"You will marry her. There is nothing else to be done."
Frank Churchill stood before the aunt who had raised him from a boy. Gossip, as it often does, had taken a circuitous path and landed where it was least expected and even less welcome. An old friend of the Churchills, with a slight acquaintance in Donwell - or a servant with connections there, he could not make out the exact details - had got word of his dramatic rescue and had carried the news in all haste to Mrs. Churchill. Within a week of the incident Frank had been summoned to Enscombe to give an account of himself.
"I had great hopes for you, Frank. You should have listened to me. I knew nothing good would come of a visit to Highbury. Your father's marriage was of no import to you." She paused briefly to cough. "There was no obligation to go; you should have felt none. After all, you did not attend the ceremony itself. And now you are to follow in your headstrong mother's footsteps!" Mrs. Churchill was disappointed by this most of all. Had the girl some connections of merit or a little money, it would not be so bad. "At least it was not your design to marry beneath yourself. You were only trying to help the chit. So unfortunate! So-"
Here she was overcome by a coughing fit, and Frank had a few seconds to school his features and compose himself. He did not mention that both he and the 'chit' had been children of officers of no great consequence in society and therefore were on equal footing by birth. Had he remained with his father and spent all his youth in Highbury and London instead of being elevated to the position of heir to Enscombe, his prospects would not have been very different from hers. Not to mention that he might have had the pleasure of knowing her from an early age. He knew not to contradict his aunt, however, and he did not wish to betray how well pleased he was with the consequences of the near-accident, so he kept his thoughts to himself.
"There, you see? I know there are some who say that I am not really ill. Do they think I cough for my own amusement? It is getting worse, I fear. I believe I shall remove to Richmond soon. The air at dear old Enscombe no longer agrees with me." She looked sharply at her nephew before continuing. "Frank, dear, I will not do as others might, in my place. I am not so unfeeling. You are a good boy, and I care for you excessively. You need not fear. I will not cut you off. You shall have your inheritance." She paused for effect and Frank, taking his cue, bowed deeply in gratitude and kissed her hand.
Mrs. Churchill perked up instantly. He was drawn and silent, as he should be. He displayed just the right amount of remorse, humility and deference. "I will not have the name of Churchill sullied by people who have no understanding of the matter. Nor would I see you struggle as your poor mother did." Frank's countenance was so downcast she could not but soften towards him. "You will marry in one month and bring her to Enscombe." She turned away, signalling the conclusion of the interview.
Jane was anxious that word of her long-standing engagement to Frank not spread beyond the Westons, especially now that Mrs. Churchill's favour was actively being sought. She at first was heartily sorry when Mrs. Weston informed her that Miss Woodhouse had been made privy to her secret, but she soon learned, to her amazement, that the lady bore her no ill will. That Miss Woodhouse had never harboured any serious expectations of Frank was a wonder and a welcome relief.
Emma was on hand to offer the first congratulations to the couple. She knew Mrs. Weston would not be easy until all was concluded, so she called at Randalls on the day scheduled for Frank's return to offer her support and company. She entered the drawing room to find her friend seated not with her husband, but with Miss Fairfax. The latter appeared less composed than Emma had ever seen her. The young lady clearly suffered in her suspense; she was humble, penitent, conscious of her misconduct in consenting to an alliance that had not been properly sanctioned, grateful for the forbearance of her kind friends, and effusive in her expression of these sentiments.
As the three sat waiting, Emma found herself warming to Jane Fairfax against her will. The knowledge of how much she must have gone through in the last months, not the least of which was the mortification of witnessing her beloved pay his addresses to another in order to safeguard their positions, drew Emma's pity. The dignity and humility with which she acknowledged her own responsibility in the affair won Emma's respect.
The more Emma heard and saw, the more she understood Mr. Knightley's admiration of Miss Fairfax and the less she was inclined to rue it for her own sake. If her own heart broke, it was of no consequence. His disappointment was foremost in her mind now, and she knew not how he bore it. Poor Mr. Knightley! Three months ago she would have been appalled had he declared himself in love with Jane Fairfax - a lady so far beneath him as to make the alliance a disgrace, nay, an impossibility while he retained the use of his reason. That would have been her opinion. And of course she did not know her own heart then. Now she only felt sorry for what he must suffer once Frank Churchill succeeded in his purpose. She could almost forget her own pain when agonising over his.
At length Mr. Churchill returned with the news that he had obtained his aunt's consent and possibly even her blessing. This was more than they had hoped for and caused great rejoicing. Mr. Weston soon joined them, and Emma retreated to her own smaller, less cheerful family party at Hartfield.
Upon her return, Emma examined the post and discovered a letter from her sister. It was unlike Isabella to write her more than once a month. She hoped the children were not ill. Eagerly breaking the seal, she sat down to read.
Dearest Sister,
Since I last wrote to you, something has occurred of a most unexpected nature - but I am afraid of alarming you. Be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to my brother. George arrived in Brunswick Square seven days ago. John had no knowledge of his coming, though of course he was made very welcome. He seemed out of spirits on that first day, which might be attributed to his long ride, for he looked quite dishevelled when he was announced. I do not think he stopped to rest once between Donwell and London. He was shown to his room and remained there all day and evening.
The following morning John inquired into his plans. It appears he had none. He had brought no more than the money in his pocket, not even a change of attire, and yet he refused to allow John to send for his clothes or even to inform William Larkins of his whereabouts. George does keep a set of clothing here for when he visits. He says it permits him to forego both the trouble of packing and the confines of a carriage ride when he would much rather travel on horseback. Of course he can procure whatever else he needs at the shops.
I am concerned that he has not regained his typical good humour this se'night. He is quiet at meals and is as likely as not to request a tray in his room. At other times he sits in his favourite chair by the fireplace, sullen and still. The children are quite put out, Henry and John in particular. He does not play with them often and I believe their tender hearts feel his melancholy and are greatly affected, as are their parents.
I begged George to send word to my father that he is well. He looked pained but agreed that it must be done, but I do not believe he has followed through on it. I hope he will not be angry with me for taking up the task. I am writing you because I know you will not be half so alarmed as Father at what I have to relate, and it is a relief to share this with someone who cares as much for George's welfare as John and I do.
Do you know of any difficulties at Donwell or with the tenants there, anything that would cause George to leave home so abruptly? He has not been unwell, has he? John has given up trying to force him to confide in us. If you have any idea what has happened, do not hesitate to write me of it. In the interim we will do all we can for him and hope that his troubles, whatever they may be, are resolved as soon as possible.
Give my love to Father. You need tell him no more than that his dear friend Mr. Knightley is safe in London.
Write me soon, dearest Emma.
Your affectionate sister,
Isabella Knightley
Emma knew enough of her sister to discern that she was sick with worry, no matter how well she claimed to be. Curse Mr. Knightley for upsetting her peace! She squelched the ungenerous sentiment as soon as it entered her head. The man was suffering. He knew not what he was about.
Emma hated to increase Mr. Knightley's sorrow by relating the news of Miss Fairfax's betrothal, but it must be done, and far better for him to receive word of it in Brunswick Square where he might have the comfort of loving relations to soften the blow. Isabella, too, must be comforted, her mind put at ease again. Yet she had to consider her response carefully. It would not do for Mr. Knightley to be made more miserable, as would happen if he discovered his sisters-in-law freely discussing his disappointment. She could not say, 'Dear Isabella: Mr. Knightley is hopelessly in love with Jane Fairfax, and now that she is to marry Frank Churchill he will be positively inconsolable. Do tell him quickly; it is the best way.' She must write what could safely be read by all parties.
She paced the room, she thought through every particular, she shed a few tears, and when her face was sufficiently dry she sat down again at her desk and composed a reply to Isabella's letter. It went out with the following day's post.
Mrs. Bennet's daily visits to Netherfield were enough to try even Bingley's easy temper and Jane's affectionate heart. The Bingleys had been married a mere three weeks, and today they welcomed Mrs. Bennet to their home for the eleventh time since their return from the seaside.
Their wedding journey had been blissful but brief. Bingley chose to return to his estate sooner than not, though Mrs. Bennet might yet drive him from Netherfield again before Michaelmas, if only to gain a week's respite. He was warming to the role of country gentleman and he delighted in being Jane's husband at last. In fact, were he to have Darcy and Elizabeth nearby and Mrs. Bennet at a greater distance, he would be perfectly content.
Mr. Bingley decided to act not so much because of his own discontent but because of his wife's. Jane regretted her mother's lack of sensitivity and blamed herself for bringing such a burden to their marriage. Even Kitty began to show embarrassment when she was dragged thither each day by her mother (thankfully, Lydia could not be bothered to go so often only to see Jane and Bingley) and compelled to remain for hours at a time in Jane's drawing room. He imagined she saw what Mrs. Bennet did not, or would not: that his smile stopped short of his eyes as he declared it lovely to see them again at Netherfield or so soon after their last visit.
Mr. Bingley had no little experience with difficult relatives, but one's sister was not one's mother. He fully intended to renew the lease on Netherfield in September as he had promised his father-in-law, whose company he did enjoy, so as Mrs. Bennet chatted on he silently formulated a solution.
At last a servant brought in refreshments and the four rose to partake of them. "My dear," Mr. Bingley whispered to his bride at the first opportunity, "take Kitty out to the garden for a turn, or into Meryton, if you like, and buy her a present for her pains. I shall have a word with your mother." Jane was curious but said nothing. She trusted her husband. She and Kitty excused themselves after a cup of tea and Bingley took a seat closer to Mrs. Bennet.
"Oh! Mr. Bingley, you are so good to my Jane! She has told me you are to refurbish this room in greens and yellows. It will be quite lovely, I'm sure. We shall have to show it off to all the neighbors."
Bingley could not imagine Mrs. Bennet's allowing Jane the opportunity to say anything of the sort, much less that his wife should desire to replace the blue furnishings, which pleased her particularly, with those of a color she did not care for. "Jane is welcome to change what she likes. I wish her to be comfortable here."
"Of course she is! Netherfield is a very comfortable home, and very grand." Mrs. Bennet wiped an imaginary crumb from her skirts.
"I thank you for the compliment. And while we are on the subject of home, I should like to take you into my confidence on a matter."
"Why, Mr. Bingley, I should be delighted to assist you in any way I can. I am honoured to serve in the place of your dear mother."
How presumptuous, Bingley thought as he ordered the words exactly so in his mind one last time before speaking them aloud. "Mrs. Bennet, as mistress of one of the largest estates in the neighborhood, you must be quite familiar with the many duties that fall to the lady of the house..."
"Certainly."
"...and how crucial it is to the success of the entire family that a lady receive all the respect she is due and be permitted to exercise all the authority of her post."
"Yes, of course..."
"Good. Then you will understand why I am concerned about Jane."
Mrs. Bennet's mouth opened and shut. "You do not mean to say you are displeased with her? Why, you have been married not even a month. Give her time, Mr. Bingley! I am sure with my guidance she will -"
"That is precisely what I am getting at, Mrs. Bennet: your 'guidance,' so to speak. I am not at all displeased with my wife. I did not mean to give you that impression. You and Mr. Bennet have prepared her well. I am concerned, however, that she does not have the opportunity to prove what she is capable of."
"Then I shall advise her, sir. When she returns, I shall talk with her directly."
"Mrs. Bennet, let me make myself clear. I do not wish you to speak to Jane directly when she returns, at least not to offer her any advice." Bingley had known this would be difficult, but he felt as if he were reasoning with a child. Perhaps this would be good practice for the future. "What I truly wish is for Jane to make her own decisions with as little interference as possible, no matter how kindly meant."
Mrs. Bennet was not so slow as to miss his meaning and her temper was immediately in evidence. "Hmph!" She fidgeted in her seat. "I know when I am not welcome."
"Come, Mrs. Bennet. Has there been a day that Jane and I have not welcomed you here since our return?"
"No, I cannot say that there has been." Her petulance did not prevent her being truthful. It struck her that as newlyweds Mr. and Mrs. Bingley - how well that sounded! - might desire a few days to themselves, a few weeks, even, as she and Mr. Bennet had enjoyed so many years ago. She had not considered it before, so anxious had she been to see Jane. She had once more become accustomed to her daughter's stabilising presence at Longbourn when the family had been required to part with her yet again, this time permanently. Jane was truly grown up. It had happened so quickly. Mrs. Bennet suddenly felt a little old and a bit sad.
Mr. Bingley interrupted Mrs. Bennet's thoughtful silence with what he hoped would ensure her cooperation. "And in just a few weeks, my sisters and brother will return from Scarborough. Louisa, as my guest, will be less inclined to bother with household matters, but Caroline is accustomed to presiding over my home. Of course she will have to give way to Jane and play a much smaller role, but old habits, you know...I fear if she returns and Jane appears to run to her mother for every little thing that arises, well, you can imagine how Caroline would react to that. You know how obliging Jane is and I would not want anyone to take advantage of her good nature, not even family."
Mr. Bingley did not have to say one word more. Mrs. Bennet was blessed with a vivid imagination. She saw in her mind's eye Jane's wordless submission to an overbearing spinster, cast aside in her own home like a poor relation. It mattered not how fashionable, handsome and capable the interfering sister was. Her Jane had caught herself a husband and had every right to manage his home. Of Mr. Bingley's hint regarding her own propensity to meddle in her daughter's affairs she remained blissfully unaware.
"Now that you put it that way, Mr. Bingley, I see your point. I do. Jane must learn to hold her own among your sisters."
"Ah, yes." Good enough. "Now, about your visits, perhaps we could try -"
"Every other day?" Mrs. Bennet, eager to demonstrate her cooperation, was pleased with her offering.
"I was thinking of a weekly appointment for now. Perhaps on Tuesdays Jane and I may dine at Longbourn and on Thursdays you, Mr. Bennet, Mary, Kitty and Lydia may dine here. While the weather permits, of course, and in the absence of other more pressing commitments. Come winter, we may need to alter the plan."
Mrs. Bennet was about to object when she noticed Mr. Bingley's expression. For one so consistently amiable it almost looked harsh. There was a firmness in his tone as well, and she sensed he would not yield on this matter. Still, she intended to have her say. "I think Tuesday will not suit. Monday is a much better choice for dinner at Longbourn."
"Certainly. I would not expect you to accommodate me at my whim. By all means choose the day, and Jane and I will follow your recommendation. I do believe this arrangement will assist my wife in establishing herself as Mistress here by the time my sisters return." Bingley stretched his legs a bit. "And just think of how much you shall have to relate to one another if you have been saving up three or four days' worth of news for each visit!"
"I suppose." Mrs. Bennet was not convinced but she was willing to try it. If they had a standing engagement once a week, at least Mr. Bennet and Mary would be forced to leave the house and mix with their neighbours on occasion. That would be something.
"Good, good. Have I mentioned that I intend to give a ball again this year, perhaps in November? I have so many pleasant memories from the last. I am sure Jane will solicit your ideas for the menu and decorations. But that is months away. Meanwhile, there is the dinner party in two weeks, and I simply must have some recipes from your cook." Mrs. Bennet, who prided herself in laying a good table, smiled, and Mr. Bingley relaxed. They conversed politely until Jane returned with Kitty, and Mrs. Bennet and her younger daughter quickly took their leave.
In this way Mr. Bingley earned the gratitude of his wife - and weeks later that of his sisters as well, once they heard from the servants how often Mrs. Bennet had been visiting before their arrival. He also won the respect of Jane's mother and father as they observed how their daughter's confidence blossomed under the new arrangement, although Mr. Bennet sometimes felt the results were dearly bought now that his wife remained steadfastly at home several mornings a week.
Chapter Fourteen
"Mr. Knightley!" The gentleman appeared at the garden door. Emma stood where she was, unable to force her legs to move. She observed him closely as he walked to meet her. He looked harried. Apprehensive. Thinner. Yet just as handsome as ever.
The rains of the morning had kept her confined to the house, but midday brought a clear sky and Mr. Perry to Hartfield. As the doctor and Mr. Woodhouse settled into conversation, Emma took the opportunity to walk out. And now Mr. Knightley had come in all this state to see her. "So you have returned." She congratulated herself on keeping her voice from trembling.
"Only just. I stopped at the Abbey for dinner and to change, of course."
"You must have had a wet ride." She never thought she would see him this soon. How was she to broach the subject so painful to them both? Delay, delay. "How fare our mutual relations in London?"
"You knew where I was?"
"Isabella wrote me word. You gave her quite a fright, you know. She implied that you slept the entire first day you were there."
"I did. I rode hard that morning." After a night of very little sleep, he had risen early and dressed in haste. He had mounted his horse and ridden off through Donwell, not knowing how far he would go. At length he found himself well on the road to London, headed for his brother's house. "So Isabella informed you of my visit, then?" He had not thought she would, though it made perfect sense. "And you wrote something to her of greater significance, which she shared with John and me."
"I only told her of our recent news. A wedding is, after all, news of the best kind." As he already knew everything, perhaps it would help to make light of it.
"Miss Fairfax and Mr. Churchill? Yes, it is that to which I refer."
"Why did you tell no one where you had gone? Why did you not call to take leave of my father?" It still hurt that he had not said good-bye to her.
"I was too cross that morning to see anyone." Even you, Emma. Especially you.
The subject had been raised; they could not avoid it now. She focused on a branch just above his head and took a breath. "And what did you think...of the news?"
"I felt nothing but surprise. While the idea of affection between Frank Churchill and Miss Fairfax did not surprise me, the rest certainly did. I am relieved that Miss Fairfax was not injured, by the farm cart, at least." He leaned in and spoke at a whisper, though there was no one else in sight. "But satisfy me on this point, Emma. Was there truly a private understanding between them before all this, or did my eyes deceive me?"
"Your eyes were, and are, in perfect health, Sir." Her voice was not much louder. "There was indeed such an arrangement, put in place before either came to Highbury. Mr. Churchill feared his aunt's disapproval, of course. He could not afford to let the truth get out, so he directed his attentions to me instead. But you must not breathe a word of it, for Mrs. Weston swore me to secrecy. As you already had your suspicions, I see no harm in offering you confirmation." She recalled his words with some confusion. "Do you mean that you did not know any of this when you went to London?"
"I left at dawn that day, before the accident occurred, I suppose." He walked ahead of her and stopped.
"Then why did you leave? Were you expecting, based on your observations, that at any moment Miss Fairfax would announce her engagement?" She followed and stood beside him.
"Miss Fairfax? What has she to do with it? Miss Fairfax can have no bearing on my plans."
"I know how highly you think of her."
"Anyone may know how highly I think of her. Yes, I suppose I still do, in spite of everything."
Emma lowered her eyes. "You need not pretend with me, sir. Not with your old friend." She did not see his grimace.
"Old friend?"
"Yes, as your friend, I will hear whatever you have to say. You need not claim a disinterestedness you do not feel. No one expects a tender affection to be overcome in a few days or a fortnight." Or ever.
"Emma," he turned and stared at her in puzzlement, "do you console me?" Did she not know why he had come? The irony was not lost on him. Not only had she given her own heart away to her grief, but it seemed she had consigned his to misery as well. If only she were willing, she could be all the consolation he needed. "Ah, Emma, listen to me. I will tell you the truth, as your old friend, if you insist. My indifference in this matter is not feigned. If I envy Mr. Churchill, it is not for his choice of bride. But how, Emma? How can you discern my envy and be blind to my reasons for it?"
She was too stunned to speak.
"Emma?" If she would not answer, he would be brave enough for them both. He put aside his bruised feelings in order to address hers. Gently he turned her face toward his. "I am sorry, for your sake alone, that he is engaged. The Churchills are not the kind to tolerate scandal. It is the proper thing to do, and fortunately it is what the couple wanted, yet I could almost wish it undone to spare you pain." He stroked the soft skin of her cheek. "You will recover in time," he said.
Recover? Then what I thought - what I saw - Oh! What a horrible, silly...delightful misunderstanding! "Mr. Knightley, it appears we both were mistaken." Her voice was uneven. She was so distracted by his touch that she did not smile at him. "I do not begrudge Miss Fairfax her choice of groom."
He let his hand drop. "But his attentions to you that night - I thought - Emma, they were too marked to be misunderstood! Or rather they were meant to be misunderstood in just such a way. And you indulged him!"
"He is Mr. Weston's son, and thereby the son of my friend. How could I not? We now know why he imposed himself on me in that manner, but at the time his excessive attentions were wholly unexpected and even unpleasant."
"His attentions meant nothing to you?"
"Frank Churchill did not injure me by engaging himself to Miss Fairfax."
"I admit I am relieved."
They walked on, neither looking at the other, until Knightley took up the conversation again. "Emma, you did not ask in what way I do envy Frank Churchill."
"I do not object to hearing it." They had mistaken matters so thoroughly, but now she had reason to hope and she could not help the smile that crept across her face.
His face, by contrast, was solemn as he took her hand. "Emma," he said, with a vulnerability she had not anticipated, "I am accustomed to having you all to myself. Oh, I know you very much belong to your father, but it was not until Mr. Churchill made his appearance that I felt any real danger of losing you to another man. We were to be the bachelor uncle and maiden aunt to Henry, remember?"
Her hopes waned. Reluctantly she continued to smile as he spoke further.
"Mr. Churchill won your approbation immediately. It was his easy way with you that I first envied, the manner in which he made you smile and laugh seemingly without effort, whereas I am as likely as not to exasperate you with the things I say." He looked down at his well-polished boots and up again slowly, taking in a view of the grounds he knew almost as well as those surrounding the Abbey. "He spoke to you as if you and he had been acquainted forever, and yet you could hardly know each other well enough for...that is, I knew Mrs. Weston had great hopes for a match between you, and I felt more than a little protective."
Emma's smile was now forced. He thought of them as brother and sister! Her hand slipped out of his and she willed herself to attend to his words.
"I watched him and was not pleased with what I saw. I did not think he deserved you. I wanted to point it out plainly, but I thought you would not welcome my interference. The affection men and women sometimes feel for one another has not been a pleasant subject between us."
Emma frowned and maintained her silence. This was not at all what she wanted.
"I said to myself, 'He thinks he can come to the country and whisk away the brightest jewel in Highbury without a second thought. That will never do.' I detested the idea of it, not least for your father's sake. It pained me to imagine you miles away in Yorkshire."
Emma's shoulders drooped and her eyes stung. How could she be angry at him for his compassionate concern for her father? It was that same matter - her father's unwillingness to part with her - which had clouded her joy when she finally realised her heart's desire.
"And then I began to suspect that you were not his only object," Knightley continued. "You know not how that troubled me." His anger flared at Frank Churchill. How had the man convinced sweet, proper Jane Fairfax to consent to deception and concealment? How many people had he injured in his selfish scheme? At least Emma, by her own words, was not among them. Somehow she had been safe from Churchill, though speaking of the matter clearly made her uneasy.
Knightley walked off, careless of direction, and then abruptly turned, made his way back to Emma, and continued his narrative. "The day before I left, when Mr. Churchill fawned over you and you looked as though you enjoyed it, even invited it, though I know now you did neither, I had to admit I was deceiving myself. I had feared only for you; I feared Frank Churchill's false dealing would result in your heartbreak. What I had not owned until that moment was that I was the one in danger of breaking my heart - and no, not over Jane Fairfax."
Knightley watched Emma with concern. She had begun to smile earlier but almost as quickly the smile faded and her eyes filled with tears. The tears did not fall, however, and now he did not know what to make of her expression. He took her arm and escorted her to the nearest bench. It was dry enough for use. He took out his handkerchief and wiped away what little dampness remained there from the earlier storm.
When they were both seated, Knightley turned to face Emma. He would tell her this truth whether she welcomed it or not. She had borne worse from him. "I should have said more. A man who loved you less might have. Instead, I ran off to London. Your confusion is my own fault, Emma." He looked into her eyes with tenderness overflowing. "Dearest Emma, for dearest you will always be, if I have made you think that I value Miss Fairfax, or indeed any woman, over you then I cannot beg pardon humbly enough." He took her hand again and this time pressed it to his heart. "I cannot make speeches, Emma. You know what I am. You understand me. - Yes, you see, you understand my feelings and will return them if you can. - Emma, will you not speak?"
As for the lady, she heard, she approved; she rejoiced in this turn which swept away the misery of the past days and quickened the beating of her heart. She collected her thoughts and said to him, "That was very silly of you, Mr. Knightley. And you are such a sensible man in general."
Was she rejecting him? The look in her eyes and her blush said otherwise, and he chose to believe them. "What, that I ran away from home?" He laughed. "I admit I did feel like the proverbial pup slinking off with his tail between his legs. John berated me soundly for worrying Isabella so much. I should have stayed here. I did not think."
"You are right. You should have stayed." Her words seemed to grant him a measure of relief. "And I am cross with you for causing my sister anxiety. But that is not what I meant." She knew his heart, and now she must bare hers. She did not wish to speak of Isabella and John. "It was silly of you to think it in the realm of possibility that I should care for anyone," she closed her eyes, "that I could love any other man as I love you."
Slowly, she allowed herself to breathe. He was there still. She dwelt on the firmness of his chest as his strong fingers cradled hers against it. She felt his grip on her tighten as he lifted her hand to his lips. She dared not look up lest she awaken from this dream.
"And to think this all came about because Jane Fairfax fancied a walk." Her voice was airy and her tone distracted as she finally opened her eyes. She had not meant to say the words aloud.
"No doubt she had an assignation with Churchill that morning. I, for one, am glad she did, though I imagine Miss Bates was eloquent on the subject of why it would have been much better had she stayed at home. 'Her constitution is so delicate.'" He said the last part with such accuracy of pitch that Emma choked with laughter.
"Mr. Knightley! I did not know you stooped so low as to mock your neighbours! Had I done such a thing, I am sure you would have censured me."
"Emma, will you not call me George?"
"No, Mr. Knightley, I will not. At least not until..."
"Until what?"
"Until...what I mean is, unless I am required to do so in a certain ceremony in Highbury Church."
"Emma!" His eyes lit up as he imagined them joined together as man and wife. He already possessed the perfect ring for her, a family heirloom passed down to him by a beloved aunt. He would bring it tomorrow and propose to her properly.
Just then they heard the sounds of Mr. Perry's carriage being readied. Emma stood. Knightley, understanding, relinquished her to the duties that bound her to Hartfield, duties they soon would share, and in such a frame of mind prepared to sit a while with her father before taking his leave.
Dear Fitzwilliam,
I imagine you and my new sister thoroughly enjoyed your tour of the Lakes, as I have not had one line from you since before your wedding. I will not ask you to describe to me all of its beauties for I doubt your attention wandered from Elizabeth long enough to allow you any real awareness of your surroundings. See how easy it is for me to say such things when you are too far away to exact revenge?
My teasing is done, and now I must be serious. Anne and I have had a delightful stay with our uncle and aunt thus far. I do look forward to going home, however, and beg a favour of you. Considering the state of affairs between Pemberley and Rosings, you may not like my request, but I will be brave. May I invite Anne to join me when I return home in August? She has written to her mother several times, but Lady Catherine has not responded to any of her letters. Anne knows she must return to Kent eventually and has told me she wishes I could go with her, but that seems impossible. I thought that while I might not accompany her to Rosings, perhaps she might accompany me to Pemberley, if you and Elizabeth have no objection. Please write, when you can spare a few minutes from your wife to think of your sister, and please say yes!
Affectionately,
Georgiana
Dear Lizzy,
I hope you and Mr. Darcy are well. No, that will not do. Dearest Lizzy, I hope you are as outrageously happy in marriage as I am! That is much better. Charles and I had such a lovely time at the seaside, very lovely but much too short. I should like to return someday, though I am quite curious about your trip to the Lakes. Perhaps Charles and I should travel north on our next holiday.
Are you settling in well at Pemberley? Is it as grand as Mama has assured all our neighbours it is? I understand from Charles that the grounds are extensive, which is fortunate considering your preference for the outdoors. I am sure your new home is very beautiful and I look forward to seeing it, and you and my new brother and sister, of course, at Christmas.
I do not know whether you have had a letter from Mama yet, though with all the time she has been spending at Netherfield I would be surprised if she has found opportunity to write. I do not exaggerate when I say I have received her in my drawing room every day since my return to Hertfordshire. You may wonder how we are faring only three miles from Longbourn, as you expressed your concerns on that head before the wedding. I freely admit these first weeks have been something of a trial in that regard, but Charles took the situation in hand just this morning. Now we are to meet only twice a week for dinner, once at Longbourn and once at Netherfield. And it is all my husband's doing! He had a talk with Mama while Kitty and I took the carriage into Meryton, and when we returned it was all settled between them. Kitty is very well, by the way, and much better company when removed from Lydia's influence.
I daresay that when the Hursts and Caroline return from Scarborough, they shall find a very different brother in residence here. Charles is so sure of himself now, and I am reaping the benefits. I have every confidence that certain aspects of domestic life will be smoother than I anticipated just one month ago.
There is more I could write, although to say the truth, I wish to find my dear husband and take advantage of the sudden leisure occasioned by Mama's hasty departure. I shall write more in my next. But, as Mrs. Forster told Lydia the day before the militia left for Brighton, "Married women have never much time for writing." Who would have thought I would find reason to quote Mrs. Forster? I do recall the strangest things at times.
We are old married women, Lizzy! Can you believe it?
Your matronly sister,
Jane Bingley
"I cannot leave him." She knew his footfall. She knew he would find her.
"And I cannot bear to part the two of you."
For the second consecutive day since his return from London, he sought her out. He had come early, eager to renew the subject of love now that they agreed on it at last, and found her alone in the parlour where he had sat for her months ago. She was hunched over a paper which he recognised immediately as the one bearing his image.
Each had spent a sleepless night. Each had arrived at the necessary sacrifice. Only one was satisfied.
Mr. Knightley pulled out a gold ring set with diamonds and emeralds. He knelt in front of Miss Woodhouse and lovingly but succinctly proposed marriage to her, which she accepted. ('My dear Emma, marry me.' 'Yes, of course.') He slipped the ring on her finger.
"I can consent," she cautioned him while twirling her new ring around and around, "to no more than an engagement, as long as he...that is, until such time as...I cannot say it." Her breath, gaze, hands - all were unsteady.
"Emma, hear me out." He sat beside her and removed the portrait from her lap. Then he stroked the backs of her hands to calm her. "Your father needs you at Hartfield for his comfort. No one understands that better than I. But I have a proposition, which I hope you will like. I do believe you once had a room set aside in this spacious house for a Miss Smith. Perhaps you might be persuaded - for entirely different reasons, of course, and on a more permanent basis - to do the same for an old friend, if he were to ask you with the proper inflection, and flatter you with many pretty phrases. He does have a singular request, however, if he may be so bold: that you procure him a chamber close to your own. Quite close. Might he be so audacious as to beg an adjoining room?"
The animation and delight in his eyes were contagious. Emma felt herself the luckiest woman in England as she grasped his meaning. "You would give up Donwell Abbey and live here?"
"Not give up the Abbey. But I would not wish to spend my nights there if you do not."
"Father will not like it at first, but he will give way. He will see that your extraordinary generosity is beyond that of any other man."
"Your father will not like me when he hears."
"But he will hear. And he will consent. I will not allow it to be otherwise! We shall have all on our side: Isabella, John - though my brother will say you are far better than I deserve, he will not refuse to forward our cause. And Mrs. Weston too shall do her utmost to convince Papa. Surely within a few months it shall be accomplished. Oh!" She leapt to her feet. Dread gone, banished, and in its place inconceivable lightness... "Mr. Knightley!" She looked deeply into the eyes of this man she had known and loved all her life. "You are brilliant, and so good. Too good. Your kind, compassionate heart has helped me out of all my difficulties. How I could kiss you!"
He stood and pulled her to him until their faces were inches apart. "Then do, dearest." His voice sounded strangely coarse and mesmerising in its urgency. He edged closer until the tips of their noses touched. "By all means, do."
Neither was certain just who leaned towards whom as their lips met for the first time.
Dear Georgiana,
You have grown bold and impertinent, I see. Apparently my lovely wife has influenced you to some degree, and perhaps Anne has had a hand in it as well. I dare not believe our aunt encouraged you to address your elder brother in that manner. Still, I shall exact my revenge when you least expect it, the distance between us notwithstanding. And, yes, I do recall something of my travels, though perhaps I will ignore your questions on the subject unless I receive a full apology, complete with grovelling.
Elizabeth and I have discussed your request and see no reason Anne may not join you here next month. I am grieved that Lady Catherine persists in her unjust treatment of her daughter, but I am very happy Anne has found a friend in you, dearest. Tell our cousin she is welcome here, and leave it to me to inform Lady Catherine of her plans.
Elizabeth sends her love. She and I both look forward to seeing you and Anne at Pemberley three weeks hence.
Sincerely,
FD
Fitzwilliam Darcy sealed the letter, wrote the direction, and placed it atop a large pile of correspondence ready for the post. Then he left the study in search of his wife.
Dear Jane,
How delightful to receive a letter from you! We have just returned from the Lakes. The scenery there is too breathtaking to describe on paper. I believe you and Charles would do well to make a similar journey. For your first anniversary, perhaps?
But truly, what has happened to my angelic eldest sister? Has married life so altered you? It seems to have done wonders for Mr. Bingley, and he was very nearly perfect before! I am glad, relieved even, that my brother is protective of you and unwilling to please all and sundry at the expense of your domestic comfort. He is smart enough to know what a treasure he has in his wife. Do not disclaim, dearest Jane! I can hear your protests all the way in Derbyshire and I assure you I shall not heed them.
Darcy and I are very happy. I am happier than I deserve and laugh every day at my good fortune. Georgiana is to join us in a few weeks and Anne with her. Aunt Gardiner has written to say that their trip must be both postponed and shortened due to my uncle's business, so they will tour Derbyshire and conclude their journey with a visit to Lambton. I shall invite them to stay at Pemberley, of course. So you see we shall be a lively family party! The only thing I could wish is to have you with us, or at least within easy visiting distance. Unless you have changed your mind and wish to stay on at Netherfield beyond next summer, do you think you might find a suitable estate a little closer to Pemberley? Do say you and Mr. Bingley will have a look at the properties in the area when you are here for Christmas, as the weather allows. Darcy has been making inquiries ever since Mr. Bingley mentioned his plans to him.
Elizabeth stopped and read what she had just written. "Oh, if Jane and Charles would only come to Derbyshire!" She again put pen to paper.
There is much to be done now that I am home, and much to learn about running this vast estate. I shall have a thorough discussion with the housekeeper this afternoon. Darcy is shut up in his study today and likely will be tomorrow as well. It is the price of being absent from home for so long, he says. Do tell Mama at your next weekly dinner that she is quite correct regarding Pemberley. It is very grand. If it were not so comfortable it might appear daunting. When she sees it for herself she will be in raptures.
"My dear, here you are." The voice came from the direction of the door.
"Fitzwilliam Darcy!" She hastily put down her pen. "You startled me!"
"It was not my intention, I assure you." He walked up to her, leaned down and placed a kiss on the nape of her neck.
"I am writing to Jane. Her letter came just this morning. Is it not lovely that both our sisters have written us?" She turned to look at him. "Charles has made her so happy, Darcy. And you will not believe what he has done about Mama! You will have to read the letter yourself."
"Another time, my love. At the moment I am most agreeably engaged in a pressing matter of business. Do convey my regards, however." He nuzzled his way from her cheek to her smiling lips.
She pulled back after a long kiss. "As delighted as I am with your 'business,' I had better finish this letter now, while I can, before your conscientious efforts strip me of all sense."
"As you wish." He returned to his position behind her chair and caressed her as he had done one spring day in Kent. This time he did not speak, the better to allow her to complete her task, but his mouth nevertheless remained very close to her ear and eloquently communicated his love for her.
Elizabeth's penmanship was not up to her usual standard as she completed the letter to Jane. In fact, there were quite as many blots as to make it suspiciously like one of Bingley's better examples.
Give my {blot} love to Mr. Bingley and all our family. My dear Darcy has {blot} escaped his study and just walked into the room - you see I have not forgotten how you teased me all {blot} those weeks ago at Aunt Gardiner's, but now I can openly and most happily call him mine! My Darcy sends you {blot} {blot}
"Darcy! You are incorrigible!"
"Shall I stop?"
"Mmmm. No, indeed, Fitzwilliam. I am nearly done. Now, where was I?"
and your Charles all the love in the world that he can spare from me. And now I {blot} must go!
Sincerely,
EBD{blot}
Chapter Fifteen
"And you, Parker?"
"No more for me. Wickham here is the lucky one tonight."
"A good thing, too, for lately his luck has been running a little low, would not you say, Wickham?"
Was that last voice Denny's? Wickham thought so. Looking in the direction of the sound did not help, for he was beginning to see two of everyone. He decided he had better pull out of the game and get back to his quarters.
He was oblivious to the glowers from the men at his table as he pocketed the modest winnings. At one occasion or another he had borrowed money from them all and they knew it would be a long time before they saw any of it again. They rarely played at cards with Wickham these days, and only did so in hopes of regaining a fraction of what was owed them. To see him walk away even a little richer, intoxicated as he was, particularly galled them.
Wickham missed the innkeeper's disgusted glance as he left without offering a single coin in payment for what he had consumed. The man made no move to stop him, instead silently adding the new amount to the soldier's considerable debt before turning back to his other guests.
Wickham felt rather than saw the door as it swung open and narrowly missed his head. It caught him on the shoulder but he quickly recovered and managed to exit the inn on two feet. The heavy door closed behind him so he never heard Johnson's bitter remark, which was met by hearty agreement from his companions and blossomed into an animated discussion involving, of all things, the exceedingly bad combination of Wickham and money.
He did not recognise either of the two men with whom he collided as he made his way down the dark streets of Brighton, though the identity of one, at least, was well known to him, and that one was headed to the very establishment from whence he had come.
Somehow he arrived at the correct building and ascended the stairs to his room, for the next thing he knew he was in bed with his boots still on. He wished to remove them but sitting upright required too great an effort.
His head hurt abominably. He closed his eyes and opened them, and it was light. The brightness made him squint.
Slowly he felt for the sheets under him and his hand skirted the grass. Apparently someone had dropped him in the middle of a meadow. He heard voices, none familiar, and saw a pretty lady on the arm of a man who appeared besotted with her. The lady turned and gasped when she noticed him. "It was not you after all, Robert! I knew it! You never would have said such horrible things to me."
Little red circles dotted the landscape. Strawberries. His stomach churned at the thought of food.
He heard another lady's voice, not as pleasing as the first.
"Mr. E.! There you are. Get up, you lazy thing! You are not to sleep while the rest of us are hard at work. Come, hold this while I do the picking." She grasped his hand and pressed him into service before he could protest, thrusting the large basket at him and pulling him along behind her at such a pace that he tripped over his own feet.
He heard only pieces of her monologue: "Best fruit in England - everyone's favourite - always wholesome. - Delightful to gather for oneself - the only way, really. - Morning the perfect time - Are you coming or not?" The last shook him out of his fascination with the constant bobbing of her bonnet's wide brim. He tried to keep up with all the rushing, bending and stooping, but his legs felt wooden. The lady rambled on. "Never tire of it - infinitely superior - price of strawberries in London - abundance about Bristol - Maple Grove - gardeners have their own opinions - delicious fruit, but rather rich - cherries better - perhaps currants - too much stooping in this heat - sun so strong - weary - must rest in the shade."
They went on and on in search of the perfect spot in which to recline, moving farther away from the large, rambling house beyond the fields. They found the ideal location already occupied, but a few words from the lady remedied that. Whatever she said sent the handsome couple scurrying off, no doubt eager to avoid such a commentary as he had been forced to hear.
The brash woman pulled him down and stared at him openly, her eyes growing wider and her expression approaching the ridiculous. "You do not look like Mr. E.! Why ever not?" She grabbed his chin and turned his face this way, then that. "You are more handsome, though Mr. E. is quite an attractive man. My friends say I am not entirely devoid of attractions myself, what with my ten thousand pounds or thereabouts - it is surely what caught the attention of my caro sposo. Ten thousand pounds is what you require, yes? Though perhaps you are unlikely to resist the opportunity of having a companion, whether she is rich or not. But the money - will it be enough?" She narrowed her eyes. "You are not a gamester, are you? I have a vast dislike of gamesters. They were never tolerated at Maple Grove."
She released his chin and he rubbed it. As he tried to stand, his legs collapsed under him and he groaned.
"Oh! Mr. E., do you think - my word, I forgot you are not Mr. E. at all! But I don't know what else to call you."
Her smile left him cold. How was he to escape this woman? "You never answered me," he heard her saying. "Will the money be enough? Will it be enough? Enough?" The words echoed and jumbled together until he thought his head would burst.
He struggled to get up and reached for anything to support his weakened frame. He gripped the edge of a bed in one hand and a pillow in the other, and realised where he was. "Ah, a dream, then." Recalling the vulgar woman's last words, he no longer wondered at them. "Will the money be enough?" He shook his head, instantly regretting the small movement as pain coursed through him. "The money is never enough."
He forced himself out of bed. Gingerly stepping over the various items strewn across the floor, he halted in front of the looking-glass. Normally he was not so untidy but the last few weeks had been difficult. At the moment he looked as though he had not slept for three days. That blasted dream. How much did I drink last night?
He had come to Brighton with very little, and now he had even less. His soldier's pay seemed to disappear like the morning dew. And after what he had overheard yesterday, he was going to have to forfeit his position as the colonel's favourite. Or Mrs. Forster's favourite, to be precise. In fact, it was expedient that he forfeit his position in the regiment altogether.
After supper he had heard Mrs. Forster inquiring about him, and he had turned to approach her when her husband unceremoniously cut her off with some mention of what he had just discovered from his acquaintances in Meryton. He had had to strain to hear the man's words, as the couple sat apart from the others, and he did not wish to be seen until he had heard all. That which reached his ears convinced him to remain undetected. It appeared his debts to Meryton's merchants had been paid by some kindhearted fool, probably Darcy. Nevertheless, troubles remained: debts of honour, a theft, and unsavoury rumours involving a servant girl lately too ill in the mornings to go about her usual work in the kitchen.
How had the colonel come by this news? Wickham had expected something like this when the militia first removed to Brighton, but the month of June passed without incident, and he forgot the danger long enough to revert to his old habits. Had he been incautious and let something slip to Mrs. Forster? His mounting debts and difficulties here were sufficiently ominous without his past coming back to haunt him.
He searched the room for something he could sell, a frustrating task as there was not much of value still in his possession. Afterwards he shaved and dressed in plain clothes and secured his knife and pistol on his person. He counted his money. It would be enough to get him to London but not beyond. He checked his watch. The others were at morning drills by now. His absence would be noticed, but no one was likely to seek him out for another two hours at least. He gathered his essential belongings into a satchel. It was wisest to be prepared in case there was no opportunity to return to the room.
The morning was his favourite time of day. He was at his sharpest then. Or so he had been, when he was younger. Morning the perfect time... Was that from the dream? He could not remember.
He felt a twinge of dread as he closed and locked the door behind him. He quickly descended the stairs when he perceived movement in the passageway. He walked faster when he heard the footsteps just above him. He was panting as he reached the street and saw the crowd gathered there. He swallowed as he looked into the stern eyes of Colonel Forster.
"Wickham."
"Colonel Forster, Sir."
"I have much to say to you. I would have told you last night when you almost knocked me down in the road, but I am glad I refrained. It gave me the chance to gather some very useful information. I also wanted to be certain you were good and sober when I did speak to you."
Wickham handed over his belongings and his weapons at the colonel's request. Two fellow officers escorted him, one holding fast to each arm, as Colonel Forster walked alongside and enumerated the charges against him. The onlookers followed at a distance. It did appear to Wickham that he was not going to need the money for the post chaise after all. He wished he could spend some of it on one last drink before they took him away.
That night, Mrs. Forster wrote a very long, very detailed letter to her good friend Lydia Bennet and posted it the following morning. It was much too full of lines under the words to be made public. Nevertheless, within a week of its receipt there were few in Meryton who were not privy to its contents.
For the remainder of his days Mr. George Wickham displayed a marked preference for the evening hours.
Miss Woodhouse and Mrs. Weston sat cheerfully in the same drawing room at Randalls that lately had been the scene of so many difficult disclosures. A fortnight ago as they took tea there Mrs. Weston began the change by informing Emma that she was with child. On this particular day, after sufficient questions and answers regarding her health, she turned the discussion to Frank's wedding, which was to occur at the end of the week.
"I have not told you the latest news from Enscombe. It appears we will not be hosting the Churchills after all."
"What, have they some other acquaintance in the area?" Emma wondered whom else the Churchills might know when another possibility occurred to her. "Surely they cannot still find fault with Mr. Weston after caring for his son these many years?"
"No, nothing like that. Frank received an express today. Mrs. Churchill is quite unwell, too ill to attend the wedding, in fact."
Emma frowned as she selected a biscuit. "Are you sure it is not an excuse, designed to show her true opinion of the match?"
"Emma, you are hard on her! I know this is Mrs. Churchill we are talking of, but Frank assures me she is truly ill. The situation is so serious that Mr. Churchill wishes Frank and Jane to proceed directly to Enscombe after the wedding breakfast and remain at least a week there before going on holiday. He will come to the ceremony himself if he can be spared from the sickroom, though it does not seem likely."
"How unfortunate! I am sorry to hear it. But what a sacrifice for the couple after all they have suffered already, to spend their first days together tending an ailing aunt." Emma immediately thought of the greater sacrifice her own betrothed would soon make by taking up residence at Hartfield. "It is a good thing that Miss Fairfax is a generous sort. There are many ladies who would not be so tolerant of Mrs. Churchill's demands on their suitor, even if some are due to legitimate illness."
"And good thing that Mr. Knightley is a generous sort as well, is that not what you are thinking, Emma?"
"Indeed." She smiled and sipped her tea.
The wedding was a grand affair. Lace, satin, silk, spring flowers of several varieties - clearly Mr. Frank Churchill, who assumed the cost for the whole, including his bride's lovely gown and new gowns as well for Miss Bates and her mother, had spared no expense. Emma wondered if this lavish display was an attempt to make amends for all that Miss Fairfax had endured for his sake.
The idea of a ball at the Crown was not completely forgotten amidst the excitement. A few weeks before the ceremony, Mr. Weston, finally convinced of the insufficiency of his dining parlour for the purpose, had declared the public rooms of the inn the ideal size for his son's wedding breakfast.
Not even Mr. Woodhouse complained of a chill on this temperate April morning, and had he been disposed to be unreasonable in that regard, the foresight of Mrs. Cole would have prevented it. Mr. and Mrs. Cole had purchased a screen some months prior in the vain hope that Mr. Woodhouse would venture out to their dinner party and make use of it. It stood neglected in a corner of their sitting room until the day before the wedding. Mrs. Cole recalled its existence and inquired of Mrs. Weston whether she ought to have Mr. Cole bring it to the inn, a suggestion which was received with grateful commendation. In addition to keeping cooler air from intruding, the screen also served another useful purpose: it was fortuitously situated so as to obscure Mr. Woodhouse's view of the wedding cake.
After everyone had eaten, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Churchill led the dancing. They were followed by Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse, Mr. and Mrs. Elton, Mr. and Mrs. Martin, and several other couples. Mr. Weston stood off to the side with his wife, whose delicate condition disinclined her to dance.
"You look lovely, Emma." Knightley openly admired her as they took their places.
"Why, thank you, Mr. Knightley."
"You do realize I have not given up my quest to induce you to address me in a less formal manner?"
"A wedding is a formal occasion, sir."
"True. I will not argue with you today. Besides, I have something much more agreeable to discuss."
The music commenced, and they continued to talk as the demands of the dance permitted. "As you know," said Knightley, "John and Isabella leave today, but they have agreed to return in a little over three weeks' time to stay with your father for a fortnight. If we marry soon after their return, that would give us opportunity for a holiday. Do you think you can arrange everything by then?"
"I believe so. Though we had not set an exact date, I took the liberty of discussing my gown with Mrs. Anderson, and Isabella was so kind as to bring me a sample of fabric from town. It is the perfect shade." She held out her hand to him as they turned. "I will have to work quickly, though. There is the matter of the breakfast..."
"...which we shall have at the Abbey. I insist, my dear."
"Then I thank you. My father will tolerate that much better."
"His comfort was my foremost consideration, I assure you." A secondary incentive was the opportunity to look upon Emma sitting across from him at his own table on her first day as Mrs. Knightley, knowing that she was not to return that night to her father's house.
Emma watched the new Mrs. Churchill talking with her husband. Soon her turn would come. Until that time, she thought, there was much to be done. "So much to be done," she repeated aloud.
"Emma?" Knightley waited until he had caught her eye. "You are the most capable woman I know. I have every confidence in you."
She blushed at the unqualified compliment. "Thank you, sir."
Highbury celebrated well into the afternoon, but the bride and groom departed as early as they could without giving offence. The travellers slept one night on the road, and upon arriving at Enscombe the following evening they found the elder Mrs. Churchill worse than expected. Her husband had stationed himself in her room and seldom left it. During the few occasions that he did, Jane Churchill began one of her earliest duties as the future Mistress of Enscombe, that of taking her turn at the bedside of the patient.
Frank and Jane did not embark on their wedding journey as soon as they had hoped. The delay was caused by Mrs. Churchill's death, an event which most decidedly put to rest all speculation as to the validity of her claims to ill health. Though occurring only eight days after the wedding, the doctor assured the family that Mrs. Churchill's demise by no means resulted from the excitement surrounding her nephew's nuptials. He had expected the blow for many months now; he was surprised that Mrs. Churchill had lingered as long as she had.
The newly married couple would spend the following three months at Enscombe in deep mourning. Afterwards they would holiday in Weymouth and from there journey to Randalls and remain through Mrs. Weston's lying-in, giving Jane the welcome opportunity to be of use to the woman who had been so supportive of her in the last months and to learn what to expect when the time came for her own induction into motherhood.
Chapter Sixteen
"Are you quite packed, Anne? It is still morning!" Georgiana poked her head out of her room and her eyes followed her cousin as she approached the stairs.
"I finished ages ago, Georgiana. I have far fewer gowns than you." She grinned at the young girl's sulky expression. "I believe Cousin Darcy spoils you."
"Perhaps he does." She smiled at the prospect of being at Pemberley again. She and Anne had promised each other they would complete the bulk of their preparations the day before they were to leave so they might spend that last afternoon touring their uncle's grounds. The foliage was so beautiful in midsummer. "I dare say I shall be done in a moment."
"I shall await you in the gardens, then." Anne knew from experience that Georgiana's 'moment' easily might stretch into an hour. She thought to offer assistance but decided against it. She would only be in the way. Surely Georgiana and her maid would accomplish the task more quickly in her absence. Besides, the outdoors beckoned. Her aunt's garden boasted a marvelous variety of bright-coloured roses.
Anne wandered among the rows of blossoms, lost in their beauty and scent. She moved slowly, savouring the impressions and preserving them against her eventual return to Kent. Her mother was being impossible at the moment, but she imagined that soon enough Lady Catherine would summon her home as though there had never been a breach and expect her to behave as though nothing at all had changed. She, however, knew she was not the same Anne who had left Rosings in the spring and would never be again.
"Oh." A carriage stood in the drive. She was certain no one had been announced. She walked closer until she spotted Colonel Fitzwilliam escorting a stranger on one of the paths.
"Who is that young lady, and what is she doing with my cousin?"
"She is my sister Frances, and I believe she is gazing adoringly into his eyes, as she has been inclined to do ever since they met two months ago."
At the sound of another voice Anne had covered her mouth to stifle a squeak. She turned towards the gentleman. "I did not know anyone was there!"
"Yes, I am."
"You are...?"
"Yes." He smiled.
Was he not going to introduce himself? This was rather awkward. She spoke timidly. "I am afraid I do not know your name, Sir."
"Frederick." He hardly knew what she said or how he answered. He was too busy determining the exact colour of her eyes. The young lady had to be either Miss Darcy or Miss de Bourgh. He could not recall which cousin of the Colonel's was sixteen and which was the elder one, the one Fitzwilliam had boasted of particularly. This young lady seemed about his age, four and twenty, give or take a year.
Anne stared. First this 'Frederick' startled her. Then he told her his given name and nothing else, though obviously he was a gentleman. Was the man witless or shockingly improper? He did not look like a rake, though how was she to know what a rake looked like? No rake, nor any other sort of man, had shown an interest in her of that sort. Did he even look like a Frederick? She was not sure of that either, but of one thing she was certain and she told him so. "I am afraid I cannot call you that, Sir. We are not even acquainted."
The gentleman quickly came to his senses. "A circumstance which must be remedied, as we have already begun to converse. If it requires that I reveal my name, so be it." He sighed then drew up to his full height and said in a haughty tone, "I am Frederick Gregory Hubert Oswald Van Townsend." He concluded with a stiff bow. Duty performed, his shoulders and the lines of his mouth relaxed. "Now do you see why I introduced myself as simply Frederick?"
Anne giggled; she could not help it. It was not only what he had said, but his expression amused her as well. "It is not so bad. I have heard worse names, though perhaps not a longer one." She curtseyed. "I am Anne Cecilia de Bourgh, Mr. Van Townsend."
"Ah, yes." Definitely blue-green, he decided. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss de Bourgh. Still, I wish I were a Frederick Guilford, or Frederick Thomas Brandon, or some other reasonable name." He turned to watch his sister's and Colonel Fitzwilliam's progress. "Lucky Fran; she, at least, may call herself something else when she marries. But then she was not laden with a plethora of monikers by our ambitious mother. She is only Frances Maria."
"We do what we can with what we are given." A name was something over which one had no control. It was best not to regret it too severely as one was destined to hear it forever repeated during one's lifetime. "Besides, the nature of the man bearing the name is of greater import."
"You are right, as a lady often is."
"So you do not believe a lady is always right?" She suppressed a grin. Her mother surely would not approve of him in that case.
"No," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "However, I do believe that a gentleman should always admit when a lady is right."
She nodded her acknowledgment. He is...hmm...not unpleasant company. Despite his odd behaviour he must be safe, at least, for he had come with Fitzwilliam. Anne was unused to drawing others out but she wanted to keep his attention. "So, how came you to know my cousin? Or would you rather enlighten me as to the connection between a 'plethora of monikers' and an 'ambitious mother?'"
"I will tell you both, if you like. Shall we?" he asked, gesturing towards the front of the house. They began to walk together. "I am in the colonel's regiment," he continued, "despite my current lack of regimentals. Fate of the younger son and all that. Otherwise I should have liked to have had a hand at managing the estate. My mother is too ill to see to it, and my brother has no interest at all. He only cares for sport when he is in the country and leaves all matters of business to his steward."
"I hope your family home is well run in any case."
"Fortunately it is. As to your second question, my mother disliked the notion that I should have to make my own way in the world. Her family was well off but somewhat lacking in heirs. 'Frederick' was her choice and Gregory was my father, but she called me Hubert after her uncle and Oswald after her elder brother in hopes that one of them might be kind to me in his will."
"And did it work?" She hoped she was not being too inquisitive.
"Yes."
"Which one made you his heir?"
"Both did." Her look of surprise made those pretty eyes appear larger. Her face seemed a little thin, as if she had just recovered from an illness, but overall he found it quite appealing. "My great uncle Hubert died last year and left me a substantial sum. I suppose I could retire but I like to be useful, and our encampment is a convenient distance from my home, so I have remained with the regulars. On the other hand, my Uncle Harrison - Oswald - I hope may live many years yet. He is a wonderful old codger!" He smiled at the memory of their last meeting. "It will be a bittersweet day when I step into that beautiful property of his."
"I believe I understand a little how you feel. I cannot imagine desiring my mother's death so that I can take her place in our family home." Even now that they were at odds, she knew she still loved her mother deeply.
No, you do not appear to be the grasping sort. How refreshing. So many young ladies of his acquaintance were overly curious about his prospects and not afraid to show it. By this point in his narrative, most of them would have been ogling him with undisguised greed and wishing his Uncle Harrison a very short life. "And is your home near your cousin's?"
"No, I reside in Hunsford, Kent, at Rosings Park."
"I am somewhat familiar with Kent and have heard of Rosings Park. You must live not very far from my Uncle Harrison at Thistledown Manor. Fifteen, perhaps twenty miles, I would think."
"I am sure I have heard my mother speak of that estate...Oh, yes, I remember! She said the proprietor was..." Anne stopped, for she could not in good conscience continue. Her mother had told her years ago that Thistledown Manor was owned by a lonely, taciturn man with odd ways and no male descendants. Lady Catherine detested, sight unseen, the distant relative who would inherit the impressive estate and have the ability to toss his cousins from the house if he so desired. She claimed the idea of women losing their ancestral home because they had no male siblings was both unfeeling and impractical. A man might choose a profession, after all, while a lady had very limited options if she did not marry. That Sir Lewis de Bourgh's sole nephew was a profligate added fervour to his wife's persuasive efforts with him in this regard, and the result was that upon his death neither Lady Catherine nor Anne had to worry about being forced to give up her home.
"Many people have said many things about my uncle. Do not fear offending me." He continued to observe her thoughtful demeanour. "I am sure much has been said about me as well. But neither of my two cousins resents her father's generosity, which is the important thing. Both are married, very well I might add. They inherited their own ample fortunes from their mother and prefer town to the place where they were raised."
Anne blushed. He had understood what she could not bring herself to say. "I am happy for you that things are settled so pleasantly."
"Are you indeed happy for me?" He held her eyes a long time and finally looked away to see Fran and the colonel approaching.
"Anne! I see you have met Captain Van Townsend. May I introduce you to his sister?" The colonel did so and the ladies exchanged greetings. "You may be surprised to see me, Anne. Mother and Father certainly shall be. I had a letter from Mother last week, so I knew you and Georgiana would be leaving tomorrow. As it turns out I have army business which will take me within ten miles of Pemberley, and I wish to consult with Darcy on a personal matter as well." His eyes strayed to the lady at his side. "I thought to accompany you tomorrow."
"That would be most welcome. Will you stay at Pemberley, at least for a day or two?"
"More like the better part of three weeks. It will be either that or the inn at Lambton - I believe that is the nearest public lodging to my destination. I sent Darcy an express this morning. Do you think that he and Elizabeth will have us on such short notice?"
"Fitzwilliam," she said, smiling, "you know they will be delighted to see you, as always, and I have already been granted permission to come, of course."
Colonel Fitzwilliam looked puzzled for a moment then smiled as well. "Anne, when I said 'us' I-"
"This is a lovely house, Fran, do you not think so?" The captain's voice was loud but not unusually so as he directed the comment to his sister.
Instead of reprimanding his subordinate for the interruption, the colonel thanked him and recalled his manners. "You must be fatigued, Miss Van Townsend, and in need of refreshment. Let us not linger here."
The foursome walked inside and the colonel sent a servant for his parents. Anne felt the heat more than usual as they sat down to wait. She saw Van Townsend's eyes often fixed on her and wondered how red her face appeared under his scrutiny.
Anne's uncle had left the house early and was expected back late, but her aunt soon made her appearance. The colonel stepped forward, his manner somewhat agitated though infused with excitement as he greeted his mother and introduced his friends to her. Anne concluded from the interaction of all parties that Frances Van Townsend might well be calling herself by another name in the near future. At a convenient moment she went to fetch Georgiana, who was still in her rooms. When she returned with her young cousin, she was pleased to see that while the captain paid due notice to the newcomer, his eyes quickly returned to her and settled there.
They all sat down to tea at the invitation of their hostess. The colonel and his mother conversed with Miss Van Townsend on one side of the room, and Anne spoke with her brother on the other. Georgiana, still rather shy in company, sat near Anne and was mostly silent. They talked of travel. Anne had experienced little and the captain much, so she was happy to listen to his accounts and smile at his anecdotes. And she was content as well to admire his pleasing face and figure. After half an hour or so, the visitors rose to leave and the colonel with them. The colonel's mother took her son aside for a private word. Fitzwilliam asked his cousins to escort his friends into the garden while they waited for him.
Anne walked back to the roses and the others followed. The prospect was lovely and the atmosphere of the party expectant and surprisingly intimate. Anne treasured the feeling and thought this quite possibly one of the sweetest days she had ever lived.
At length Colonel Fitzwilliam emerged from the house and motioned for the others to join him.
"We shall see you tomorrow, then, bright and early," Anne heard her new acquaintance say to her as they reached the carriage.
"We?" The question was out before she could stop her mouth.
"Yes, Anne." The colonel turned to her. "Van Townsend and I. I have taken him with me on various assignments in the past year or so, and I often send him alone when I cannot be spared from other duties. He is young yet, but he has proven more useful than some of his superiors, even, in certain situations. Excellent instincts. A good man." He patted the officer on the back before handing Miss Van Townsend into the carriage.
The captain seemed amused by Anne's reaction. "Did I not mention to you that I am to accompany the colonel on his business?" He knew he had not.
"Of the many things you did tell me, you know very well you said nothing of the sort, I am sure." She lowered her head and wondered at her impertinence, though she did not have to wonder this time if her cheeks were flushed.
"Quite right." Frederick leaned closer to her ear and inquired in her hearing alone, "But would you object to my company on your journey, Miss de Bourgh, and thereafter?"
"Not at all, Sir," was her whispered reply, but he heard it clearly. "Not at all."
Mr. Woodhouse eventually softened in his opinions regarding marriage, to the great joy of his family and friends. It was inevitable that if his views changed they would do so for the better, for never before was a man so assiduously set against that ancient institution, despite having partaken of its pleasures quite willingly in his time. But man's memory tends to be selective, and that can work to his advantage as easily as to his detriment.
The alteration commenced at the Churchills' wedding breakfast where Mr. Woodhouse was so well entertained by Miss Bates' lively conversation, so completely enchanted by her expressions of sincere happiness in the match and all its resulting benefits for her dear Jane, that he did not have the heart to disillusion her. He mentioned not a word of how lonely she must now be with only her mother for company, and instead was struck with the gallant idea of inviting her and Mrs. Bates to Hartfield more frequently to make amends for the loss of poor Miss Fairfax. So preoccupied was he with these thoughts that he could recall little else of the celebration when he arrived home that evening. He remembered not the color of the bride's gown (a lovely pale peach that complemented her exquisite complexion perfectly), nor whether he had spoken to Perry (he had, of course), nor even that William Cox must be suffering a stomach complaint of prodigious proportions from all that rich food (in spite of the fact that the young man had looked Mr. Woodhouse directly in the eye as he stuffed a rather large piece of wedding cake in his mouth, smiled, and washed it down with a full glass of wine).
Mrs. John Knightley had no small part in the transformation of her father's thinking. Mr. Woodhouse always delighted in seeing his eldest daughter, and he was forced to concede that a wedding must not be so great an evil if it brought Isabella and her children to Hartfield when they otherwise would not come. The prospect of seeing them all again in less than a month for Emma's wedding gave him reason to look more kindly on the event than he had done upon first hearing of it.
By the time that momentous May morning arrived, Mr. Woodhouse was in such high spirits that he quite looked forward to walking Emma down the aisle of Highbury Church. He performed his role flawlessly and took his seat with pride. As he observed the ceremony, he silently congratulated himself on his success in getting his youngest daughter advantageously married while ensuring that once all the wedding business was over, the three of them - Emma, Mr. Knightley and he - would go on much as they had before. It was perhaps fortunate that no one thought to question him on the subject, for the truth was that if anyone had, he could not have explained to a single soul how he had done it.
Epilogue
"Here - this is where I was when I saw the boy. And this is the path that led to the hill." Emma was walking out with her husband and had just told him of that fateful morning in the woods some eight months before. On this, of all days, she wanted him to see the place where it began.
Knightley noticed a flowering bush off to the right and a narrow trail that ended, not many paces ahead, at the base of a large tree. He held Emma's hand and they walked up to the wide trunk, stepping carefully over the roots.
"I wish I could explain it, Emma. I believe you, but I can make no more sense of it than you can."
"I was not expecting you to. I am just glad you are with me. I was afraid to come here alone again, but I knew I must come."
He brushed her cheek with his hand. "You are so brave. I am proud of you for confronting your fears."
"You do not think me silly, or mad?"
"Of course not! Though I see why you could tell no one else." Mr. Woodhouse would not have dealt at all well with such a revelation.
Emma stared into the distance, a wistfulness spreading over her features. "The boy had golden hair and the sweetest eyes - they were brown with a bit of green in them."
"He sounds like he could have been your own, from that description." The setting sun provided a splendid background for her lovely face.
"If I had my own, our own, that is, what would you name him?" She turned to face Mr. Knightley. "I mean he would be called George after you, of course, but what could we pair with it? Henry? No, and not John either. Perhaps Thomas? Edmund? Or Joseph..."
"Look, Emma!" A small, bright stone had caught his eye. It appeared to be glowing. He picked it up. "So unusual," he said, examining it. It shone as if illuminated from within. "Have you ever seen anything like it?"
"No. Never." It was unusual. If anyone had asked, she would have said it was the colour of light. Was this, or something similar, what she had seen from her window that evening in winter? It did not seem possible, so much radiance from such a tiny thing.
"Shall I have it set for you? It will make a striking pendant."
Emma took it from him and placed it in the palm of her hand. The stone felt very warm, but it had been a warm day. "No," she decided without quite knowing why, for she loved pretty things, jewels and trinkets and the like, and no one else in Highbury would have such a treasure. "I think it should stay here. It belongs here." She handed it back to her husband, who dropped the rock at his feet.
He looked at his wife of three months and was glad to see that her colour was returning. She had been pale and sickly again that morning. Perry had attended her and declared that there was nothing to cause alarm, that it would pass soon enough. In fact he had smiled when giving the report. "Emma," Knightley said, finally putting the facts together, "was there any particular reason you raised the subject of boys' names just now?"
"Yes, Mr. Knightley. Can you not guess?"
"Will you not call me George?"
"No, Mr. Knightley." She giggled as he held her by the waist and kissed her ear, a rare treat for this time of day. Mr. Woodhouse was slowly becoming reconciled to the reality of their marriage, even to the point where he no longer complained if they spent an occasional night at Donwell Abbey. Grateful for this change in her father and mindful of his sensibilities, Mr. and Mrs. Knightley typically reserved displays of affection for the privacy of their chambers, as was proper. But they could not be seen from the house where they stood.
"Are you sure you will not?" He nuzzled her neck until she sighed, as she often did in response to such advances.
"Yes, George," she whispered.
"The names, Emma?" He returned his attention to her neck.
"You will be an excellent father," she said, smiling at him.
He stared into her face, soaking up the intelligence she had just imparted. "Emma - my dearest!" His lips curved into a half smile as joy and incredulity fought for predominance. "Emma!" His glance shifted to her still-maidenly form. He lifted his wondering eyes to her sparkling ones. "I do not know what to say, I..." He ceased trying to form a coherent phrase and put his mouth to more reasonable use.
Had she been at leisure to respond, his wife would have professed herself quite pleased with his reaction to her news.
"What does it say, Mr. Bennet?" Her husband had discovered a letter from Derbyshire among his correspondence and was now opening it. Mrs. Bennet followed him to the library and closed the door behind them.
Mr. Bennet consulted his watch. He would have just time enough to finish it before supper. "Mrs. Bennet, do calm yourself. So far all I have seen is 'Dear Papa.'" He sat down at his desk to read.
His wife sat and waited. Then she moaned, fidgeted and mumbled about being poorly treated. At last she got up and read the missive over her husband's shoulder.
"Do you not wish to sit with our daughters until I am finished?" Mr. Bennet inquired without lifting his eyes from the paper.
"No, indeed! Mary and Lydia are arguing again. Surely you heard them. All of Hertfordshire must have heard them! It is all poor Kitty can do to stop them from tearing each other's hair out." She read the opening words and glanced at the full pages. Lizzy wrote such lengthy letters to her father. The few notes she had received from Mrs. Darcy were not half so long. "I believe Mary has the right of it this time, but Lydia will never own it." She continued to read while Mr. Bennet regarded her with some curiosity.
With his two eldest married, his third child was now Miss Bennet. To the surprise of everyone at Longbourn, Mary had claimed all the privileges of the title - putting on airs, making improvements to her appearance, even going so far as to take an active interest in guiding her younger sisters, especially Lydia. Her attempts at the latter were both commendable and comical and many times resulted in heated exchanges between Lydia and herself. On such occasions Kitty attempted to fill Jane's former role as mediator but failed miserably. Mary challenged Lydia far more forcefully than Kitty ever had. Amidst the clamorous quarrelling of her sisters, Kitty's gentle entreaties often were uttered without being heard.
All this was even less to Mrs. Bennet's taste than to her husband's. Not being a connoisseur of folly, she derived no amusement from it. Rather, the noise was torture to her nerves. During particularly voluble disagreements she sought sanctuary with her husband in the library. Her persistence in doing so had worn Mr. Bennet down to the point where he had resigned himself to sharing what had been almost solely his domain.
"Another grandchild," Mrs. Bennet cried out. "How marvellous!"
Mr. Bennet looked quickly over the letter to see how he had missed something so significant. He could not find it. "Of what are you speaking? Lizzy has written nothing of the sort."
"She most certainly has. There it is." She indicated a particular passage.
The writing looked innocent enough to Mr. Bennet, and he told his wife as much.
Mrs. Bennet rolled her eyes. "Men. They will not see what is perfectly obvious. She says right here," and she pointed to the illuminating words, "she wondered at not being able to eat her favourite dessert, that though her husband and sister enjoyed it, she could not even bear the smell of it. Lizzy is never indisposed - well, hardly ever - always has a hearty appetite, and she has preferred that particular dish since the age of twelve."
He could not dispute her assertions. "You may be right, my dear." He had forgotten the days when such matters dominated life at Longbourn. The evidence before him seemed slight, a mere trifle in more than one sense; yet he acknowledged that in the past his wife had demonstrated an uncanny instinct for this sort of thing. It mattered little, in any case. Subsequent letters from Lizzy would confirm it, or not.
"Of course I am right. Lizzy is with child, the same as Jane." Mrs. Bennet read a few more lines and returned to the comfort of her chair, satisfied that she had extracted the most important piece of information. "I hope they will be more fortunate than we are, though I know of no entails threatening them should they have only daughters."
Mr. Bennet put the letter aside and thoughtfully considered his wife. True, she was still occasionally nervous and indubitably silly, but he could find no fault with her constant concern for the welfare of their children.
Their children. Five girls grown up, and she herself as lovely as any of them. Not many women between forty and fifty were still as beautiful as they had been two decades before, and the few others he could name were, unlike his wife, hopelessly vain. "We are not very unfortunate," he said, giving her an admiring glance and surprising himself in the process. "Five daughters blessed with their mother's good looks."
"And Mrs. Bingley and Mrs. Darcy blessed with their father's good sense, I suppose you will say." She knew well Mr. Bennet's opinion of herself and their children. She had heard him express it openly these twenty years at least. "Oh, do not worry. I will not contradict you, or rather, only a little - for although I depend upon your good sense, I cannot agree with you about our youngest girls. I refuse to believe they are so completely hopeless, as you declare them to be." She had noticed the interest in his eyes immediately, for it was rarely directed at her. She determined to make the most of it. "And you are still very handsome yourself, my dear. You should not disregard your own personal attractions. Surely you do not think it was merely the prospect of marrying a gentleman that appealed to me when I accepted your proposal all those years ago?"
By the time Mr. Bennet thought to mask his expression it was too late. There were already the beginnings of a lopsided smile on his face. The moment and the memories were interrupted by the raised voices of Lydia and Mary, followed by Kitty's pleading that they return to their senses or she would enlist their father's aid.
"We had better rescue Kitty, my dear, before her hearing suffers permanent damage." He sighed and offered Mrs. Bennet his arm. "Let us make our way to the dining room, then."
They rose from their seats, and together they walked out of the library and into the fray.
The Hunsford Parsonage was deceptively quiet. By the sound of it one would think this was an evening like any other, except there was no clinking of silverware or tolerable conversation in the dining room. The Collinses were both upstairs in the mistress's chamber well before the time they normally finished supper. Charlotte's attention was caught by a tiny light in the window peeking through the heavy curtains. "William," she asked, much too tired to think of leaning over to the other side of the bed, "can you see anything in the road? Is someone approaching?" She was in no condition to receive callers just now.
"In this weather? I should hope not, my dear." Mr. Collins got up from his chair. "It was fortunate that the doctor left as early as he did. The timing of it all - indeed, most providential." The weather had turned so quickly. Mr. and Mrs. Lofton would be safe at home now, and though he knew little of the business he was confident the servants could handle any minor challenges that presented themselves before dawn. He walked over to the window, drew the curtains fully open and peered out into the night. "I see nothing out of the ordinary, Charlotte. Perhaps it was just the snow reflecting the moonlight."
"Perhaps," Charlotte replied, glancing at her husband's tall form for a moment. She had realised by then that it was happening again. The light had spread from a pinpoint to a bright circle about the size of a dinner plate. Inside it she saw the face of a young bride turning with joy into her husband's embrace. She heard her soft laughter and his sweet words of affection. He spoke her name with such tenderness! It would have been heartrending but for the miracle she had experienced not two hours ago. Her own heart was too full to begrudge anyone the pleasures of romantic love.
Finally the image faded until she saw only her reflection, aglow with warmest feelings for the heaven-kissed bundle in her lap.
"What will we name her, my dear?" Mr. Collins's words barely registered. "Charlotte? Her name - have you given it any further consideration?" They had agreed months ago that a boy would be called after his father, but a girl would have a name of her mother's choosing.
She tore her eyes away from the window to answer her husband, knowing the dreamy look was still on her face. The silly man would think it was for him, but that was of no concern. She was feeling very generous tonight. She knew he was disappointed not to have fathered a son, though he bore it surprisingly well. He had been most helpful today, not agitated and flustered as she had anticipated. She would give him an additional reason to smile as he trudged across the snow-covered path to Rosings in the morning to impart the good news to his patroness, as surely he would do. The first was decided - predetermined, really - but the second, she could give him that.
"Emma," she said at last, giving the baby a small smile. Yes, she who had been so blessed could well afford to be generous. "Emma Catherine."
I'm so grateful I found this site, even if I'm ten years too late. I'm obsessed with Emma fanfic right now, so I'm thrilled to have found this and your other writings. If you're still writing JA fanfic, I'd love to know where to find it!
ReplyDeleteLove the premise this fic and the way the supernatural elements serve to bring everything to a satisfying ending much sooner. You've really done justice to some of the more minor characters, too. Wonderful!
Thanks so much for commenting! I'm glad you stopped by to read. I haven't posted much at all in the last few years, but most of my stories end up here, and some are only posted here.
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