Part IX

It was certainly wrong of George to have thought that Grace was too young to subject to reasons, after all, he and Emma had righted their teachable daughter some less comely behaviours with reasons on previous occasions, and Grace had seldom needed more than a few gentle reminders for the teachings to stay in her heart. Moreover, unbeknown to the father, he was guilty in more than one count of mistaken notion.

Any father who had children past their small years would advise George that, either out of the purity of their hearts or their wishes to please, young children, generally, were apt to give promises, nevertheless, most, if not all, were too immature to consider the consequences of their given words. And a more experienced father would have told George that it would be a mistake to expect a child who had just stirred from her sleep, was fatigued and irritable, to exercise sufficient self-restrains, in spite of how precocious and exceptional the youngster was, to keep a promise that she had made half a day ago.

But, unfortunatley, George had not the advantage of an experienced father near him! Make no mistakes, dear reader – there was certainly not a lack of fathers in the Donwell Master's social circle. Mr Woodhouse his father-in-law was one of the oldest fathers in Highbury, his friend Weston had a daughter who was only a bit more than a year older than his little Grace, the vicar Elton had a set of twin boys about two months before he and Emma had their first child, and Robert Martin the excellent gentleman-farmer was already a father of three children after a month shy of four years of marriage. However, as fathers, none of these men were serviceable to George. As he had always thought Mr Woodhouse too indulgent of a father to be modelled after, Weston was too jolly a fellow to worry over any matters (even matters regarding little Anna) with his heart, Elton seemed more concerned over the ability of the parishioners to tithe than his twin boys and was forever complaining that his family's appetite too large for his income, and Robert Martin, who always had a smile of contentment about his face whenever George inquired after his family, relied entirely upon his wife and mother to look after his children so he could devote himself to the geese, cattle, and sheep of Abbey Mills Farm.

That night, fully anticipating that his daughter would not plead his wife away from him, George was particularly disappointed when he heard a knock on the Mistress Chamber door. Grace had just awakened from a brief sleep and came directly for her mother. She was undoubtedly exhausted, her waddling feet carried her into the room, her hands rubbing her sleepy eyes with little mercy, her spirit was irritable, and her little soul inconsolable. It was plain to George that his two-year-old had forgotten the promise she made to him. He had wished to remind her of their conversation in the morning, but she had leapt into Emma's arms as soon as she came in, and her wearied tears had stricken Emma so deeply that he simply did not have the heart to tear his child and wife apart.

Never the less, when the next morning came, and when Grace's eyes shone as lively as the August sun, her smiles brightened everyone's face, and her spirit was blithe and cheerful, not a vestige of the weary little soul from the night before could be detected in her, George did find the opportunity to speak with Grace. It was then that their previous conversation was duly refreshed, and the day-old promise was re-entered between him and his two-year-old.

With half the hope that he had the night before, George went into the evening with careful anticipation, but regrettably, yet not surprisingly, history repeated itself. And for the next two days, Grace had made the same promise to him but broke them just the same in the nightfall. From being hopeful, to having half-hope, to accepting the truth with no hope in the horizon, George had given up the notion that he could reclaim his wife at night anytime soon.

Perhaps – he thought – when Grace grew another year older… or… when she grew out of waking up at night!

George was willing to accept the lot of being a father, much like the way he was willing to give up his own comfort for the comfort of his father-in-law when he married his bride. So, that was his selfless resolve – until – an unexpected turn of event happened after three nights of broken promises…

Mr Woodhouse had come to Donwell Abbey for supper. It was the third time in a week that the old gentleman had left his home and came to the Abbey to dine with his beloved daughter, his favourite son-in-law, and his dearest granddaughter.

After supper, the family had retreated to the drawing room partaking tea and the delights of being with family, the felicity of three generations spending intimate time together filled the atmosphere of the ancient house.

Mr Woodhouse, who was seated on the armchair next to the sofa but nearest the hearth with a small fire, was presently leaning comfortably against the plush back of the chair. Emma, with three-month-old William in her arms, was sitting gracefully on the sofa, cooing and smiling contentedly at her son and daughter while listening to the conversations between her husband and father. And George, as customary, had placed himself next to his wife on the sofa, squeezing tenderly the tiny hands and feet of their son between his fingers, setting his eyes on their daughter whenever his father-in-law paused to sip his tea during their discourse, and brushed his arm against Emma's occasionally, and affectionately, to tell her silently that he was thinking of her even as he spoke to her father.

And let us not forget dear little Grace – the happy two-year-old had taken the box of wooden letters from the nursery and laid them on the tea-table in front of the sofa, in front of her grandpapa, her mother, her father, and baby brother. While the grown-ups were regaling the happenings for the day in Highbury, Grace was stacking the letters in their proper order and willing her infant brother to learn the alphabets in his early age. She had been turning back and forth fetching the blocks from the tea-table to show William, each time with a different letter. She would hold up the letter block in front of her brother and then explained to him what it was.

"Look, William, this is the letter G, which is the G in my name, Grace, and Grandpapa's," she gently opened the tiny fist of her baby brother and placed the block in his palm.

William's hand might be tiny, but he had his father's long fingers and they were strong enough to hold onto the block, the little laddie broke into the most adorable gurgles whenever his sister spoke animatedly to him.

"Well done, William!" Clapping and singing praises, Grace adored her younger sibling. "Very soon, you shall be able to say the letters with me!"

One by one, the big sister repeated the exercise with her brother patiently. She taught William the letters M which was for Mama, P for Papa, and W for his very own William.

All the adults were very proud of the two-year-old, Emma, her mother, in particular.

"You are such an excellent teacher, Grace! Mama wishes I was as industrious as you are when I was your age." Emma doted on her daughter, who was beaming her dimpling smile at her. Then she turned to George with an adoring smile, "In this respect," she said indulgingly to him, "Grace has certainly taken after you, Mr Knightley!" When in front of her father, she always called her George by his family name.

"But Grace has learnt her patience for William from you, Emma – by the way you have taught her since she was William's age." As an old friend, Mr Knightley might have been quick to correct his young friend when she was a girl, but as a husband, George was just as ready to praise his wife who had grown out of her insolence and conceits since they wed.

"And what's more," George smiled warmly at Emma, "Grace has surely taken after your cleverness, my love! As I recall, you were able to recite the alphabets in proper order as early as Grace's age or perhaps earlier."

"Was I?" Emma asked, quite surprised.

"Oh yes, Emma my dear," Mr Woodhouse interposed happily, "even Papa could remember that! Your mother used to teach you the alphabets the same way, one by one with the wooden blocks. Papa could recall how you recited all the letters in proper order when you were not even dearest Grace's age, and you were so clever to make up a little song for the letters too…"

Amused by tales of her small years, "Did I indeed make up a song for the alphabets?" Emma asked.

Mr Woodhouse went into a distraction, exerting greatly to recall the song that little Emma made up more than twenty years ago.

"What was it…" The old gentleman was scratching his head, "…A… it ought to have started with the letter A…" his face scrunched up like a dried plum as he searched his old mind.

Emma could not bear to see her father agonizing over a song that she made up more than twenty years ago, particularly one that even she could not remember. Aiming to distract her father, she brought up a more recent subject matter…

"Mrs Waterhouse came to see me this afternoon, Father."

"A… it ought to start with thiswhat could it be… how did it go…" but Mr Woodhouse continued to be dazed.

"Father," Emma spoke a little louder, "Mrs Waterhouse came to the Abbey today…"

At last Mr Woodhouse broke off from his futile search. "W-whoWho came to the Abbey, my dear?"

"Mrs Waterhouse, Father."

"Humph…" the brows of the old man furrowed, "Was it about her daughter?"

Emma nodded.

"I wish she did not let her daughter quit Hartfield..." lamented the old gentleman.

"But Mrs Waterhouse did not let her daughter quit Hartfield, Father. They had an argument and Molly decided to engage herself to work for the Striblings without her mother's consent."

Mr Woodhouse drew a sigh, "What a shame! Look at the scrape she had gotten herself in…"

Emma nodded ruefully at her father and turned to George. "Is there nothing you could do for Mrs Waterhouse, Mr Knightley?" she asked. "She has worked for Hartfield since my mother was still alive; Mrs Waterhouse is practically heartbroken over the fate of Molly!"

George shook his head with a helpless sigh. "I wish I could, Emma. But Miss Waterhouse was engaged to live with and serve the Striblings for a year and she had taken a substantial advance in wages when she entered into the engagement. She had not been with the family for even a month and quitted the family for no apparent cause. I have given her more time to repay the wages than what is ordinarily allowed."

"But, Mr Knightley, would not you grant her more time for one last time?" pleaded Emma.

"I am sorry, Emma. Thrice I had accepted Miss Waterhouse's words on repaying the wages to the Striblings and granted her more time. But three times she has broken her promises. I am afraid there is nothing I could do but to abide by the law and send her to the gaol."

While all three adults have taken their eyes off of the children discussing Mrs Waterhouse's plea, the sound of wooden blocks crashing onto the mahogany tea-table startled all of them. And as their eyes had not soon enough turned to the source of the startling noise, little Grace had flown from where she stood and thrown both arms around her mother's waist, burying her face in the side of her mother, and bursting into a piercing cry.

The sound and the scene that horrified Mr Woodhouse the grandfather instantly threw Emma the mother into a panic and sent George the father onto his feet, moving swiftly to the side of their two-year-old.

But little Grace immediately recoiled from her father's touch, tremblingly hid as much of her small person between the cushion at the back of her mother and the curve of her mother's side while her hysteria grew worse and worse.

"What… what is the matter, Grace? Why are you crying?" Emma cried out anxiously, trying to hand baby William to the maid who had sprinted forward as soon as the child mistress broke into tears. "Did something frighten you? What is the matter? Please tell mama why you are crying, my baby…"

As Emma continued to implore, George tried to reach his hand for Grace, only to be shrugged off by her small rattling shoulders.

Emma had succeeded in handing William to the maid, was now wrapping Grace in her bosom. Tears of misery were streaming down the white cheeks of the two-year-old, the sight of which had sent the mother into deeper panic.

"Why are you crying, my baby… would you please tell mama?" she begged again.

"Are you hurt, Grace?" George asked anxiously, as anxious as Emma, neither he nor Emma had seen their ebullient child suddenly bursting into hysteria like this. He had wished to examine Grace's fingers for splinters or injury of sort from the wooden blocks, but every time when he attempted to lay his hand on her, she shrank violently from his slightest touch as if his hands were made of burning coal.

"Mama…Mama!" Grace ejaculated miserably, all her limps clutching stubbornly to her mother as she cried, "I do not want to live in the gaol… I do not want to live in the gaol!"

At last Emma saw a connection (though she was hopeless as to the cause of it!).

"Oh, Grace," she said more calmly, her panic had eased a little, stroking the back of her shuddering child, "Papa, Mama, and Grandpapa were speaking of Mrs Waterhouse's daughter, remember Mrs Waterhouse called the Abbey today?"

Emma tried to pry Grace's arms from her neck so she could pull her a little away to look into her eyes when she spoke, but the child's hold only grew firmer.

With her face hidden deep in the crock of her mother's neck, little Grace shook her head in fear, "Mama…please do not let Papa send me to the gaol…"

"But we were speaking of Mrs Waterhouse's daughter, Molly, my love!" Though Emma tried to reassure, she was at a loss as to the reason for Grace's violent reaction to an innocent conversation. "It is Molly whom Papa cannot help but send to the gaol. What gives you the absurd notion that Papa would ever send you to the gaol, my dear child?"

"I do not want to live in the gaol…" As if none of her mother's assurance had gotten through her ears, the two-year-old kept on crying into her mother's neck, "Please… Mama… please do not… do not let Papa send me to the gaol…"

As Grace continued to clench onto her, Emma, the helpless mother, shifted her gaze to George, the man of sense and reason, the pillar of superior judgement and discernment, the one person whom she looked to to give her counsel when she needed wisdom or at her wit's end.

Whereas she had expected to see discerning sparkles in the eyes of her astute husband, but, to her utmost surprise, she saw flashes of astonishment… disbeliefs… and… regrets instead!

The mother and wife sensed something was amiss and immediately changed her course of consideration.

Emma turned to look at her father, who, not to the least of her surprise, was devastated by the miserable state of his very dear granddaughter.

"Oh… Emma my dear…" the grandfather uttered distraughtly as soon as his daughter's eyes caught his, "Has dearest little Grace fallen ill? Shall… shall we send for Mr Perry?"

"Oh dear," Emma replied instantly, with an easy smile and a lightness in her voice, "Children have such extraordinary imagination, Father! Dearest Grace must have heard us speaking of the gaol and imagined herself living in it as we spoke. Such active imagination!" she gave a light-hearted laughter, "I daresay it must be another trait taken after me, do not you think, Father?"

Emma saw that what she said had produced the desired effect on her father, for his depressed countenance and scrunched face had lightened slightly.

"Pray, Father, there is nothing to be concerned about, and the least need to call for Mr Perry," she continued to reassure. "You know, Grace refused to take her nap this afternoon, she is only fatigued, which always turns her mind to unusual fancies!" Although Grace had not taken a nap since she was a year old, Emma managed to keep an innocent smile on her throughout this speech.

The relief in Mr Woodhouse was slowly expanding.

"Mr Knightley," clasping Grace tightly in her arms, Emma then turned to George, whose anxious eyes never left their precious daughter, and who had been keeping his hands near her in case she was willing to come to him, "would you be so kind to keep Father company while I take Grace directly to bed?" she asked.

George would much rather be staying with Grace to give her comfort and reassurance that he was anxious to give, but his grave eyes met Emma's beckoning gazes and held them for a moment. At length, recognising that there were two souls to be nursed and that his nursing skill in this particular instant would indeed be better employed with his father-in-law than his terrified daughter, he assented and watched Emma carrying their teary child, with Lucy at her heels and William in the nursemaid's arms behind, existing the drawing room.


A/N: Thank you, as always, for reading! :-)