Two days later, Knightley had not seen or heard from Emma. She was absent from her daily walk, had not visited the parishioners with her mercy baskets, and Mrs. Bates had mentioned that she had not been at the party last night.

When he went to Highbury to investigate, he was met by Mr. Woodhouse. "Come to see Emma, my boy?" the old man queried.

Knightley frowned. "Has she recovered from her... fall?" He asked, with only a slight hesitation.

Mr. Woodhouse shook his head. "No, the poor child was so damaged; I've a mind to never let her go out on a walk again, if she's going to be so careless!" He leaned in and said in a lower tone. "She's absolutely covered in bruises. Head to toe. Well, maybe not her toes," he rambled, "but her abigail tells me she's never seen so many bruises. Arms, legs... child's a black and blue mess, apparently. Nancy can't even figure out how she managed to get some of them. Seems to have fallen into a nest of twigs or something, to look at her." He shook his head. "She says she's so sore that she can't even get out of bed. Turned her ankle, apparently."

Listening to Mr. Woodhouse's speech, Knightley's heart sank. Turned her ankle? Knightley couldn't remember anything about Emma's ankle from when she appeared on his doorstep. That was a worrying sign. "Is she available for visitors, Mr. Woodhouse?"

The old man furrowed his brow. "I can't imagine that she's receiving in general, poor thing. But she's always been fond of you and might make an exception, I suppose. Might do her good." He waved his arm in the direction of the staircase. "Can't expect her to come down, though." He toddled on into the library, leaving Knightley standing alone in the entry hall. He sighed pensively before climbing the stairs up to Emma's room. She was really too old, and he too much of a bachelor, but if her father had nothing to say on the matter, he thought he'd go up this one final time. He resolved to try to avoid such visits in the future, though, and thought, not for the first time, that what Emma really needed was a companion. Which would have prevented this entire thing. He'd have to speak to Mr. Woodhouse about the idea. But, for now... Emma. He stared at the wooden door in front of him, and knocked softly. "Emma?" He called. "It's me."

He heard a rustling inside and then her voice called out, much weaker than he expected to hear, "Mr. Knightley?" He hesitated. "Come in," she finished. He opened the door to a startling sight. Emma was white and haggard, covered by mounds of blankets. There was a clear bruise on her cheek. Leaving the door open, he came to sit in the chair next to the bed.

"Hello, Mr. Knightley," she said uncertainly.

"I haven't seen you out," he said quietly. "Your father said you turned your ankle."

"I didn't want to go out," Emma apologized, "so I needed an excuse."

Knightley bit his lip. "Emma, I know it's hard, but... I think it would be good for you to not stay in the house."

Emma got out of the bed and walked over to the window. She turned around when she heard Knightley's sharp intake of breath. "What is it, Mr. Knightley? Repulsed by what you see?"

"Emma," he said very carefully, "what happened to your neck?"

Her hands flew to her neck, a blush spreading over her face as she realized his euphemism, because it was more her upper chest than her neck that he must have meant. She'd rubbed the skin raw, along with her calves, thighs, and even toes, but he didn't need to know that. "Just-was hard to get the dirt off," she said reluctantly.

Knightley's eyebrows knit together, but he didn't reply. For a long period, neither of them said anything at all; she looked out the window and he looked at her. Finally he spoke. "Emma, you didn't tell me; how did you escape?"

She whirled around. "His companions told him he was fishing for trouble because I was a gentlewoman, and that they'd better hurry if they wanted to escape with their necks." Emma bit her lip. "I couldn't fight him," she said whispered. "I think of it over and over in my mind and, oh, Mr. Knightley, I'm not even sure I tried."

Knightley's look of pity was more than she could bear, and less than she could interpret.

"Mr. Knightley... what does that make me?" She asked. "What kind of woman doesn't try to get away?"

He took a step towards her before remembering her reaction earlier, and tried to make his tones as encouraging as he could. "You were petrified, Emma," he began, and she nodded. "I'm sure you weren't thinking of anything clearly." He pursed his lips. "You can't blame yourself," he finished.

"I didn't know how to fight even if I wanted to," she continued. "He was so strong. I felt like... like I couldn't move. He was like stone."

Anger surged through Knightley. "I feel like he should be caught, Emma," he said. "Or at least, you should tell your father, and he can decide what to do."

"No!" Emma's fear was palpable. "You cannot tell Papa. There is nothing to be done-we established that yesterday. Nothing Papa could do. I fear for his heart."

"And for your own freedom, I imagine," Knightley added. "He'd never let you out again." He sighed. "Still. I think I will tell the constable that I've heard a rumor of highwaymen, and ask him to increase the patrol-and maybe they'll catch them. They can hang for their thievery alone."

Emma nodded wordlessly.

"I'll go now," he said abruptly, and started toward the door. "But, Emma- dear, dear friend." He looked at her solemnly. "You must know this is not your fault. And," he added quietly, "the dirt is all gone. You're clean." And then he was gone.

A couple of weeks later, the constable caught the highwaymen, and in due time, they were tried and hung. Knightley hoped it was the end of Emma's troubles, for he hated to see his young friend so disturbed. Something of her old glow was greatly dimmed, enough that Mrs. Weston began to notice and remarked on it to Knightley, who was surprised that Emma had not confided in her old governess. She was beginning to resume her old activities, but something still seemed to burn with shame.