Fealty
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Jane Austen.
There was nothing that vexed Mr. Henry Knightley, son of George and Emma Knightley, more than grey-haired rakes lurking around his mother—namely the newly widowed Mr. Frank Churchill. Henry's father, seventy years old, had been struck down with a stroke last summer during the harvesting festival. As a consequence, he had been paralysed down his left side and could speak only in painfully slow phrases.
Emma was still sprightly and hail, her hair thick and plentiful, and her speech sparkling and gay. Mr. Knightley rarely ventured into Highbury society and only engaged with a select group of intimates who he did not feel ashamed of his disability around.
Henry had offered to spend the day with his father so his mother could attend Mr. Churchill's garden party. He cheerfully greeted the housekeeper, Mrs. Morris, and the butler, Mr. Harris, and sprang up the stairs two at a time (a childhood habit that he had not shaken off) to the library where he was sure his parents would be.
Their voices wafted from the library as he entered the threshold.
Mr. Knightley, his hair grey but neatly brushed and his posture still ramrod straight, sat in a plush red armchair that overlooked the grand property of Donwell Abbey. The sun shone brightly through the window that set his profile in a glow, momentarily shielding Henry from the slack left side of his father's face.
His mother was delicately seated on the right arm of the seat, leaning over Mr. Knightley, her hair shining like golden corn in the bask of the sunshine. She was resplendent in a rose pink gown and white sash.
"…darling, are you sure that you are agreeable to me attending Frank's garden party? I'm more than happy to forgo this afternoon and spend it with you. We can tour the fields in the carriage that Wilkins has specifically tailored for you and—"
Mr. Knightley clasped her hand. "My dear, I am quite sure. I am feeling remarkably virile today. You need to be with your friends—"
"Our friends, my love," corrected Emma.
"I insist. You need not be my nursemaid. It would make me happy if you went out and enjoyed yourself in gay company."
"You are as stubborn as an ox and I see that you are quite set upon me going today."
Mr. Knightley attempted a smile but his paralysed left made it more of a garish grimace. Henry's heart twisted. He could not bear to see his father's handsome features marred so. Henry could not see his mother's expression as her back was to him and wondered what she was thinking.
"Greetings, mother and father," he said, deciding to break the silence.
"Good morning, my son," said Mr. Knightley in his slow speech.
"Harry!" Emma exclaimed, gracefully rising to kiss him on the cheek. "How are Penelope and your little boy, George?"
"They are doing well, mother. They long to visit—George especially misses riding out in the carriage with you and papa."
"Tell Penelope that we are more than happy to receive them next week. It would do your father good to see his namesake."
Mr. Knightley laced his fingers through Emma's and squeezed them to signal his approval with the plan.
"You are looking better and better everyday, papa," Henry said, smiling encouragingly.
Mr. Knightley's face went into a brief spasm and Henry could not discern whether he was smiling or frowning
Emma's face shone with defiant pride. "He is, isn't he? This morning I awoke to see that he did all his buttons himself and yesterday he walked through one meadow all on his own."
"My love, you best leave now before you miss the beginning of Churchill's festivities. Harry is here and I promise not to do anything foolish while you are gone," Mr. Knightley said in a stilted voice.
"You are right. How do I look?" Emma asked, her vanity still present as she twirled in a circle.
"Like Queen Titania of the Faeries. You are bewitching," Mr. Knightley volunteered. Henry did not miss the trembling of his father's voice and questioned whether it was from his disability or from suppressed emotion at Emma's healthy beauty that still had not dimmed after all these years.
"Beautiful as always, Mama."
Emma beamed. "You two are valuable tonics for a woman's vanity."
Before Henry could reply, the sounds of horse hooves cluttered up the path. Henry went to the window and saw the figure of Churchill leap down from the carriage, doffing his hat at Henry.
"It's Mr. Churchill, mama. What is he doing here?"
"Harry, I insist that you be agreeable to Frank. He has been nothing but generous with our family."
"Mama, he eyes you like you're a trophy for him to claim."
Emma snorted. "Harry dear, all women are golden figures to him. He would never behave dishonourably to me. He is one of my oldest friends."
"Our carriage is being mended so I called upon Churchill for aid," intercepted Mr. Knightley. "He is merely fulfilling a favour for me."
Emma caressed her husband's cheek. "Would you like to receive Frank, my love?"
Mr. Knightley shook his head. "Just give Frank my apologies. Say that I am ill today and am in no position to receive visitors."
Emma frowned. "You know that Frank would never mock you. He has too much respect for you."
Mr. Knightley pinched the bridge of his nose in barely concealed frustration. "I am not casting any slurs upon Churchill's character. I just wish to spend my time with Harry."
"Mama, leave him be."
Emma's lips tightened. "Alright then. I will. I shall be back this evening."
Mr. Harris appeared at the doorway. "Madame, Master Churchill is awaiting you in the entrance hall."
"I will be right down, Harris."
Harris bowed and departed.
Mr. Knightley grasped his wife's hand, raising it to his lips. "Enjoy this afternoon," he said simply, as he released her hand.
Henry swore that he saw his mother's composure falter for a moment at her husband's quiet concern for her wellbeing. But she merely inclined her head at him, kissed Henry on the cheek and then in a swirl of pink skirts and rose-scented perfume, she was gone.
Henry peered out of the window and saw his mother being gallantly escorted to the carriage by a boisterous Churchill. He had never seen his mother this animated since his father's ill health. The pair laughed together as Churchill seated himself next to her.
There was another knock at the door. It was Harris again with Dr. Donaldson standing behind him.
"Sir, I have brought Dr. Donaldson up from the gamekeeper's hut. None of the servants have seen him—nor has the mistress."
"Thank-you, Harris. Your discretion is most valued, as always. I will see to it that you are given extra pay this month."
"There is no need, sir. Your continued welfare is all the reward I need," Harris replied, sincerity echoing in every word.
Mr. Knightley smiled through his pain. "Regardless, you will get an increase in your wage."
Harris flushed red at Mr. Knightley's benevolence. "Thank-you very much, sir. You are most generous."
Dr. Donaldson briskly unpacked his medicinal bag, while Henry turned back to his father whose face was contorted in discomfort. "Why is Dr. Donaldson here without mama's knowledge?"
His father swallowed, his face pale. "I did not want your mother to abort her outing. I do not want to be a burden on her like her father."
His forehead was covered in a thin sheen of sweat and Henry realised how much self-control his father retained. "Papa, she would be livid at you hiding your illness from her in this sort of conspiracy."
"You know that I loathe falsehoods, but this is in your mother's best interests," rasped Mr. Knightley.
Dr. Donaldson turned his piercing gaze on Henry. "I would advise you, sir, not to increase your father's agitation. It will do him no good."
Henry frowned but did not say anything further, anxiety for his father gripping him.
Dr. Donaldson then rolled up Mr. Knightley's sleeve. "How much pain are you in, sir?"
"I could barely arise from bed this morning. I had to get my manservant, Baxter, to dress me before my wife awoke." His eyes closed and a hacking laugh erupted from his throat. "She thought I had done all my buttons myself."
Dr. Donaldson pressed his hand to Mr. Knightley's clammy forehead. "Do you have any movement on your left side?"
"A little. I can walk—albeit slow and with a severe limp—a fair distance. But I find it difficult to lift anything with my hand, and speaking, as you can see, is a chore for me. I sound as if I am continuously drinking strong ale."
"Hardly, sir," said Donaldson bluntly. "I have seen the ruinous effects of the devil's drink. You do not speak like the town drunkard."
Mr. Knightley's mouth twitched. "Do you need to bleed me?"
"I think it would be best. We will have to move you to your bed, sir. The mistress will never know that I was here."
Mr. Knightley nodded wearily. "Do what you need to do, Doctor."
Donaldson looked at Henry with hawk-like eyes. "I can trust on your help, Master Henry?"
Henry, not liking the secrecy but desiring to do anything to alleviate his father's suffering, said: "Of course."
Some hours later, Henry sat in a chair by his father's bed, watching him doze. His father had endured Donaldson's ministrations with little complaint. He just lay in the bed staring at the ceiling as his blood trickled out into a silver dish. Donaldson then closed the cut with some clumpy concoction that smelt odious to Henry.
To Henry's shock, his father's eyes shot open as if he had been hit with the butt of a musket. "Harry!" His right arm blindly reached out for Henry.
"I'm here, father, I'm here," he reassured him.
"Help me out of this bed and get me into the garden. Your mother must not see me in this state."
"Papa, I hardly think you are strong enough to be outside. If you catch a chill—"
"Nonsense. It is warm outside. I will be upright and dressed properly when she arrives home. Get Harris or Baxter to bring me out that chair of mine…she will find me in the picturesque surroundings of her roses and hydrangeas…get me my thick coat…"
Henry had no choice to obey.
Half an hour and some difficulty later, Mr. Knightley achieved his wish of being out in the garden. He was breathless and clammy, but upright and impeccably attired. No one would have known that only a couple of hours ago he had been delirious with pain.
Only a true gentleman could overcome that with such dignity.
The pounding of the horses up the gravel signalled Emma's homecoming.
Mr. Knightley straightened up. He looked at his son. "Remember, Harry, she cannot know."
Henry nodded and composed his face as his mother's voice floated through the air to where father and son were sitting.
Henry saw that she was positively buoyant. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were sparkling. There was no doubt that this afternoon had done wonders to restoring her spirit. Henry wondered if that Churchill had anything to do with it and then inwardly castigated himself for thinking so uncharitably of his mother's moral integrity.
"How have you two been faring?" she called out, her steps light and springy.
"Harry has been reading to me this past hour and we have been walking through the fields, enjoying the fine weather," Mr. Knightley lied. "Though I will admit that I used him quite a bit as my walking stick."
"That is wonderful. Are you in good spirits?"
"Like a youth again, darling. Having Harry here has lightened my spirits," said Mr. Knightley, his eyes intense on Henry. "I am most grateful for his patience and service to his wearisome father."
Henry did not miss the double meaning to the words.
"How was the party, mama?" Henry asked, diverting the topic of conversation.
"Frank put on a fine show as usual, but Harriet Martin still has not learnt the art of social intercourse. She insisted upon showing me a vegetable patch that her beloved Robert had planted for the Churchills. I could not see anything particularly glorifying, but I smiled and made all the right noises to appease her pride in her simple yet kindly husband."
"How gracious of you, mama," replied Henry drily.
"You spoke uncannily like your father then," said Emma. Henry could catch the wistful undertone in her voice as her gaze shifted to her husband who had drifted off into a light slumber.
Henry could sense that his visit was coming to an end. He rose and kissed his mother on the cheek. "Farewell, mama. I best get home before darkness sets in and Penelope starts fretting. I will call upon Kitty tomorrow and ask her to make a visit to you."
"Do tell Katherine that her papa and I give her our best wishes and that we hope to see her at Donwell Abbey soon as I want to see my grandchildren," Emma responded, patting her son's cheek affectionately. "You are a loving son, Harry."
Henry thought of his little deceit in covering up his father's illness but he feigned a smile. "Goodnight, mama. Give papa my farewell when he awakes."
Emma smiled softly. "Of course I will. Goodnight, Harry."
"Goodnight, mama."
After seeing her son off, Emma came back to the garden where her husband was sleeping. She sat and gazed upon him for an indeterminable amount of time and was surprised to see him awake and watching her silently.
"How long have I been asleep?" he murmured.
"Not long."
Mr. Knightley threaded his right hand with her left.
"I know what you are trying to do, and it will not work," Emma said.
"Pardon?"
"You encouraging Frank Churchill to accompany me everywhere."
"I know not what you are insinuating."
Emma gently brushed some hair out of his face. "You are grooming Frank to replace you. You think that somehow once you pass away, I will become the second Mrs. Churchill."
Mr. Knightley flushed and he dropped his eyes to his lap. "I did not want you to spend your days with an invalid. You deserve someone with strength and virility and that man has a surfeit of it."
"I don't want anyone else but you," Emma said fiercely.
Mr. Knightley could not speak. His face twisted as if he was in the final throes of life. Emma's eyes were wet with emotion. She threw all sense of society etiquette and carefully placed herself on his blanketed lap. She pressed his grey head to her breast and stroked his hair.
"The tenuous threads of our lives have been entwined since I was born, my love. You were first my brother, then my dearest friend, and then finally my dearest love—you are my lord and husband, the man whom I cherish above every other living thing. I cannot imagine giving myself to any other man—it would be a gross betrayal to you."
"My dearest Emma," he croaked, his voice thick with barely restrained emotion. "For dearest you are and always shall be to me..."
Emma rubbed her watering eyes with her spare hand. "I'm not going anywhere, you foolish man."
"Good," he replied in a barely audible voice.
Emma smiled through her tears as Mr. Knightley pressed his lips to her hand like a knight paying his undying fealty to his sovereign lady.
They did not need to exchange any further words. They merely sat entwined together as the last flickers of light seeped from the sky and dusk set in.
The End.