A/N: I looked back on what I said about this story being only a few chapters – ha! I can't seem to keep it concise; more and more stuff needs to happen, and it gets out of control and practically writes itself. Case in point: the content of this chapter was supposed to be only the first half of this chapter.
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Chapter Nine – Breaking the News
'Emma, my dear,' Mr. Woodhouse said, once she and Mr. Knightley were comfortably settled in their usual seats a little further back from the fire than his own, 'so how was the trip? Did you all enjoy yourselves?'
Emma's answer came at once. Of course she had enjoyed herself, most thoroughly. She had had a very pleasant drive there and back – which was more than could be said for Mr. Knightley, who had been exceedingly glad to take Bessie and ride to Hartfield as soon as the Eltons' carriage had reached the vicarage – and she had found the views spectacular and the picnic itself very pleasant.
Her eyes shone as she spoke. 'That view from the summit, Father – that was truly the best of all. One could see for miles around – I could have stood there all day just gazing at it!' Mr. Knightley smiled at her enthusiasm. 'That was truly my favourite part of our outing.'
His smile widened to become what could only be called wicked. 'Was it, Emma? My favourite part was quite something else.' He was delighted to see the blush which instantly began to spread over her face at his words, and even more so at the tiny smile on her lips which could not be suppressed.
Perhaps it was lucky for both of them that Mr. Woodhouse was so concerned that Emma's enthusiasm would lead to more of the worrying wanderlust which had brought about the first trip. Otherwise he might have asked just what that "something else" was. 'I hope you won't be planning another trip soon, Emma,' he said anxiously. 'My dear, you don't know how travel can damage your health.'
Emma smiled fondly at her father. 'Oh, Box Hill has quite satisfied me for the present, Father,' she said reassuringly. Then she shot a glance at Mr. Knightley, smiling softly. 'Although in a little while – hopefully not too long from now – I think I should like to travel once more, perhaps for just a week or two.'
Mr. Woodhouse was quite discomposed. 'Travel? For two weeks? Emma, what a strange thing to say!'
Mr. Knightley ventured to speak. 'Indeed, sir, and Emma has another yet stranger to say to you, I believe.'
Emma looked at him in something like panic, and he could plainly read the plea in her eyes – what, now?
He gave the barest nod. Yes, now. It was only right to appraise Mr. Woodhouse of their plans at this opportunity; their keeping it a secret thus far, though necessitous, had not exactly been ideal. And when all was right and honourable, what was the need for prolonging mystery and secrecy, as if they had committed some crime?
However, he said no more. Ultimately it was up to Emma, and if she felt it was too soon, then she could make up something 'strange' to satisfy the curiosity his words had aroused in Mr. Woodhouse, and he would not allude to the subject again that night.
He saw her take a deep breath, as if gathering up her courage, and as she turned to her father, Mr. Knightley smiled softly. That was his Emma – overcoming her apprehensions, never shirking her duty. 'Indeed, Father,' she began, 'Mr. Knightley is right. We – that is, he and I – have come up with a plan to promote the happiness of all, if we can only obtain your consent.' Despite the nervousness he knew she must be feeling, she spoke cheerfully, and he understood that they must both appear so if they were to have any hope of warding off a "poor Emma!" from Mr. Woodhouse. 'In fact,' she continued, sparing Mr. Knightley a wry smile, 'it is such a wonderful plan that I am sorry we neither of us thought of it earlier.'
Poor Mr. Woodhouse looked at his daughter in benign curiosity, little suspecting the blow which was soon to overthrow his peace of mind.
'In short, Father,' Emma said, 'we – that is, Mr. Knightley and I – mean to marry, by which means he will be constantly here at Hartfield with us.' She paused for a moment as if to gauge his reaction, and her face fell a little at his horrified expression. 'I know, Father,' she continued hurriedly, 'that after myself, Isabella and Mrs. Weston, Mr. Knightley is the person dearest to you in the world – and so he is to me as well; so do you not agree that it would be a wonderful thing to have him here at Hartfield every day?'
Mr. Woodhouse sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping. 'That is all true,' he admitted quietly. But then he roused himself. 'But we see Mr. Knightley every day as it is – why can't things remain the same as they always were? Marriage is a terrible thing, Emma – look how harassed poor Isabella is these days, running around after five children in the smoke of London – and think of poor Miss Taylor, forced to leave Hartfield!'
Thinking of Isabella, happily mothering her children with the man she loved, and Mrs. Weston in a house of her own with the man she loved, joyfully looking forward to a baby, Emma had to smile at her father's persistence in pitying them. But it would be of no use to try and convince him that either of the women could be tolerably happy outside of Hartfield. 'You forget, Father,' she said gently, 'that my marriage will not take me away from Hartfield – in fact the only change will be one for the better – that of having our dear Mr. Knightley here with us always.' She clasped her father's hand affectionately. 'I am sure, Father, that once you are used to the idea, you will be a great deal happier for having Mr. Knightley always at hand. Do you not love him very much? You will not deny it, I am sure.'
'To be sure, Emma,' poor Mr. Woodhouse finally admitted.
Before he could think of another objection, Emma continued. 'And whom do you ever want to consult on business but Mr. Knightley? Who is so useful, who so ready to write your letters, who so glad to assist you? Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached to us both? Would you not like to have him always on the spot?'
'I suppose so,' her father said, but even though being assured by his daughter of the certainty of his future happiness and having himself no plausible objections left to urge, he looked miserable at the idea.
Mr. Knightley sighed. He had been hoping that the principle objection would be against Emma leaving Hartfield, which would mean his moving there would easily overcome it. 'My dear sir,' he said quietly, 'I can understand that the change must seem a great one to you; but consider how long we have all been old friends – how many times we have gathered in this room to talk, laugh, exchange news and opinions and enjoy each others' society. We have long been like a family already, and Emma and I simply wish to make official what has been there all this time. The change, I hope even you will allow, except in points which must recommend it to us all as an improvement, will be hardly noticeable.'
It had never been in Mr. Woodhouse's nature to be impolite or to wish to offend anyone. In fact, his anxiety that nobody feel themselves or their merits unappreciated by himself was one of the reasons why he was so well-loved by all who knew him. 'Indeed, Mr. Knightley,' he said worriedly, 'I am sure I should like to have you here always. I never meant to imply that Emma and I do not wish to have you here – I do hope I have not offended you.'
Mr. Knightley smiled gently. 'Not at all, sir. Emma is your youngest daughter and I know you have always been most deeply involved in promoting her happiness and protecting her from harm, and I know that such concerns will naturally make you cautious in this matter.' When he spoke his next words, not even the most suspicious and overprotective father could have doubted his earnestness and sincerity. 'But I can promise you, sir,' he continued, 'that I will do anything in my power to make Emma happy, and I would never intentionally hurt her.' For a moment, he smiled softly at Emma. 'I count myself lucky to have her regard, and yours – and I would never do anything to jeopardise either.'
Mr. Woodhouse's misery seemed to be softening, and to aid this effect, Mr. Knightley added some heartfelt praise of Emma, her affectionate heart, her intelligence and her beauty, and then he had to choke down a laugh as he saw Emma's exaggerated look of astonishment. The effect on Mr. Woodhouse was as intended, however; he could never find praise of his beloved daughter unwelcome, and Emma and Mr. Knightley were gratified to hear him speak of their plan as something which might not be so very dreadful if it took place in a year or two. It was as much as could be hoped for for now; and over the next few days they could attempt to whittle down that time frame to a month or two instead.
His duty to Emma's father discharged, his reassurances and promises given, after some time Mr. Knightley had nothing more to do than to take his leave for the night. Emma accompanied him to walk him down the drive, announcing that she was in need of the fresh evening air, and after stipulations to take her pelisse as well as two shawls, Mr. Woodhouse let her go.
As soon as they were out of the door, she turned to him with laughing eyes. 'What was all that back there, Mr. Knightley?' she asked, an eyebrow raised. 'I thought you despised flattery.'
He looked down at her very seriously. 'I do, Emma,' he said firmly. 'But that was not flattery – I meant every word.'
Emma's eyes were bright as for the first time she reached up to kiss him. Some moments later, her forehead resting against his, she smiled. 'Are you not afraid that your praise will spoil me and further puff up my vanity?'
He grinned. 'You, my dear Emma, have too much sense to be allowing the opinion of such a ridiculously biased person to be swelling your head, I am sure. Of course as the man who is in love with you, I would believe all I said in your praise to be true.'
She laughed outright. 'Oh, I like that – so what you are saying is that all my merits are merely the result of your own delusion?'
'Entirely, my dearest, loveliest, most beloved Emma.'
'It would seem to me, my dearest, handsomest, most beloved Mr. Knightley, that you are quite extreme in your delusion.'
He smiled down at her happily. 'No man could be more so.'
