask it. When you're ready.”
The truth of those words sunk in. If she wasn't ready to speak a question aloud, perhaps she wasn't ready for the response. Not yet.
For now she knew enough. She knew that somehow the Gardiners had found a boy last night who'd suffered very deeply. Who knew, as Moira put it, that there was no one to come for him.
It was a reminder, she thought with a stab of guilt, that she wasn't the only one suffering today.
“Miss Eilis, just how long have you been bright eyed and wide awake?” Ronan's booming question interrupted the pair. Though Magnus couldn't hear it, Elizabeth's green eyed gaze shifting to the far end of the bed was warning enough that they'd been found out.
Magnus, ever unobtrusive, was already on his way out when their aunt and uncle gave him their greetings.
Which meant Lizzy would have to be strong enough for speech all on her own. Lacking daily exposure, neither Moira or Ronan had gained much fluency with sign.
“Happy New Year, Luvie,” said Uncle Ronan. “Brought you a present, we did. Just a little something Moira thought you'd fancy.
As they moved to sit closer to her, Elizabeth fumbled, grasping between monitor cords and IVs to find the button that would lift her bed up. Something about this—maybe the sight of their active niece reduced to an engineered bed—made Moira's eyes water.
“Here, Luvie, let me.” Ronan fumbled with the controller, boosting her. “We sure are happy to see you.”
She smiled and said nothing. Moira placed her gift in her hands.
The box was a dark, midnight blue. For that alone, she loved it. It reminded her of a Christmas star. It was the first beautiful thing she'd touched in weeks. Only a box. But she loved it.
“Lizzy?” Moira prompted gently.
Carefully, she cracked the box open.
Inside, resting on a soft satin pillow, were a pair of dainty red rubies. Small, but still enough to overwhelm a little girl's ears. They were grown-up earrings. A gift for the adult she would one day be.
Beneath the earrings was a ruby cross. Sweet and understated. A symbol, just as that boy had been, that she wasn't the only one to suffer.
“You like it?” Aunt Moira
Her fingers wrapped protectively around the jewelry, as if clutching a secret close. At last, she found the strength to rasp her answer. “I love it.”
Chapter 4
Dear Penpal,
Thanks for sending me a book from your dad's library. I've never heard of banshees. My sister and I read it aloud at bedtime. I loved the part where--”
The last half line was erased in a scrub of pencil rubber. Twelve-year-old Emma tapped her pencil on the edge of her mahogany desk. She'd like the book. She hadn't loved it.
Still, she didn't want to offend her far-off friend. What was it Isault was always telling her? Better a sweet concession than a sour truth. Emma didn't entirely believe that axiom. More that politeness was politic. And the politic option would be a polite non-answer.
I thought it was so, so
A draft teased at her skirt hem. Emma shivered, drawing up her knees. Her dress was made of shimmering gold silk with an equally golden bow. A lovely dress, though this wasn't the loveliest day for a wedding, even if it was Valentine's Day. Rain streaked the windows.
Down in the courtyard below, a flock of bridesmaids in pink silk were flitting toward Hartfield's conservatory. A pair of ringbearers (an eight year old “cupid,” a seven year old “eros,” and nine year old “amour”, with feather pillows to boot) were giggling behind them.
Emma loved weddings. She loved the silk dresses and the ceremonial flowers. The festivities, the music, and the fairy lights. She would rejoice in her friend's joy, and summon the sweetness expected of her at the ceremony.
It was her own misfortune, Emma Woodhouse thought, that this day was also paired with the loss of her best friend. She couldn't even seclude herself here and enjoy her own misery.
Her fingers reached for the locket that hung around her neck—a nervous habit she'd held all her life. This was her mother's locket. She toyed with the heart charm whenever she was thoughtful, nervous, anxious. Her attention drifted to the window once more.
It was hard to be sour with the postcard perfect view before her. Hartfield held the loveliest spot in town, the highest hill among Highbury's gingerbread cottages and flagstone paths. The town itself seemed built for a duel purpose. Beauty and romance.
It was the loveliest town on the Blue Ridge trail. It had earned it's reputation as one of the best vacation spots in the South for a reason. Even in the tourism lull between the Christmas Festival and the summer wedding rush, the town was nothing less than beautiful.
It wasn't the town that dissatisfied her. Not exactly. It was the house that neighbored hers, literally a stone's throw away. Donwell Abbey.
The Knightleys were one of the oldest families in Highbury, and one of the finest. They were erudite and dignified, gracious and kind.
Oh, why was she kidding herself? George was what mattered to her. It was his absence she grieved. He was her best friend. Her co-adventurer. He'd taught her how to ride, how to swim, how to skate. He shared all her secrets, and her birthday as well (August 7th, two years apart). The thought of him moving? It was beyond words. Yes, the house was being vacated but not abandoned. They would come back in the summers and on holidays. But it wasn't the same.
I thought the book was just beyond words! she wrote at last, dully. There. That suited her mood perfectly.
She scrubbed tears from her eyes.
I'm mailing you two things. First, a pinched poppy sprig, freshly pressed. They bloom through March here, if the frost doesn't pinch them first, and it's been as warm as a hothouse all winter (despite the buckets of rain). My mother loved botanical illustrations, and my Papa loved my mother in return, so guess what our home is surrounded by? Gardens. We have annuals and perennials, herbs and fruits.
I nearly sent a history book about English privateers in King George's war, but I thought you see plenty of both the sea and the English living in Ireland. Both are quite exotic here. You've read the Book of Matthew, and the city on the hilltop seen by all? Highbury is a town surrounded by mountains. We call it God's Country because none but Him could find it.).
The book I'm sending you instead is about ancient Egypt. If you prefer Norse history, or Japanese, or Mexican, just let me know. I have a big collection about many different cultures. I look forward to hearing about Ireland.
Your friend,
Emma[/i]
Someone tugged at her braid. “What sphinx riddle are you puzzling over today, Emma?”
Emma glanced up. Smiling down at her was nanny, bride, and mother-in-absentia, Taylor Pillai. Already, her tutor's wedding preparations were largely underway. She wore an orange silk robe. Her dark hair was pinned up in rollers and her lips were rouged with lipstick.
“Ready for the ceremony, Emma?”
Emma folded her letter with a quiet smile. “Oh, yes.”
“You look pensive.”
“I feel it.”
"I am too, to be honest," Taylor admitted. "Do I look as nervous as I feel?"
Emma reached for her tutor's hands, turning one palm over to admire Taylor's mehendi flourishes. They'd had the ceremony here the night before. It had included laughter, and food, and music, and quite a few tears. Happy tears, Emma decided, feeling them overwhelm again.
“Taylor,” Emma announced with a tremulous smile. “You look ready.”
**
Were this the height of summer, they'd serve breakfast on the terrace, with Florida orange juice and strawberries fresh from the field. Today, in mid February, the dining room would have to suffice
“You're excited for the wedding, Emma?” Isault asked when she arrived.
“Sure,” Emma said with a quiet smile, snatching a pastry from the sideboard. “Papa, you'll remember to be on time, won't you?”
"Hmm?" Harlan Woodhouse was scribbling schematics in the newspaper margin. A lock of his loose sunbeam red curls had fallen over his brown. She didn't know why they ordered the Highbury Gazette for him every morning. His mind hardly drifted from schematics long enough to read it. “What would I be late for?”
“For Taylor's wedding this evening,” Isault prompted gently. “Seven o'clock. I've had your tuxedo pressed, and Miss Bates polished your shoes.”
“We can't be late, Papa,” Emma reminded him. Distracted by George Knightley's departure or not, she would find him in his work room and drag him to the reception herself if need be.
“I'm never late for a wedding,” he answered hazily, chewing on his pen as he studied his drawing. “Not by much...”
“Think of it this way, Papa. Today, a poor, dejected widower says to the world that he can live again. Joy finds a home. Love---” A firm hand grabbed Emma by the bow of her golden dress, hoisting her up by inches. “Jamie Knightley, put me down!”
“I thought you wanted a speaking platform,” James said drolly, dropping her to the ground again. “Nice speechifying. And how'd you know it was me?”
She turned on her short, patten leather heel to see his toothy grin. “Few take the liberty,” she sniffed.
Seventeen-year-old James grinned back. “Shortstop, you're gonna slay every good ol' boy in town with that line in a few years.”
“Mrs Bates let you in, did she?” she guessed. “Your tie is crooked.”
“So's your bow,” he shot back with a wink.
What was it about James Knightley that could turn her into a prickly porcupine? Was it the fact that he pestered her like a big brother when George trusted her like a friend? Was it because he had all of George's charm but none of his gallantry? Because every time he stood before her, she was struck by the thought that she'd prefer to talk to his younger brother?
Which prompted the question, “Where's Knightley?”
“Helping my dad pack. Don't worry, he'll be here tonight.” James Knightley's merry hazel gaze drifted past her and over to her sister. “Morning, Isault.”
Was that a blush on her sister's cheek? Isault chose not to look at their visitor, reaching for a silver pot of hot chocolate instead. “Good morning, James.”
“Mr. Knightley,” Harlan spoke up. Perhaps he wasn't so easily distracted, after all. His paper was tossed aside. He'd leaned his lithe frame back into his chair and fixed their interloper with his keen gaze. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
In this conversational dance, Emma had most certainly missed a step. He did not sound at all pleased. Emma glanced back up at Jamie. He suddenly looked nervous enough to dance a jig.
“I, uh-” James choked, “you see..the thing is—my family's set on flying out. Tomorrow, as it were...”
“I'm well aware.” Harlan Woodhouse's focus didn't waver. Neither did his frown. “Your father's fellowship was well earned.”
“Right. Yeah. Definitely. Anyway,” James rushed. “I was thinking, maybe Isa and I could go for a drive?”
“It's raining,” said Harlan. “You'll have to be content seeing my daughter this evening.”
“Right,” James rubbed his neck. “but before that. There's this great spot a few miles north on Strawberry Hill and--”
The name provoked a flinch. "No," said Harlan tearsley.
“Papa, James is a very responsible driver,” Isault spoke up softly. “Please?”
"Absolutely not.”
“I'll bring her back by lunch,” James promised.
“When absolutely not means anything but no, then I shall reconsider.”
“But Papa-” Emma spoke up. If anyone had the gift of turning Harlan's occassioal iron 'no' into a golden 'yes,' it was his youngest child.
“Emma,” Harlan frowned. “I said no. The subject is closed.”
**
It rained through the wedding. A cold, gray drizzle that trampled the pansies and turned the walkways slick. Nearly all of Highbury turned out. Everyone knew the Woodhouse family. Those who didn't love the family Taylor worked for, loved the Sheriff instead. Or at least loved to gossip about him. If a few attendees clucked their tongue about Mr Wesson's age (a very youthful forty-seven) or Taylor's youth (a very mature twenty-nine), they had the grace to keep the clucking to themselves until the reception.
And cluck they did. All grouped together, Emma thought they sounded like a herd of chickens. Between dances, she waltzed over to the band and pleasantly requested they play louder.
As the daughter of the biggest name in town, she was expected to make the conversational rounds. Isault was too shy for the task, and Harlan was too distracted (he'd skipped half the dinner and retreated to his work room). Normally she found conversation a happy task. She loved to talk, she loved people, and she loved people talking most of all. She didn't usually think they sounded like chickens.
But Knightley had a way of making everything all topsy-turvy. Especially since, as a son of the second biggest name in the room, he too was expected to mingle. Often this translated into landing on opposite sides of the room. Now, for example. George Knightley was attempting the art of getting a word in edgewise with Miss Bates. He handled the task valiantly. As for Emma, a few polite 'how-do-you-do's' to Highbury's matriarchs, and she found herself waylaid.
“If ever there was a definition for the word beauty” declared Mrs. Eulalia Cole, “It must be your face, little Emma.”
“No Ma'am,” Emma smiled at the domineering matriarch, “it's a picture of the town that raised me.”
“She is a doll,” agreed Mrs Banks.
“More lifelike one hopes?” Emma spoke up and took a small sip of her soda. She shifted on her heel, trying to look past Mrs Banks and catch Knightley's eye. The space he'd filled seconds before was now empty.
“And her hair! Blond, with just a hint of red...” said another.
“She's the best of both her parents,” agreed Mrs Cole. “Even more so than Isault, and that's a plain fact. Your mother Emma, the late Mrs Woodhouse, was as pretty a creature as I ever beheld.”
"My sister is beautiful." Emma's smile tightened. “Yes, my mother was lovely.”
“And as for your Papa-”
“Curious young man.” said Mrs Banks.
“Most curious,” echoed Mrs Parsons.
“He's too young to raise a pair of children by himself,” Mrs Cole announced. “He was barely twenty when he married your mother. And she was a teenage wildcat from God knows where!”
“Harlan Woodhouse is too intellectual. What child could make heads or tails of half the things he says!”
“He's too distracted by his own inventions to run a household.”
Even at twelve, Emma outpaced half the town in social skill. Polite chatter. Political debate. Diversion and redirection when a conversation veered off track What she didn't have, however, was the gift of remaining docile in the face of criticism. Especially concerning her father.
“Judge him as you will,” Emma said, “but my father is a kind, creative, intelligent man. He's loved me and protected me.”
“And he's donated more money to Highbury's preservation than the rest of the town combined,” George Knightley announced beside her. A warm hand touched her elbow. “That's a feat no one in this town can equal. Not even you, Mrs Cole.”
Mrs Eulalia Cole sputtered. Mrs Banks gaped. A minute longer, and Emma was convinced that they would start squawking at her.
Which is why he probably chosen that moment to pull her away.
“She's a vicious old goose,” said Emma.
“Yeah, I know.”
“Really, Knightley. A minute later, and I swear I would have-”
“I know.” He grinned down at her, that crooked, heart-stopping grin that turned all her thoughts to mush. Which was probably why she didn't notice the plate he pressed into her hands. “Meet me in the library in half an hour, will you?”
“Half an hour?” She blinked. “Why half an-”
“After you take that to your dad.” He nodded to her hands.
She stared down at the piece of cake she hadn't realized she was holding, then up at him. “Oh,” she said blankly. “Did I just say what I think I said to Mrs Cole?”
“Yes.”
“Did she look mad?”
“Yes,” Knightley said frankly. He squeezed her shoulder. “Don't worry about it. A week will go by and they'll find something else to gossip about.”
Yes, she thought, but you won't have to live here for that week. I can't do this without you. This wouldn't work at all.
“My Papa...he really doesn't like cake...”
Knightley laughed. “The library. Half an hour. You'll be there?”
She nodded. Of course she would. Wherever he was, that was the best place to be. And everyone always said she was clever.
**
At the far end of the Hartfield's western hallway, secluded by a solid oak door and a double barrel lock, was a Curiosity Room.
Emma had called it this when she was barely tall enough to reach the door's handle, or side her key into its brass lock. Only three people could access this room. Herself, Isault, and her father.
Her father didn't care what they called it. He cared more for the creations the room held than for the name of the room that bore it. His daughters knew this, and loved him for it, just as they loved every wind up toy he'd ever made them. Emma herself had reaped the benefits of her father's unorthodox profession. As a child she'd had every kind of novelty she could dream up, and more besides. Whirligigs and dancing soldiers. Clocks that wound themselves. A music box that played Mozart.
She knew her father's reputation. Highbury thought him distant, distracted, muddled.
He was eccentric; certainly she could attest to that. To her father, electronics were an anathema. He'd never touched a computer. Cars prevented a morning's hike in the mountains. He didn't drive. Gramophones were more interesting than telephones. Central heat was for those with feeble blood. Indeed, the only technology he truly liked in the last century was the improvement of the water closet.
Of course he made concessions. They had central heat, and electricity. And something beyond a gramophone to play music (though courtesy of her father, they had tat too). But she liked that her father had philosophies, ideas he stood for, even if she didn't always agree with them. Few people in Highbury stood for things.
Isault and Emma loved him for what he was, and forgave him for what he wasn't. Wasn't that enough? How many children had wind-up butterflies and hand made unicycles? Beyond that, he gave them a library filled from floor to ceiling, a tutor, and the freedom to roam large.
AMrs Cole would never understand. But her father wasn't the premier cog and wheel craftsman in America. Not just wind up toys or self sustaining clocks, but antique steam engines and more besides. And all his inventions were created without a wire in sight.
No one, no one, could disturb him while he worked.
Save, of course, for his daughters. As Emma slipped the door to his work room shut, a gold plated humming bird whizzed above her.
“Papa?” she called out. This room, nearly the span of another hall, was a labyrinth to navigate. Long tables were piled with complex works-in-progress. Finished toys roamed about. She stepped over a copper, wind-up cat. “Papa?”
At the far corner of the room, working beneath the soft glow of a halogen lamp, was her father. He had a small, pencil thin screwdriver in one hand and the heart of a brass clock in the other.
Harlan did look too young for his children, Emma thought as she slid the cake piece onto his work table. He still possessed a full head of sun-red curls, and a lean, boyish frame. He still stayed up too late, and worked too long. But he protected his daughters. He loved them. With everything he had, he loved them.
“You miss Momma tonight, don't you?” Emma spoke quietly.
Harlan Woodhouse's hand stilled. He brushed back a lock of hair that obscured his gaze, looked up, and met her inquisitive gaze.
Amelia Woodhouse was always the fastest way to gain his attention.
“Especially tonight,” he confirmed quietly.
“Is that why you left early?”
“That...” he was squinting at gears. “And an effort to avoid Mrs Cole.”
Emma winced. “I may have insulted her. And Mrs Parson, and Mrs Banks...”
"Did you?" He gave a tired smile. “That's my girl.”
“She deserved it,” Emma frowned. “She insulted you first!”
"Hmm.." He set the clock heart down. “You have your mother's loyalty.”
Emma leaned against the work table. “I do?”
“Yes. And her strength. She was a romantic, just like you are. And-” he drew out the thought, his fingers raking through his hair, “she liked talking to people, and hearing about their lives. Just like you do.”
“I remind you of her, then?”
“In certain ways. Anyone can see you have her beauty, Emma. And her courage. But you have my curiosity. And my--admittedly maddening--need to be right.” This provoked a grin on both sides, though his quickly faded. “You're far too mature for your age, intellectually. I was the same. You look like a child, of course, but talking to you...it's easy to forget you're only twelve.”
“Does that mean I can have a later bed time?” she asked hopefully.
“No,” Harlan laughed, kissing her forehead. She wasn't blind to the flash of fatherly pride in his eyes. “Why aren't you still at the reception? Isn't Isa looking after you?”
“Oh--” she faltered, “yes. Of course she is.”
The truth was, she'd lost track of Isa shortly after the toasts were conducted. And James Knightley too, to tell the truth. If that flicker in her father's eyes was suspicion, he mercifully let the moment pass.
“I should get back to the party,” she said. “Are you hungry? I brought you cake.”
“Never cared for the stuff, to be honest.” He picked up his screwdriver again. “But for you, I'll eat it.”
“Good.” She nodded. “And Papa?”
“Hmm?”
She tiptoed, kissing his cheek. “Promise me you won't stay up too late, okay?”
Her father grinned. “You either, Emme.”