Chapter 8

The Ripple

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"Men of sense do not want silly wives!" Mr. Knightley's words skittered through her mind like the skipping rocks she was tossing. She hadn't sat and tossed rock since she was young—the last recollection was when she was flummoxed and feeling overwrought about her math figures.

Mathematics would have been a welcomed treat in comparison to how she felt at present. She was a mixture of emotion. On reflection, she had never felt more shame, misery, and infuriation all in one moment.

Shame she knew the source. She thought over the entire conversation they had in the parlor. He did not normally mince words, he may as well have said he did not want her as his wife.

He had told her it was better to be senseless than to misapply reason the way she did. In essence proving her to be silly, but with fuller sentences and enhanced vocabulary.

In fact, the way he argued his case left no doubt that he believed her to be silly. The word almost felt poisonous to her now.

His argument was full of sound reason and moderated frustration. The determination of his conviction begged the question as to how long exactly he had believed this to be the case.

Tears leaked out at that deeper inspection.

She wasn't what he had wanted. He made her feel shame over giving Harriet honest council.

Misery was clear-cut as well. He was her greatest friend. The one person she would never expect to dissert her or turn against her.

To present, he had stood with her through it all. She had clung to him in the wake of her father's death. He had taken her under his wing as only the kindest of friends would. Even when Isabella had argued for Emma's return to London, he had stood by her, defended her and protected her and everything she held dear.

And yet at the slightest provocation—no—at the slightest offense to a lowly farmer—he has her labeled silly, foolish and unthinking. He tells her in not so many words that he wishes it was undone.

Yes, while he may not have said it aloud, she felt it in her very bones that he would take his choice back if he could. It was implied in everything he had spoken to her in the parlor.

Afterall, Mr. Knightley prided himself on being a sensible man. If anyone that knew him was asked to give but one character descriptive, Emma was certain that nine of ten would use the exact word sensible. It was the nearest word and depicted his most prominent qualities exactly. The sole outlier would like use a word like steadfast or prudent—or some other attribute that was contained within the summation of the notion of what sensible meant.

For this reason, his word regarding sensible men, such as himself, not wanting silly wives struck a deep cord.

It was a simple deduction. If sensible men did not want silly wives. And if he was sensible and she was silly, then he did not want her as his wife.

Misery.

She felt cold all over and it wasn't because she had walked in the spring rain to the trout pond towards Randalls. If felt an unnatural cold, like it was deep in her limbs and unlikely to shift anytime soon.

Infuriation—everything that had transpired caused her to feel angry. While her body felt like ice all over, her ears and cheeks felt hot –like the rage was bottled up from the moment he had walked out of the parlor.

She couldn't believe she had called him by his Christian name with no response. She felt wild and annoyed even thinking over that moment.

How dare he walk away? How dare he disrespect her so? To ignore her! To leave without a resolution! How dare he?

The rocks that hit the water while she considered how angry she felt didn't skip, not even once, instead they dropped angrily into the water making a hasty descent to the lake floor.

And he, she almost laughed to herself; he claimed to be the sensible one! And she, oh yes, naturally she was silly and childish! How very right! She shook her head in annoyance at it all.

She was going back to Donwell, she was going to have her maid draw her bath and then she was going to show him how very sensible she was.

It was very late when his frame began moving into the doorway of her room.

"I wasn't sure if you would be awake still. I was downstairs trying to piece together the correct course of action. Truth be told I wasn't sure I would be welcome and yet our routine is—well our routine and—"

"Mr. Knightley, it is your household and you may sleep wherever you wish. As you know—it is the pretense of a marriage after all and I will not be offended. "

His grimace was pronounced. A fleeting reaction to a sensation that he did not like; yet, he seemed to flick it off as one would a fly, offering "You might not be offended Emma but you will be cold." He said this as he pulled back the cover on his side of her bed, after a moments pause, "and you may call me George as you did earlier,"

She laughed out a terse sounding laugh that contained more of a sharp edge than she was intending to show. She had planned to be above it all, to ignore the pain and feelings that had been welling up inside her at the lake shore. It was not to be, gone was the false sweetness and practiced formal façade. "As silly as you may believe me to be, I am certainly not in the habit of repeating methods that have no effect. There wasn't the slightest flicker of recognition to the name George, I think I will stick by the proven method Mr. Knightley."

His deep sigh, followed by a tired sounding "Goodnight Emma," was all she heard as he took his portion of covers and rolled to his side, back facing her.

Feeling just a touch pleased with herself—if felt as if this was winning somehow—that his lack of response signified victory. "Goodnight Mr. Knightley."

She told herself that was why she couldn't sleep; that it hadn't a thing to do with her hurt feelings, the fact that she was reminiscing over their friendship in past, or that he was too far away and that they were too emotionally distant to allow her to tuck her cold feet against his leg as she had before.

She often woke before him but this morning he was awake and had left before she did.

Any other morning she may not have thought a thing about it.

Mrs. Hodges told her that he was away for the day on business.

Ah yes, business. Who was childish now? She thought to herself.

"Mrs. Hodges, I am redecorating this room. I am peeling the paper before breakfast and I need to see sample colours of the wallpapers offered in town by lunch, is that manageable,"

"Mrs. Knightley, surely you do not intend to peel the papers yourself. I can hire someone in the town to do that, I can have them started by the end of the week," she assured.

"Mrs. Hodges, I have been idle for too many days now, some small exertion will be good for me and I must confess, I do love to be involved in a project, as intimately as my skill set will allow. While I have no talent for applying the papers, an office at Hartfield attests to this. I have seen by experience that it is rather impossible to mess up the removal of the old paper," Emma insisted. "I will need a large pot that will allow me to heat water, sponges and a trowel should you have one available."

It was rounding on three o'clock went she changed out the water again for new, standing outside over the water pump in an old chemise nightgown, wearing her painting apron. Her hair was wrapped up as neatly as she could manage using a piece of old silk to keep her hair out of the way of her work. She wiped her forehead where beads of sweat had collected and then pressed her palm into the fabric of the indigo colour apron. She was grateful for the dark colour of the apron; it hid a multitude of old paint marks and stains.

Her hands she examined did not. As she pumped she considered the amount of colour that her hands had absorbed from the old paper. The grey damask print was saturated with ink and as she applied the heated water to soften the glue behind, the colour had also marked her skin. The lines in her hands grey, the ribbing around her fingernails almost a blue-black, the normal white of her nails, chipped from scraping at the wallpaper and etched almost midnight black as if she had been digging in the garden without her gloves. Oddly, her hands reminded her of Mrs. Knightley's figure from her dreams, but she dashed that thought away as quickly as it had been realized. She was not concerned. It would clean up in time, it wasn't as if she had anyone to see, and gloves were always worn to church.

The task had been considerably more than she had expected. She was grateful for it though, it prevented her from thinking. Well, now that wasn't expressly true. It may have only kept her hand busy as she thought. Or perhaps gave her something the scrape and claw at as she thought about how angry she felt and how unsatisfied she was by Mr. Knightley's conflict resolution strategies—or lack thereof.

Heavens, it was warm work as well, the heat of the room from the fire used to keep a constant supply of hot water, the spring sunshine through the large window, her body was also warm through motion and the use of hot warm to strip the paper. After some consideration she removed the apron; it was so hot and the chemise was stained with grey splash marks anyway. The relief she felt having put aside the apron encouraged her to hitch the skirt upward securing it at the knee. It wasn't as if anyone would see her, she had told the maids not to bother her and that she would come to the kitchen once she was hungry.

It must have been pressing past supper time when he found her. The sun was lower but she felt as hot as she had all afternoon, sweat on her brow, her body felt sticky and her back and shoulders tight from exertion.

"Mrs. Hodges tells me that you've eaten nothing all day, I can not—" he had begun as he entered the room but stopped up seeing her standing on a ladder reaching up for the top of one of the few remaining paper strips.

"Yes, well, it is merely how I am once I am set upon a project. To be honest, it has taken me significantly longer than I expected. The old paper was of such a quality that it was very difficult to encourage it to part from the wall. It also has a tendency to split in places rather than to pull away in a neat strip. I considered stopping to eat but I did not want to bathe in order to change into suitable dining clothes only to return to change back again into the dirty ones." Emma explained, busing her nails scratching.

"Step down Emma, you'll make yourself sick carrying on as you do," He said stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. She couldn't have known it but his thoughts were on how much skin she had exposed and the idea of anyone else seeing her like this.

"No, besides, I have been taking plenty of water," she motioned to a glass picture, condensation rolling down the sides of the glass. She could see that he was not convinced and continued, "I am nearly finished and please leave the door as it was, it draws some of the hot air out letting it escape into the rest of the house,"

"Emma," he began again sounding tired and yet she was certain, as he had started off with her name, that despite his better judgement, he wanted to make it an argument.

"No, I am almost done and I am not stopping until I am finished. I have been looking forward to nothing more than a cold bath since noon and I'm itching to finish this now,"

"Then allow me to help you," he offered while moving to stand next to the ladder.

"You'll get your hands dirty, and you don't need to have the necessity of wearing gloves in public at all time for the next few weeks," she said, using one of her hands to brush him aside.

His own caught her at the wrist, "Emma, your hands are blistered, get down," he insisted, giving her wrist a gentle pull in his direction.

"They aren't blistered, just a little swollen, the hot warm has a way of making them red and puffy," she said tugging her hand back. "These papers have required at least twice as much hot water applied as any papers I've ever removed and the room is at least twice as large, my hands will recover," she told him, satisfied as her hand fell away from his.

As if calculating the likelihood of her listening and looking for a different method of action, he asked, "If I brought food up, would you stop a while and eat something?"

"Only if you promise me to entertain each and every one of my silly ideas, and bring the paper swatches that Mrs. Hodges has collected for me up from the parlor,"

He nodded, either not catching or ignoring her choicely planted word.

She would show him silly-if only to prove true contrast to her regular behaviour and natural self.

Chewing her first bite of dinner she realized how hungry she was,

"When I am finished with the wallpaper and the overall décor of this room, I would like to look at the ballroom with you. I think your forbearers were too old fashion English for their own good. The ballroom area is entirely plain—undoubtedly they enjoyed their subdued English style but it is more than a little heartbreaking to think that meanwhile, France was the height of fashion with their ballrooms draped with gold and attractive colours—"She let out an exaggerated whimsical sigh and the continued in a more serious tone, "I am certain the ballroom needs attention before we throw a ball. In fact, I was thinking the first ball at Donwell in years could be in celebration of my birthday."

He sighed, "Emma, it is too soon,"

"I know July might sound short timing, and while I have not thrown a ball before I am certain I am capable to do it. I will dedicate as much time and attention as the task requires. In the few months that remain before my birthday, I am certain I can accomplish anything I set my mind too. I did promise to be the greatest mistress of Donwell, save your mother," she offered each notion so quickly that there was no space between any of the words to respond. "Great mistresses throw balls, Mr. Knightley, it is simply what they do."

"I did not mean to imply a doubt in your ability. I also plan to ensure that your birthday is well celebrated, but quietly. I had thought maybe a trip, somewhere away from Highbury. When I say it is too soon, I mean that it is too soon in distance from your father's passing."

Emma heard herself gasp; it took a few moments for her brain to confirm that indeed she had made the sound. She could only stare at him wide-eyed, unable to articulate any of the fleeting thoughts that jettisoned before she could fully capture them.

She felt the colour rise in her cheeks, she was silly. She was silly like he said, she had not thought about the length of time required before she could host a party and heaven forbid appear happy in public.

"Emma," He spoke, and his own voice was so soft when he spoke then it felt like butter against the burn she had gotten from a warming pan when she was little. "I do not mean to imply that you do not feel his loss keenly. I know that each person is apt to grieve the loss in their own way." His tone and words were gentle and soothing—immediately cooling the throbbing pain and almost promising that everything would be all right again soon. He continued, "However, throwing a lavish party would be the cause for talk and harsh ideas to spoken carelessly. You may work to make the space ready for your ball, I think if you wished to host a New Year's Ball the timing would be acceptable,"

She wasn't fully sure at what point she had started to cry, but it startled her at first and she moved quickly to brush the first few tears away. The motion was not particularly useful as her emotions seemed to rush her all at once as if the first teardrops had opened the floodgates. The pain felt multifaceted, everything all at once, the agony from the loss of her father mixed with feelings of foolishness for not thinking of the ramifications of hosting a party –she felt angry at herself. Perhaps most shaming was feeling once more that she had proved him right. She wasn't wise or calculating; she was impetuous and prone to speaking before thinking or acting without thinking too far ahead. She was silly and his words from before echoed again. He didn't want a silly wife.

She knew she was a sorry sight, hands stained grey, disheveled hair, looking unkept sitting in an old nightgown as hiccup like sobs wracked her tired frame. While she had felt on the verge of overheating earlier, she felt suddenly like ice water was coursing through her veins.

She wasn't shocked when his arms came around her to comfort her. He was the sort to be moved by compassion, she knew this—she had seen it from him before. And when he pulled her to him, she took shaky breaths against the fabric of his shirt, pretending not to recognize his scent and ignoring the familiarity of the action and taking the gesture as it was intended and for nothing more. It did not change the fact that she was not the wife he would have chosen.


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