Disclaimer: I own nothing except my own creations.
Author's Note: Written with 2009 BBC Emma (Romola Garai/Johnny Lee Miller) or 1996 Emma (Gwyneth Paltrow/Jeremy Northam) in mind.
George Knightley propped himself up against the doorframe and took in the sight before him: the Highbury ladies were seated in a circle as they pandered over the newest Knightley offspring. Little Edward had arrived three weeks earlier.
His gaze softened as his eyes fell on Emma. It never ceased to amaze him how perfectly well made she was for motherhood. She was glowing, their son sleeping calmly in her arms.
Turning away (admittedly with some difficulty) he looked next at his heir, happily playing with young Miss Weston on the floor. Scanning the room once again, he frowned when he ceased to find his daughter.
Uncrossing his arms, he rose and slipped unnoticed from the room. Sparing a glance into library, he stilled when he found his firstborn child seated in an armchair in his study.
Entering quietly, he rounded the furniture and saw that his little girl was not happy: her arms crossed over her chest, her face with decided frown. Kneeling down on one knee before the chair, he spoke to her gently. "What's going on sweetheart?"
She shook her head fiercely, refusing to meet his gaze. "Abigail?" he probed again, placing a finger under the three year old's chin to raise her face to his.
He could see her struggling to control her emotions before words burst out unbidden. "It's not fair!"
Knightley startled, but sensed this was one of those times as a father where one must tread carefully. "What's not fair?"
She was silent, but moments later he heard a sniffle.
"Oh," he said softly, his heart clenching. "Why are you crying?"
"I'm not," cried little Knightley, looking at her father, her face in turmoil.
"Come here," he said softly. Reaching out his arms, Abigail resisted for only a moment before she propelled herself toward her father.
Lifting the easy weight, Knightley held her close as he took a seat of his own. Allowing her to cry her little heart out, he kept his arms wrapped firm around her.
When the cries became hiccups, he pressed a kiss to her brown hair and tilted her head. "What is going on?" he asked gently.
"It's not fair," his only daughter repeated.
He lifted her chin to see her face. "So you've told me," he said, "but what is it that isn't fair?"
"The baby gets all the attention," she muttered.
Oh.
He paused a moment, considering how to navigate this hostile topic. "It's because he's new," he said carefully. "People want to meet him." (He found it amusing that his daughter was annoyed about the attention Edward was receiving, conveniently forgetting about the equal attention Woodhouse had received just over a year earlier.)
His daughter scowled.
"They did the same when you were born," he continued, squeezing her in his arms. "And you were even more special."
"I was?" Abigail asked awed, momentarily forgetting her grievances.
"Mm hmm," confirmed Knightley. "You were our first child. My very first baby." He pressed a kiss to her crown as she pondered that.
The frown returned, though not as pronounced. "It's still not fair though."
"That your brother is getting all the attention?"
"No," she answered. "That I didn't get my birthday party."
He was confused. "But you did have a party."
"It wasn't on my birthday," she corrected him. "We had it early because of the baby."
Right. This he could handle.
He propped her up on his knees. "Do you know why we had it early?" he asked rhetorically. "Because we wanted to make sure that we didn't miss your birthday at all."
"But Ned didn't come until ages after my birthday."
Six day actually, but he refrained from correcting her. He caught her eyes and held them. "Your mother and I didn't know exactly when Ned was coming, and we wanted to make sure that we celebrated your birthday before he did so that we could all be there. That's why it was early."
"Oh." She pondered a little longer and then a beautiful smile so much like her mother's spread across her face. "Thank you!" she exclaimed.
He tugged her back into his arms.
When Emma Knightley stepped into the room later that afternoon, she smiled at the sight. Her baby girl – though not so little anymore – was sleeping, wrapped in her father's strong arms. George was dozing too, his head lolling back against the chair.
Stepping close, she pressed a kiss to Abby's head and brushed her fingers over her husband's hair.
Leaving them be, she slipped from the room.
Aw.