Chapter Text
Emma’s mind is in such a flurry that she scarcely notices the approach to Hartfield until the familiar slope of the hill presses her back into the firm carriage cushions. The rest of her journey had passed in such a daze that she could hardly tell if it had been minutes or mere seconds.
She knows she must collect herself, for it would not do to arrive looking anything less than herself. Her father, no doubt, would be anxious enough for her arrival as it is, without her being out of spirits. She must not give him any cause for concern. There can be no hint as to what had passed between herself and Mr Elton on the journey back from Randalls.
But oh, how angry she is! And how wretched she feels! To have been so wrong in her assumptions, to have not seen Mr Elton’s behaviour for what it was: an attempt to attach himself to her, rather than her friend! The odious, presumptuous man - to have thought he had made any impression on Emma’s heart - it truly was an act of wilful blindness.
And poor Harriet indeed! Emma thinks of her friend’s sweet face, and of the knowledge that she must break this information as gently as she can. For Harriet would never have thought of Mr Elton if it had not been for her! It is a most painful lesson, indeed.
Emma takes a steadying breath as the carriage passes under the Hartfield archway, the sound of horses hooves on gravel giving way to the clip of flagstones. She takes a moment to adjust her gloves, straighten her spine. Her own desperate spirits must be put away for now. She is content and amiable Miss Woodhouse once more.
The carriage draws to a fluid halt, and within short moments, the footman has flung open the door with abrupt haste. It is most unlike, and so as she looks out to express her displeasure, Emma is surprised to find herself handed out not by the footman, but by Mr Knightley.
“Oh, it’s you!” she starts, as she allows Mr Knightley’s firm grip to guide her down the steps, Emma’s eyes remaining studiously on her feet until they reach solid ground. It is only then that she looks up at him, trying at this very last moment to complete her transition into an image of perfect peace and serenity. Emma is sure she must fail because his shrewd eyes immediately narrow on her. Mr Knightley, as usual, is far too observant by half.
“Emma,” he says smoothly, clearly choosing not to comment on her rather abrupt exclamation, like he normally might. His tone is a strange mix of things, but Emma feels too tired to pick apart the individual components right now. She instead turns her attention to his person. It is abundantly clear that he has been standing outside for some time. There are small crystals of snow across the shoulders of his fine dark greatcoat, a sheer dusting along the brim of his hat.
“Have you been waiting for me?” she questions, eyes brushing down the slopes of his arms to the toes of his shoes.
Mr Knightley's mouth opens, closes, and then opens again. A fog forms in the air as his warm breath hits the cold. “I found myself surplus to requirements indoors. John and Isabella are settling your father. I… I felt I would bring more comfort to him by awaiting your arrival.” His shoulders square as he says this, and he seems to notice that he is still holding her hand even though it has long since been unnecessary. He immediately withdraws it, before clasping his own together behind his back.
“I am here and well,” Emma answers gaily, a little too gaily it seems, for Mr Knightley instantly frowns.
He peers around her and into the depths of the carriage. Emma dares not follow suit. She has no desire to see the inside of that carriage again for the next fortnight at least. “It seems you have arrived alone?”
Emma, knowing Mr Knightley as she does, senses what question is to follow, and wishes to avoid it. “As you can see,” she replies, adjusting her cloak around her. “Now, let us both get inside before my father sends out a search party. I can hardly believe he would have endorsed your standing out in the cold, even for my sake.”
She moves to pass him, before a brief hand on her forearm pauses her step. The butter yellow of his leather gloves is such an unusual colour for a man so practical as Mr Knightley that Emma cannot help but wonder how his purchase of them came about. As ever, he is quite singular. Even more singular is the way he has sought to capture her attention. It is not that she minds Mr Knightley’s touch - indeed, she welcomes it on the rare occasion it is bestowed. But he so scarcely grants it, and so Emma knows it must be important that he is extending it now.
“A moment, Emma,” he says, rather seriously. The clatter of the carriage wheels as it is rolled away to the stable block echoes out behind her. “For now, your father is well accommodated.” He turns his head back towards the servant hovering in the doorway. “Please advise Mr Woodhouse that his daughter has arrived safely and will change her damp shoes before she joins him.”
Emma attempts to level a sulky stare at Mr Knightley but is only met by the angular cut of his jaw as he watches the servant nod and leave to do as prompted. Finally he turns back to her, blue eyes sharp.
“My shoes are perfectly fine,” Emma retorts with a pout, emphasising her point with a stomp of one of them on the hard ground.
This emits a half smile from Mr Knightley, but it does not linger long. “Indeed, I am sure they are, Emma. But your father will not begrudge you the few minutes to change them. I merely wish for a few moments of your time, for it is now clear there is something I must clarify.”
“Oh, is that so?” Emma finds herself saying in rather short temper. She is not in the humour tonight to be talked down to and can sense from Mr Knightley’s rather firm manner that this is what lies in wait for her. Right now, she simply aches for the solitude of her chambers so she can reflect on the dreadful events of the past half hour.
Mr Knightley ignores her slight. “Emma, were you not... accompanied on the journey back to Hartfield?”
She cannot help but flinch at his path of inquiry. For it appears Mr Knightley has parsed that something has gone amiss, and Emma has not the time or ability to conjure up an adequate untruth. As a result, she can only deflect.
“I do not see the use in this line of questioning, Mr Knightley. I am here and I am safe, and there is no more dialogue on the matter required,” she replies, rather more harshly than such a fine gentleman as Mr Knightley deserves.
An eyebrow merely quirks at her, totally unflustered by her manner. “The purpose of my query, dear Emma,” he says pointedly, and she knows he only calls her that when he is at his most generous, “is to ascertain whether I need to beg your forgiveness.”
Emma is now quite puzzled. Mr Knightley, perpetually correct, asking for her forgiveness? It is most odd, although, Emma thinks, not an occasion to be overlooked. “My forgiveness?”
There is a tiny twitch about his rather handsome mouth at her tone of apparent disbelief. “Quite,” he answers with a short bob of his head. His gloved hands have now come to twist together in front of his stomach in something remarkably like contrition. It is a look of his that Emma is rather less acquainted with, but notes how very much she thinks it suits him. “I realised that in the confusion, the... haste to convey your father home, I did not adequately see to your safety.”
“My safety?” All Emma can do is echo him helplessly.
“Yes, to ensure you did not travel alone, at such an hour, and on such an evening.”
“Oh,” she says, hardly knowing how to respond. The gauzy material of her dress may look well in the candlelight but it is no match for the out of doors, but she represses a shiver anyway. Emma is slowly coming to realise that by correcting Mr Knightley’s assumption about her journey home, she will end up opening this conversation up to a whole other avenue which she would rather he was not privy to.
Emma makes one last attempt to sway the topic to safer ground. “To be sure, I have travelled by carriage quite alone before. Only the other day, I went to Randalls quite on a whim when Harriet could not be called away from Mrs Goddard’s.” The mention of Harriet makes Emma’s heart compress in her chest. But no, now is not the time for such maudlin thoughts. “All was well then. Did you not think the Westons looked well this evening? So very happy, both! It was such a great shame that the party had to disband so early.”
Mr Knightley’s face has turned from guilt to suspicion and Emma immediately knows that her plan of distracting him has not worked. If anything, his focus has become razor sharp, those blue eyes of his rather affixed to every aspect of her face.
“You and I both know perfectly well that travelling to Randalls in the middle of the afternoon is not the same as journeying all alone on a dark and wintery evening,” Mr Knightley replies with grim humour. One of these days, Emma is sure she will succeed in waylaying him, but her attempt this evening has clearly been unsuccessful. “I will not accept your endeavours to alleviate my poor conduct, Emma. Your generosity, your consideration of our… friendship,” Mr Knightley seems to swallow thickly before continuing, “is a credit to your good nature, but my oversight was very grave indeed-”
Oh, this will not do! Emma, although quite certain that correcting him will bring her no peace at all, cannot bear the idea of Mr Knightley punishing himself for something he need not.
“Sir!” she exclaims finally, unable to let him continue in this vein. Now it is Emma’s turn to reach out, to touch him, as forward as that may be. But he is an old friend and Emma feels her actions need to provide just as much reassurance as her words. “Please. I must correct your misinformation. You judge yourself too harshly, and do not have all the facts fully at your disposal.”
Mr Knightley’s brow furrows as he whips the hat from his head, like it might help him understand her better. He looks immediately younger, less intimidating. He blinks at her; once, twice, three times, his lashes catching the faint flakes of snow that are still falling around them.
“Is… is that so?”
“Indeed, sir!” she nods rather forcefully. Mr Knightley’s rested conscience is far more valuable to her heart than the reflected shame the truth will bring upon herself. “For Mr Elton conveyed me home, you see. Your fears of highwaymen and scallywags are quite unfounded.” Emma tries for a light-hearted smile, but removes her hand from his wrist all the same.
Mr Knightley looks relieved for about half a second. But then with a sudden jut of his chin, he stares down at her. “If that is the case, where was he when your carriage arrived? For I certainly did not see him within.” He clearly thinks she is lying to mollify him, if his skeptical look is anything to go by.
Emma resents his persistence, his observant eye. If only he hadn’t been waiting for her! Her solitary arrival would have gone unnoticed, uncommented on. Mr Knightley, in all his solicitude, has placed her in a rather troublesome predicament.
Emma tips her head back to stare at him just as defiantly. She refuses to back down, for she severely dislikes being bested by him. “If you must know, he vacated the carriage at the gate. For it was more convenient for him to cut across the field from there to get to Vicarage Lane, he said.” She has heard Mr Elton claim some such thing before, and is glad enough to be able to recall the information to hand now.
A lone eyebrow rises on Mr Knightley’s face, giving him a rather wry expression. “I should not think any man would want to cut across the fields on a night like this - certainly not when lacking in some sturdy footwear.” He looks down rather forlornly at his own rather fine dress shoes, and Emma can tell he is longing for his favoured riding boots. “Besides, I watched as your carriage passed the gates. I did not see it stop.”
Oh, so Mr Knightley had been scanning the horizon for her approach? He really is the most irritatingly diligent of men! Emma takes a steadying breath, determined not to let on just how much he has her cornered.
But he is not making her escape simple. “Unless… did he alight in motion?” His voice dances around the words, mirth undisguised.
Emma cannot help but huff in frustration at how Mr Knightley almost seems to be enjoying this. “Perhaps it was just before the gate,” she replies haughtily, but already feels the glow of red upon her cheeks giving her away. Emma has always felt herself a rather convincing liar, and yet Mr Knightley is most inconveniently excellent at ferreting out the truth. “I cannot recall precisely. It was too dark.”
“Too dark?” Mr Knightley lets out a low amused rumble from his chest, and oh, Emma detests when he does this. The sound is rich, deep, and he is the only man she knows who laughs like that; and yet, the fact that he is laughing at her makes her feel rather small and immature. She is neither of those things, despite his rather stubborn view of her qualities. “It is a lovely moonlit night, with the fresh brushings of snow! You exaggerate.”
Emma wishes to go inside, and really, knows that she is free to do so. Mr Knightley would not stop her should she try to move past him. And yet her feet feel stuck in place, rooted to the spot opposite him. “I do not see the purpose of this conversation any longer, Mr Knightley, as comical as you seem to find it.”
“No, Emma,” he replies, now all seriousness once more. “That is where you are wrong. I find it not amusing in the slightest. For what you are saying is that Mr Elton was tasked with the duty of conveying you safely to the very door of Hartfield - and not half a mile earlier - and yet it appears was negligent in this duty?” Mr Knightley has come to look rather stern indeed, an image which is rather offset by how the snow has settled amongst the tendrils of his hair, giving him a rather ethereal look.
Oh, but she can hardly tell him what really transpired, can she? Emma cannot bear to admit to him that she was wrong about Harriet, about Mr Elton, about so many things. She could not tolerate the shame of it! If only Mr Knightley’s opinion was not so very important to her, otherwise Emma would not be so hesitant to disappoint it. Besides, telling him of Mr Elton’s actions would be… very improper indeed! Emma can hardly think of the words without her skin feeling aflame.
Mr Knightley coolly observes her, awaiting a response. She has only one option.
“Mr Knightley,” she chides, “you hold Mr Elton too strictly to your own high standards. He is a gentleman, to be sure, but perhaps on this occasion may have let the wine go to his head. Besides, there is no great difference between accompanying me to the gate and to the door. Surely even you must accept that.”
Emma perceives the subtle workings of Mr Knightley’s jaw. He does not seem persuaded. Indeed, as soon as he speaks, Emma sees her plea has come to nothing. “I accept he is a young man, who perhaps wants for entirely good sense,” he acknowledges at first. “But even he, my dear Emma, should know better - if he is a gentleman as you so generously name him. No, no, it will not do. I will have to speak to him about this oversight.”
Mortification floods her. She cannot have Mr Knightley do anything of the sort, even though Mr Elton would hardly be able to protest - could hardly confess to the real reason for his premature exit of her carriage. Oh, the truth would be worse for him to admit to, and yet the idea of the two men having the occasion to circle around the reality seems too grim for words.
Emma shakes her head at him, an agitated hand reaching once more for his wrist. “No, no, Mr Knightley. I ask that you not - you will embarrass him!” The thick leather of his gloves does nothing to mute the warmth of his skin, even through her own thinner pair.
He stills at that, ponders the placement of her hand, and then her, silently for a long moment. “You care for his feelings so much that you will not have me set him straight?” Mr Knightley’s eyes are wide with surprise, rather stricken and if it were not for that expression Emma would not quite have grasped his meaning. But, oh dear, in the dim glow of the Hartfield lights, she understands his shock perfectly. He thinks her… attached to Mr Elton?
This would not do!
But before Emma can find the words to set him straight - for she very much must set Mr Knightley straight lest she ever be able to look him in the eye again - he continues.
“I appreciate you do not wish me to interfere. I am… acting too much like an older brother perhaps,” Emma sees him wince at that, and a curious feeling pools in her at the gesture. She does not quite understand it. “But your father, should he ever hear of it, would wish for me to say something. I will not tell him-” Mr Knightley quickly reassures her, and Emma breathes a sigh of relief for that at least, “-but for my part, I.. I… would not have treated you as such, Emma. You are too precious to-” he cuts off, shakes his head ruefully. “It matters not. I am determined that I shall call on Elton in the coming days, and speak to him. I will try not embarrass him, dear Emma - if that is… what you request.”
Oh, she can see very much the mistaken impression Mr Knightley now has of her. And it cannot remain unremedied any longer! In fact, Emma is rather put out that he should think so little of her - to believe that she would welcome Mr Elton as a suitor for herself? She cannot take measure of how he could perceive it so. How many times has she said - in Mr Knightley’s presence, too! - that she has no plans to ever marry? He must think her very fickle indeed if she were to suddenly forgo all her promises and assertions for a man like Mr Elton!
No, no. She cannot let Mr Knightley labour under this misapprehension, no matter the cost. The truth is far more awkward, to be sure, but something within Emma feels obliged to confess it more urgently than she has confessed anything in her entire life.
She stares up at him, studying him. For a man she knows second best only to her father, Mr Knightley is sometimes still very much a puzzle to her. On some days Emma feels she could predict every turn of his head, or particular smirk, and then on other days, like today, she feels him very much a stranger, with his own secret thoughts and looks that are truly known only to himself. Even now, she can see his mind deep in thought, a fierce flutter of eyelashes grazing the faultless angles of his face.
It is with a churning knowledge that Emma accepts she must tell him the truth. But she finds she cannot do it here. There is something altogether too intimate about the half darkness, the way they are quite alone in the shadows.
Emma wets her lips, drops her hand from where it has, for too long, remained on his wrist. “Mr Knightley,” she says, as if nothing is wrong, “let us go indoors, and perhaps speak a little more on this matter.”