A/N So sorry for the delay, once again – although I feel like I'm always showing up here and apologising. Honestly, you're all so lovely about this story it breaks my heart that I'm so lax at updating, but, rest assured, I am constantly trying to get something to you, and failing in my efforts to keep the word count down.
This chapter got a little out of hand so, most likely, there will be more of Emma's POV in the next chapter, when that one gets written.
Anyway, on with the show and I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: The recognisable characters do not belong to me.
Emma had thought she had a very clear idea of the risks involved in agreeing to a marriage of convenience. After all, marrying someone, sight unseen, was hardly a romantic proposition. And Emma had entered enough strange households in her life to understand exactly what problems could arise.
So she had been fully aware that the man who wrote those letters to her might be nothing like the image he presented in his words. Cruelty, neglect, or even just indifference were all possibilities.
But Emma hadn't married the man who wrote to her and she certainly hadn't expected to end up with a husband like Killian Jones, a man who exhibited none of the qualities she feared or expected.
It was awfully confusing. He was awfully confusing, or, at least she was often confused around him.
Perhaps it was a lack of sleep, or the odd little bout of elation she had felt at actually recovering her chicken from the vermin who'd tried to steal it but Emma felt both strangely at ease and terribly uncomfortable around Mr Jones as they stood in the dark of the farmyard.
And then he'd kissed her hand and she'd begun to feel as though things were spinning out of her control. As much as Emma had enjoyed the admiring glances he'd cast her the previous day as she left the bath this seemed a far more dangerous proposition.
Because it wasn't just about the physical relationship that a husband might expect of his wife cruelty, neglect or indifference on his part notwithstanding. This was something else entirely, something far more personal than Emma had ever expected.
Affection, or even something approximating it, had not been on the list of things Emma thought her new husband would offer her.
It was utterly bewildering. And exhilarating. And, mostly, she was torn between the urge to flee as far as she could and stay around and see what Mr Jones did next in case it was something else equally as pleasant.
But in the end her own empty bed beckoned and there was only so long she could stay in the dark with a dead chicken in her hand.
By the next morning she felt as though things were clearer in her mind. Of course she wanted to think Mr Jones was enamoured with her; she was a woman, after all. It would be so easy to just let herself respond to the advances of a man who clearly enjoyed her company. But in the end it was far better that she keep her heart locked away, just as she had since the day Neal Cassidy had walked out of her life forever. Better to keep herself free of the trauma and pain that trusting a man could bring her.
And Emma was inclined to believe that she was under no illusions where Mr Jones was concerned. His actions could, quite conceivably, be a façade he'd concocted to win her over; although what he could hope to gain from it she wasn't entirely certain. It wasn't as though he couldn't simply demand if not her affection, then certainly her submission, to any desires he might entertain. A marriage of convenience was still a marriage, and Emma had always known there was a great deal of such an arrangement that was purposed for the man's convenience and not the woman's.
She was a little lost as to what exactly the point of his game might be, if it was a game, but all the same quite prepared to just wait and see if she could figure it out.
There were other concerns, anyway, such as Henry's insistence that she re-live her encounter with the chicken-thief from the night before. "You really threw a boot?" he asked, having been, apparently, apprised of the story by Mr Jones as they milked the cows.
"I did. Eat your breakfast."
"But why a boot?"
The truth seemed like the best option to satisfy Henry's interest in the story. "It was the first thing I could lay a hand on when I woke up. And it seemed to do the trick."
Henry sighed, and didn't seem all that appeased. "But I didn't wake up," he complained. "How could I not wake up?"
"Well…I didn't throw it very noisily." Emma gave him a little shrug. "And you do sleep quite heavily."
Henry looked less than pleased with that comment, but it was the truth and Emma was glad of it. Glad that her son had, at least, had a pleasant enough childhood that he did not have to spend his nights wakeful and wary as she did.
It was a good thing that Henry slept like the dead.
"But Mr Jones woke up," Henry protested, as the man in question entered the cabin for breakfast.
"Aye. Well, noises in the yard will do that." Emma watched him, perhaps a little too carefully, as he sat down at the table. The trouble with that was that it was clear that Mr Jones was watching her too, no doubt attempting to gauge the appropriate reaction to whatever response she had to his presence.
It was exhausting, but also exciting, this constant dance taking place between the two of them. And Emma was more than a little unsure as to who was leading. She knew that if she smiled, Mr Jones would smile in return and his posture would relax somewhat, as though he had been worried that she might revoke his welcome to the breakfast table.
But it was also a given that at some point the smiles she was prepared to dole out wouldn't be enough for Mr Jones and he would begin teasing Henry, giving her knowing looks over her son's shoulder and Emma would find it hard not to smile, despite pressing her lips together, and her eyes would widen in a kind of warning which just seemed to encourage Mr Jones further.
It was, Emma thought, almost like a kind of courtship ritual, even though she was inclined to believe that such things were unnecessary given the fact they were already married, and once again, she had no idea what it was he attempted to gain from courting her.
And while there was a voice in her head urging her to just play along there was also one who kept reminding her what the consequences could be, should she forget he was most likely playing a game.
"I don't understand why no one woke me up. I could have helped," Henry complained, obviously not prepared to be easily dismissed.
"I…" Emma was about to reply that she hadn't really needed any help, but the look on Henry's face stopped her. "It probably wasn't worth disturbing you. It was over so quickly. And you needed your sleep."
"I would have been alright, Mama." There was a slightly exasperated tone to his voice now, as though he was struggling to understand why Emma might not have wanted to include him.
"The important thing, Henry," Mr Jones interjected. "Is that your mother is none the worse for wear after her night-time excursion. In fact, she's still as fresh as a daisy this morning, and just as lovely as ever." He finished with a smile in Emma's direction as he sat down at the table.
Emma didn't trust herself to say anything in response to that, although she could feel her face smiling at Mr Jones despite her reluctance to reward him. In a desperate attempt to temper it, she frowned as well which, she reflected, no doubt accounted for the way Mr Jones' eyes scanned her face trying to make sense of the expression she now wore.
Emma couldn't make sense of it herself, so she wished him all the luck in the world.
"And I, for one, am glad of that fact," Mr Jones continued, his eyes still on Emma as she placed a peeled egg in front of him. "After all, I'll be the one spending the day in her company. Be a shame if lack of sleep stopped her being her usual delightful self."
Emma considered whether or not there was an obvious reply to that statement which wouldn't end up with her denying that she had any charm and thus looking like a fool.
Whatever his game was, it appeared that Mr Jones was actually quite good at it.
Henry looked similarly confused by Mr Jones' words but for differing reasons. "Well…I don't know." His eyes flicked to Emma, as though assessing how safe it was to voice his thoughts about her in her presence. Unlike Mr Jones, he seemed to still have some sense of propriety.
"It's different, I suppose, when Mama isn't making you have a bath all the time. Probably that is delightful," he said in the end.
Emma thought she should probably chastise Henry for his cheek, but she wasn't sure she had it in her at the moment. She was mostly concerned with the idea of spending an entire day, alone, with Mr Jones. How many compliments could he possibly lavish on her and, more to the point, if she hadn't chastised him for any of them, was it too late now?
She was lost in her own thoughts when Mr Jones' voice broke through her reverie. "Are you joining us?"
"I…um…oh. Shortly." Emma had remained near the stove under the pretence of having something else to do, but under the watchful eye of Mr Jones it was hard to maintain her charade, although she made a valiant effort by remaining where she was and refusing to look in the direction of the table.
Mr Jones clearly turned his attention to Henry and she could hear him say "I'm sure that your seat-partner at school is glad your mother has such a strict bathing policy. I doubt she'd want to share a book with anyone who smelt too much like the cows."
"I…just…no," Henry said, clearly horrified by the notion that the girl Grace might care about the way he smelt. Or perhaps he just didn't like the idea of smelling like a cow in the first place. Emma wasn't entirely certain. "I don't need to have a bath just to go to school."
And then Mr Jones laughed, and Henry grumbled a few words that Emma didn't quite catch, and something twisted in her stomach and stopped her taking the three steps across the floor to the table which, even she realised, was a little ridiculous.
After all, Emma had known when she made the journey to Kansas that she wasn't coming here just so that she could find herself a husband. The reason she'd been so willing to accept an arrangement which was hardly likely to turn out in her favour had been Henry, and the chance to give him a family.
And now that's exactly what he was getting. At least, it seemed to be what Mr Jones was promising. It hadn't escaped Emma's attention that Mr Jones himself had all but told Henry he needed to get used to the teasing that came with a family.
But Emma was still wary, still waiting for it all to disappear, still suspicious that she would actually end up with anything akin to what had been promised. Too many years of being unwanted, too many broken promises, and too much hurt all conspired against the belief she could ever find any happiness in her life.
And the worst part was that she could feel the wariness creeping into her bones, telling her not to sit at the table and she knew exactly how she'd come to this point; all the families she'd lived with where she'd been deemed unsuitable, or worse, and then the brief entanglement with Neal that she preferred not to dwell on. It was far easier to view all of that as though it had happened to some other girl despite the dark and twisty thoughts it left in her mind.
"Mrs Swan? You should eat something. It's a long day ahead." Mr Jones' voice brought her out of the dark path her thoughts were leading her on.
"You're right," she conceded, finally sitting down and helping herself to a slice of bread. Emma ignored the way Mr Jones smiled at her as though he'd won some kind of prize by finally getting her to join Henry and himself for breakfast.
He was correct; it was certainly going to be a long day ahead if it was to be spent alone in a field with Mr Jones.
Henry eschewed Emma's offer to accompany him to school after breakfast insisting that he was more than familiar with the route to take now, and it left her free to carry out a few tasks, like plucking the chicken from the previous night, before Mr Jones would no doubt seek her out to help him in the field as she had promised.
Emma tried to pretend that she wasn't waiting for that moment with a mixture of anticipation and dread because, married or not, the fact that she might be suddenly arranging her life around a man seemed anathema to her.
It was better, she decided, to seek him out instead. Better to take the bull by horns or face her demons or whatever ill-fitting phrase you wanted to apply to the scenario.
And if Emma was almost looking forward to seeing if her arrival elicited the same warm response from Mr Jones that merely sitting across the table from him did, then she simply wasn't going to admit that at all.
But, when she found him in the hut where he resided he seemed flustered more than pleased with her appearance and it left Emma even more confused about his feelings towards her. Only after she'd agreed to wait for him beside the barn did she realise the cause of his concern and the reason he'd repeatedly run his right hand down his left arm when she'd approached him. Mr Jones had clearly not been wearing his hook, and the fact had bothered him greatly
When he appeared beside the barn the hook was in place and he seemed in a much better humour. "I hope you're prepared to carry out your promise," he said, in a way that was altogether suggesting of some other promise she'd made to him besides the one about working in the field.
Emma certainly hoped he wasn't alluding to the marriage vow about obeying.
"I do keep my promises, you know," was the best response she could think of under the circumstances.
"So do I," Mr Jones assured her, as he handed her a hoe to carry.
"This is…I see I am allowed tools now. Not so long ago I couldn't be trusted with a simple length of rope."
Mr Jones smiled, a little enigmatically. "Yes," was all the reply she got on the subject and, as frustrating as she had found his playful banter at times, she would have gladly welcomed its return right then as it was far easier to dismiss as nonsense Mr Jones was spouting for his own amusement, or to cover up his previous embarrassment. This just seemed a little too earnest, a little too genuinely happy to be part of some charade he was playing and she didn't know what to do about that at all.
They walked out to the field in silence, Emma carrying both the hoe and a small bundle of muslin into which she'd hastily packed some bread and two hard-boiled eggs. She was still managing to scrape together enough food for their meals, but only just, and another trip to the store would be required before too long, bringing with it the same need for money to actually pay for the provisions.
But Emma would cross that bridge when she came to it.
In the meantime she had other problems such as mastering the hoe once they got to the field and began work. She watched Mr Jones closely, although he managed mostly one-handed and she had to adapt her own style a little. Still, she discovered that she was not too awful at the process as long as she didn't swing the thing around too much; Mr Jones flinched more than once when she got a little too close to his head.
Eventually she found a suitable rhythm and discovered that, while the work could not quite be described as enjoyable, it was certainly a welcome distraction. Fresh air and physical activity allowed her to forget the fact she was in such a strange place with a strange man as her husband. In fact, after a while, she almost forgot about Mr Jones' presence altogether. It was only when he suggested stopping to eat that she realised how long they'd been working.
Mr Jones spread the jacket he'd discarded earlier in the morning on a patch of bare earth. "Sit here," he offered, giving the jacket a small pat.
Emma sat, and began unwrapping the bread, before passing some to Mr Jones who took it from her with a smile. "How has your first morning as a farmhand been?"
She considered what the appropriate response to that should be, while twisting a chunk of bread between her fingers. Mr Jones sighed. "I didn't mean it to be a difficult question, Mrs Swan."
Emma flinched a little. Now she'd offended him when that had been the outcome she'd been trying to avoid in the first instance. "I am sorry that I am not the best companion," she stated, keeping her eyes on the horizon. Mr Jones was to her left and the broad brim of her bonnet kept him from her view, something that, she hoped, might make conversation a little easier.
"On the contrary, you are infinitely preferable to other people I have worked with. For one thing, you haven't seen fit to tell me that I'm working too slowly, or that I lack the proper technique."
Emma risked a glance in Mr Jones' direction. "Your brother?"
"Aye." Mr Jones chuckled and pushed his hat further back on his head. "I'm afraid that where Liam is concerned I'll always be the little brother."
There was silence as they both contemplated what had been said. "I mean, I was the little brother," Mr Jones said, in a much quieter voice that had completely lost the jovial tone from just a moment before. He seemed lost in his own contemplation of a far-off point in the landscape now and Emma was struck with the sudden urge to reach out and offer him some comfort, a pat on the hand or a squeeze of the arm, perhaps.
She suppressed that feeling as quickly as she could.
"Well, I confess that my first morning working in a field has not been as bad as I feared," Emma stated, speaking quickly and mostly addressing her remarks to the grasses still untouched on the field in front of them. "I find it almost refreshing being out here. Certainly it is preferable to facing more time with that stove."
She waited to see what the response would be from Mr Jones, hoping that she had not inadvertently stirred further memories of his brother.
"Well," he said in the end. "I should have to thank the stove for driving you out here, perhaps. Otherwise I should be quite alone. And how would I manage all of this, then?" He waved his arm in an outward arc, pointing towards the field.
"I think, perhaps, that if you were the one dealing with the stove every day you would not be so quick to sing its praises."
Mr Jones laughed at her reply and Emma felt a sudden warmth in her chest which, she guessed, was only partly due to the sun currently beating down on her from above. Still, the sun seemed the safest thing to blame it on, and she untied her bonnet, before peeling it from her sweaty hair and using it to fan herself.
There was silence between them, Mr Jones seemingly more interested in eating than making conversation and Emma concentrating hard on the process of fanning the bonnet and not on anything to do with Mr Jones at all. It worked exceedingly well until he spoke, again. "Other than your merciless persecution by the stove…it's not so bad, here…is it?"
The question seemed a treacherous one, far more dangerous to answer than his earlier enquiry about her morning's work. She wished, vehemently, that she had some kind of task that she could claim as pressing which would give her leave to flee the scene. But, sadly, out here she was not only free of the hated stove, but of all the other domestic chores which usually dominated her day.
There was nothing for it, but to answer Mr Jones. "It is…" Emma paused, attempted to gather her thoughts, and decided now was not the time for trying to conceal her true feelings even if they were perhaps not what Mr Jones wanted to hear.
"It is refreshing to find myself free of my usual constraints," she finished, waiting to see what Mr Jones' reply would be.
None was forthcoming, and she began to wonder if perhaps she had over-stepped her boundaries again and merely fulfilled Mr Jones' suspicions that she was not the type of woman he should have married.
She was about to pack up the remains of their food and begin work again when he suddenly spoke. "I have constrained you?"
It was, quite possibly, the last question she'd thought he might ask of her. In truth she'd expected that he had filed her candid answer away for another time, a time when it would be used as proof that she had committed whatever transgression she would no doubt be punished for. She had not foreseen that it might prompt Mr Jones into making further enquiries.
Emma looked over at him and the concern was written so vividly on his face that it was possible to believe that it might be genuine. She hesitated, and then gave the most honest answer she could. "Mr Jones, life has constrained me. Being here, in Kansas, for the most part, changes nothing. But I am enjoying the chance to spend time away from my usual tasks. I am not the most suited for a life of nothing but keeping house."
It was certainly freeing, confessing her failures in such a forthright manner. Now, at least, Mr Jones could do whatever he wanted with the information but he could never accuse of her trying to deceive him. At least not as far as her feelings on the matter of her role were concerned.
Emma watched carefully as Mr Jones' expression turned from concerned to thoughtful, attempting to judge just how her words were to be taken.
"And, yet, you were a housekeeper," he said in the end, as though trying to make sense of some great puzzle she'd laid before him.
"I was, but it was a job borne more of necessity more than anything else. Although it did have some merits."
"You needed to work because of Henry?"
"Well. Yes. Not that I regret his existence, of course," Emma added hurriedly, lest Mr Jones think she was an unwilling and unfit mother as well. "But I know that I was lucky to find a job that afforded me the chance to both keep my son and to occasionally visit with him. Others in the same circumstances would not be so fortunate. I would not want you think I am ungrateful towards my former employer, nor that I resent the tasks he set for me. It was just…well. I feel infinitely more suited to being a farm hand than I do a housekeeper. So as you asked me, it is indeed not so bad here. In some ways, it's better."
Mr Jones nodded slowly. "And those benefits…the outdoors and, I would assume, having Henry all the time…they outweigh what you had to do to get here, no doubt?"
Emma's mouth suddenly felt dry and her tongue a little too big for her mouth. She had the distinct impression that they had now wandered into altogether dangerous territory. What exactly did Mr Jones mean when he spoke of the things she had to do to get here? She hoped he might elaborate, but his eyes were searching hers, as though she might inadvertently reveal something to him.
"I…uh." Emma dropped her gaze to the folds of her apron across her lap. "Yes. I suppose they do."
"Then that seems a good answer to my question," Mr Jones said, standing up and holding out his hand to Emma. She took it and let him help her up, feeling far too confused by the conversation they'd just had to really notice how she much she liked how firm and warm his hand felt as it held hers. It was only when he released her that its absence alerted her to the fact.
Emma was glad to tie her bonnet back on and begin work again. Digging up plants and piling rocks in a corner seemed an even more pleasant task now that she knew the alternative were further discussions of her feelings with Mr Jones.
She didn't understand why he cared anyway. What did it matter if she thought this place better or worse than any other? She was here now, and it was…well, it was forever?
And then, with a jolt to the heart she realised that maybe it wasn't, and she hoped, very much, that her answers had, indeed, been satisfactory.
They worked through the afternoon and returned to the farm to find a rather disgruntled Henry feeding the chickens in their absence. "I came home and no one was here, Mama," he complained. "I was worried I'd have to do everything. What were you doing?"
"Working," Mr Jones replied, while Emma tried not to feel too guilty over Henry's words. Surely he must know that they hadn't abandoned him?
"What were you doing, Mr Jones?" Henry pressed.
"Training my new farmhand in the ancient art of clearing a field."
Henry's frown deepened at that comment. "You mean Mama?"
"I do." Mr Jones walked towards the barn, clearly with the intention of putting his own hoe back, and Emma followed. Henry caught up to her, and eyed the hoe curiously.
"You were in the field, too?" he asked, as though he suspected that Mr Jones was once again teasing him.
"I was, Henry."
Henry's face suggested he found something wrong with that fact, but was too polite to say it. Or maybe not. "But if you were there…who was in the house?"
"I don't need to be there all the time." Emma passed the hoe to Mr Jones who had held out his hand for it.
Henry still seemed unsatisfied but Emma was unsure what, exactly, would satisfy him at this point. "I'm going to get dinner started," she said, turning towards the cabin.
"Mrs Swan?" The sound of Mr Jones calling after her, made her turn back again. "I thought you might like that lesson now."
"Oh. Yes." Emma wiped her hands on her apron feeling a little torn. During the day's work she'd almost forgotten about the promise to teach her to shoot that she'd elicited from Mr Jones in the night and remembering it brought back some of the other feelings from the night as well.
"I should, uh…just put the chicken in to start cooking." Emma set off for the cabin and, after a few paces, realised that Henry was trailing after her. She wondered if he was intending to ensure she remained in her designated location and didn't venture outside the confines of the kitchen area for the rest of the day.
And, indeed, at first Henry was content to merely observe her actions as she readied the chicken for cooking, but, when she'd shut the door on the stove he finally spoke up. "What do you have to learn now, Mama?"
Emma pushed a stray piece of hair off her face. "Mr Jones is going to teach me to shoot. In case the fox comes back again."
"It might not be a fox."
"It might not. But something was stealing the chicken."
Henry sighed. It was obvious he didn't much appreciate the fact that Emma wasn't adhering to his notions of how a suitable mother should act.
"Maybe you should come and help teach me as well?" she ventured.
Henry didn't brighten as she'd hoped he would at that suggestion but he did follow her back outside to meet up with Mr Jones again.
"Are you coming to observe?" Mr Jones asked Henry, and the boy nodded in return but his sullen silence remained. Mr Jones gave Emma a quizzical look which she had no reply to, and then they set off for an area a way past the buildings.
Her worry about Henry's mood had eclipsed any worry Emma might have felt about just how exactly the lesson was going to go. She certainly hadn't even contemplated the way in which Mr Jones might show her how to aim the gun and the fact that it would entail him standing behind her while positioning her arms. And if she had thought that feeling her hand in his had been stirring then the heat of his chest as it brushed her back and the way that his breath ran past her ear as he explained the process to her were something altogether more exciting.
But the excitement of both Mr Jones and the thrill of actually finding out that she could, quite capably, if not overly accurately, fire the shotgun was tempered by the figure of Henry hovering on the edges of the scene, scuffing at the dirt and looking for all the world like a disapproving chaperone. Something about the situation clearly did not sit well with him and it made Emma uneasy and anxious to hurry back to the cabin as soon as she could. Clearly she had overestimated Henry's ability to adapt to his new surroundings and finding out that his mother was hardly the paragon of womanly virtue that he'd hoped for had unsettled him.
After excusing herself from Mr Jones, who managed to muster the appearance of being sorry to see her go, she called Henry to join her on the walk back to the cabin. Finding something to speak to him about, without directly addressing the disappointment he was no doubt feeling, was an altogether more difficult matter.
"So, how was school today?" Emma ventured, hoping that was a safe topic.
"It was alright, I suppose, Mama." Henry didn't sound all that enthusiastic, but then his expression changed, as he thought of something he had to add. "But Miss Blanchard asked me if I could..." Henry stopped walking and stood up straighter, head cocked to the side and words running together as if he'd been asked to memorise this little speech. "Request that you call into the schoolroom tomorrow when class is finished, if it's convenient, as she has a matter she hopes you can assist her with."
Henry smiled warmly, looking pleased with his achievement. Emma tried to keep her features as neutral as possible while she attempted to ascertain exactly why Miss Blanchard might need to speak to her. "Why? What, uh…has happened?"
"Nothing!" Henry replied, vehemently. "Why would you think I did something?"
"I was merely asking what might have prompted the request." Emma realised that she sounded a little defensive and that, unfortunately, it left her on the back foot as far as this conversation went. But she'd clearly upset Henry already and this was just adding fuel to an already well-stoked fire.
"I don't know, Mama. But I passed the message on like I was asked. I thought that was what you'd want me to do."
Emma was still suspicious. She may not have exactly been to school when she was Henry's age, but she'd had enough adults disappointed in her to know that there was a, very real, chance that he'd somehow let Miss Blanchard down. However, she was also well aware that she had let Henry down by not living up to the model of motherhood he held in his head, and she felt her transgression laying heavy in her heart.
In the end she conceded defeat. "I'm sure that's the case, Henry. I'll go tomorrow, as requested."
"I think Miss Blanchard would be happy with that, Mama." Silence fell and it seemed that neither of them really knew what to say next. Emma opted for sending Henry on an errand, hoping that might help him get past the current disgruntlement he was feeling.
"Could you dig up some potatoes from the garden?" she asked, and Henry looked thoughtful.
"Yes, Mama. But I might just…I just need to check something with Mr Jones first."
"Alright." Wary of pushing him any further Emma let Henry go and went to check on the chicken she had roasting and make other preparations for dinner and resolutely not dwell on the way it felt when Mr Jones had put his arms around her.
She'd liked the way he looked at her, and, it appeared, she liked the way he touched her even more. But it was far more problematic to go searching for that sort of reaction from Mr Jones and better that she stay in the cabin and please Henry with her adherence to proper womanly tasks.
Although she waited, and waited, and neither Henry nor the potatoes she'd requested arrived at the cabin and, eventually, she had no choice but to collect them herself. When Mr Jones found her she was on her hands and knees digging with an old rusty trowel she'd found lying beside the edge of the garden.
Emma turned to find him standing, watching her, with a slightly bemused expression on his face. "I sent Henry to get potatoes," she explained, while continuing to poke around in the dirt with little success. "But I fear he has neglected to actually carry out the task."
"Ah." Mr Jones screwed up one side of his face and looked in the direction of the barn. "I'm afraid that's my fault."
"What is?"
"Henry's, uh, disappearance. He was following me around and I suggested that he might like to feed the cows and get them settled for the night if he had nothing else to do."
"Oh." Emma went back to scrabbling in the dirt only to find herself joined by Mr Jones who knelt next to her and watched her movements for a moment or two before joining in her search for potatoes, using his hook to dig.
He turned up several in quick succession and Emma stopped digging and sat back on her heels. "You seem to be a great deal more successful than I," she commented.
"Aye, well. It's not a completely useless implement," Mr Jones conceded with a shrug. He seemed to be a little embarrassed about mentioning it, and kept his eyes on the digging.
"Perhaps I should have sent you to collect these for dinner instead of Henry, or myself. I do remember you promising me you'd do any task I ask."
Mr Jones inclined his head. "Of course. You need only to ask me and I will do whatever you wish, my…" He stopped short, finishing with an embarrassed noise approximating a cough.
"I suppose wife is the most appropriate term," Emma ventured, thinking that the term, as applied to herself, did seem odd and out of place mostly because she wasn't used to being anyone's anything. She certainly hoped that Mr Jones didn't think she blamed him for not immediately saying the word, but yet she was curious about his feelings on the matter.
But there was no clear answer from the man next to her. He was silent for a moment and then began again on a different topic altogether. "As much as I wish to honour my promise to do your bidding, I do fear that Henry will not be pleased if he finds I have sought out your company once again. I believe that was his sole purpose in shadowing me earlier; keeping me well away from you."
"Henry? But why?"
Mr Jones turned his gaze on her fully and Emma remained as still as she could, fearful that even a blink or a sigh could give away the furious rhythm her heat was currently beating. "I think he fears I may steal you away." He chuckled somewhat, as though that was the most ridiculous thing ever but the mirth never reached his eyes. Their dark blue depths remained locked on Emma's, as though hoping to find confirmation in them. Of what, Emma wasn't sure.
And she certainly wasn't convinced of his reasoning. "I don't think Henry's problems are with you. It's your task he's completing, for one thing. I'm fairly certain that he is a little, well…unsure how to deal with a mother who doesn't act like a mother should. He is, after all, used to living in Aunt Regina's rather more conventional household. I, on the other hand, have been sighted using a shotgun this afternoon. His face at that time spoke volumes, I believe."
There was a pause while Mr Jones looked as though he was considering her comments and she watched as his tongue swiped across his bottom lip. "If you think so," he said, at last. "You're his mother, I'll bow to your judgement in the matter. Now, what shall I do with these?" He gestured to the small pile of potatoes laying on the ground next to them.
"Here." Emma twisted towards Mr Jones and held out her apron. "I'll carry them in like this."
Mr Jones valiantly scooped up some of the potatoes awkwardly with one hand, and deposited them in the apron Emma was holding out, and then repeated the process a few more times getting closer to Emma each time. As he tipped the last potatoes in their foreheads all but brushed against each other and Emma had no choice but to look straight at Mr Jones' face as they raised their heads.
"Thank you," she said to him.
"You're welcome." Emma felt as though he wanted to say something else, but he stood up and brushed the dirt from his knees with his hand. "I should probably check that Henry hasn't been trampled by a cow."
"And I suppose these potatoes won't peel themselves." Emma carried her load carefully into the cabin before she was the one who added something else to the conversation, or did something she'd regret even more. Something like close the gap between their faces and kiss Mr Jones.
And, really, he had been helpful enough but he hardly deserved a kiss for that task, she reasoned, choosing to ignore the fact that she was almost curious enough about what it would be like to kiss him, and whether it would be as pleasant as she believed it might be.
Mr Jones arrived in the cabin along with Henry just as Emma was preparing to serve dinner; he seemed to have a sixth sense about when food was about to be offered. "I think your owe your mother an apology," he said, before sitting at the table.
"Sorry, Mama. I just…forgot about the potatoes," Henry mumbled, and Emma gestured for him to sit down, ready to move on even if she wasn't entirely convinced that she knew the full story.
They ate mostly in silence, Henry appearing less inclined to regale them with stories from the classroom than he was the day before. Emma kept her eyes on her plate, not daring to risk lifting them enough to face Mr Jones watching her, or Henry's disapproving glare once again.
Only when the evening was over and Mr Jones was safely ensconced in his own hut, did she dare to face Henry full-on as she was tucking him into bed. "I am…" she paused, trying to quell the worry that bubbled up from the pit of her stomach. "Sorry if you were disappointed in me today, Henry."
Henry frowned. "No. I mean…I hadn't thought, I suppose. That you needed a friend too."
That flummoxed Emma. "A friend?"
"Yes. I mean, I knew…well, sort of knew, that Mr Jones wanted to be your friend. He agreed about the bath. But I hadn't thought…you're my mother." His voice dropped down to almost a whisper. "I really just wanted to have you as a mother."
Henry looked a little sheepish and Emma found it hard to blame Henry for wanting his mother to himself. At least, that's what she believed he was confessing to.
"I…well, that's fine Henry. I'm not upset."
"No? Good. I mean, I couldn't figure it out at first. Why you were being so…uh, tolerant."
"Tolerant?"
"Yes. Of Mr Jones. When he was showing you how to shoot. He was standing awfully close." Emma's heart dropped as she wondered if she had misunderstood Henry's little confession, but he continued on, unabashed. "Miss Blanchard told Grace to be more tolerant today, after I accidentally hit her with my elbow. She didn't believe it was an accident."
"Who? Miss Blanchard?" Emma wondered if this was the reason for the request to call and see the teacher.
"No. Grace didn't. She complained to Miss Blanchard." Henry contemplated that for a moment. "You don't have anyone to complain to about Mr Jones, I suppose. But you…I guess you could tell him yourself?"
"I suppose I could."
"But it's better to be tolerant." Henry nodded. "At least, Miss Blanchard thinks so. And Mr Jones said you were friends."
"He did?"
"Yes. I didn't ask him though, in case you thought that was a bad thing," Henry added, quickly. "I was with him in the barn, you know, when I forgot about the potatoes." He paused, clearly waiting to see if a reprimand was coming and, when none arrived, he picked up his story again. "He said I didn't have to worry because he was your friend. So I guess you can let him know, if he's doing something you don't like."
Emma wished that life was that simple, but she nodded anyway.
"Because I don't think Miss Blanchard would come here and tell Mr Jones to be careful with his extremities." Henry paused again. "Do you think she needs a friend?"
"Who?"
"Miss Blanchard. Maybe that's why she wants to see you?"
"It's possible." In the back of her mind Emma was still certain that there was some reason Miss Blanchard needed her other than as a friend, but she didn't want to alarm Henry. He seemed to be feeling better, or, at least, he was no longer holding a grudge towards her personally and she wanted to keep it that way as long as she could.
"Goodnight, Mama," Henry said, a little sleepily.
"Goodnight, Henry."
With Henry asleep, Emma decided that she would make one final check of the chicken coop, simply because she wanted to avoid having to run out in the middle of the night, again. At least, that was what she told herself when she realised that there was a possibility that she might cross paths with Mr Jones once more before she went to her own bed.
She poked and prodded the corners of the coop, checking that there were no gaps or loose boards. The sky was quite dark now and she wondered if Mr Jones had already retired for the night, but purely because it gave her something to think about while she was checking, and not because she was finding herself curious about what he did when he wasn't around her.
Finally, there was nothing left to check, the coop appeared to be as safe for the chickens as it could be. She left them to their night's slumber and, tightening her shawl around her shoulders, she started making her way back to the cabin when she saw a familiar shape rounding the corner of the barn.
"And how fare your chickens tonight, Mrs Swan?"
"I believe they will be safe," Emma replied.
"And, should any trouble loom, you will be ever-vigilant, I suppose?" Emma had stopped dead in her tracks when she'd spotted him and now he was right in front of her, illuminated only by the small strips of light from the lamp in the cabin which shone through the gaps in the boards and onto the inky black ground around them.
"I suppose." Emma sighed, a little.
"But they are not the real cause of your dissatisfaction."
"It seems I was wrong about Henry. He seems to have brightened since the afternoon and I believe that you are the reason why."
"I am?" Mr Jones sounded a little unsure.
"You are. Well, that and a well-timed lecture on tolerance prompted by a too-small desk and some wayward elbows."
"That would be from the schoolmistress?"
"It was," Emma confirmed.
"But what do I have to do with that?"
"Because apparently you are willing to be my friend, or, at least, you told Henry we are friends. And he, in return, is gracious enough to concede that I may be in need of one. And so…" Emma wasn't entirely sure what her point was, mostly she was testing Mr Jones' reaction to the news. A reaction, which so far, was not forthcoming. "Now we are friends," she finished.
There was a pause, and she heard, rather than saw, Mr Jones shuffle his feet and move to scratch his ear. "I hate to, uh…well. I must confess, Mrs Swan, that is not what I told Henry at all. I never said we were friends."
"You didn't?" Emma's disappointment was quite plain in her voice, she thought, and somewhere in the back of her mind she felt a modicum of embarrassment for that fact. Clearly she had misjudged the situation, and Mr Jones. And now she had played her hand and would lose anything she might have won to date in this game between them.
"No. I'm afraid that what I told Henry was that you were perfectly safe with me. That I wouldn't…" His voice dropped almost to a whisper. "That I won't hurt you. That I intend to look after you. So he needn't worry about you."
"Oh." Emma thought about that. "And that does not make us…friends?" It was not a term that she had ever thought she might confuse, but it seemed that between herself and Mr Jones there was, indeed, confusion.
"I…Emma, we're married." Hearing it stated that plainly by the man in front of her sent a maelstrom of emotions running through Emma's heart and mind. She hated it and she adored it at the same time that she was tied to Killian Jones in this way. And she hated and, perhaps, although she would never concede it, not even with her dying breath, she adored him for it.
She began to wish that she had merely gone to bed and never ventured out into the yard.
Emma looked at the wall of the cabin beside them while Mr Jones continued on, in an urgent voice. "Despite what you might think, I did not marry you simply so that I would have a friend, or the fairest farmhand in Storybrooke, or even someone who will protect the chickens at the expense of her own sleep. I married you, so you would be my wife." He stepped closer and it was all Emma could do not to step back. "I won't force you to do anything you don't want to, and I won't constrain you, and I will, I promise, be your friend if that is what you need to feel comfortable here. But I want to be more than that and I hope, one day, you will feel the same way."
Emma stood stock still waiting for what came next because surely this was it, this was the moment when he pressed his claim on her and everything that came before was swept away in a tide of obligation to the man who had agreed to take her on. All his heated looks and promises meant nothing after all; it had simply been a charade which she'd eagerly fallen for.
But when push came to shove she wasn't prepared to unlock her heart from the prison she'd placed it in and she was afraid that Mr Jones would merely take what he could from her instead.
"I'm sorry." Mr Jones' voice broke through her thoughts. "If I have made you uncomfortable. I just…thought you should know."
"They were…I do appreciate your words," Emma managed to reply.
"There were not meant as just words. There are promises behind them too. Promises I intend to keep. Will you let me show you?" Mr Jones reached forward and clasped Emma's hand in his but she kept her gaze on the wall, fearful that turning to face him again would give away the fact that she almost believed him.
"Yes," Emma whispered. "I will."
"Then that is all I will ask of you. A chance. To be the husband you deserve."
In Emma's mind the husband she deserved was someone far different to the man Mr Jones was promising to be, but she acquiesced with a small "Yes."
"And now I suppose I should let you return to your bed, lest your nemesis reappear tonight." He made no move, however, to drop her hand and Emma was reluctant to pull it away. She wondered if he might move to kiss it, again, as he had the night before and she found herself rather longing that he would, that he would do anything other than regale her with fine words and promises which could easily be broken.
At least she could enjoy being in his arms while she still had a chance of believing it might come true. And maybe that was all she could offer him in return, anyway. She could give him her body because her heart was lost a long time ago.
Emma very nearly did make some move towards Mr Jones, almost thought of offering herself, once again, just to see if he would accept her this time and with the hope that she could block out her own fears for the brief time of their coupling. But while she hesitated the moment was lost and Mr Jones released her hand. "Goodnight, Mrs Swan."
She watched for a moment, as he walked into the darkness, and then she heard a voice she only belatedly recognised as her own call out. "Mr Jones?"
"Yes?"
Having stopped him in his tracks with no clear plan, Emma stumbled over her words as he walked back towards her. "I, uh…that is. I suppose…" she laughed, ruefully. "I am not much one for words, as you can tell. But…perhaps a sign of good faith, instead?"
With a deep breath she stepped right up to Mr Jones and placed one hand on his chest, just below his shoulder, noticing how it rose and fell as he waited to see what she'd do next. He was real, this was real, and the thought almost made her run. But, steeling herself, Emma reached up and kissed him on the cheek. Her lips felt both the sharp brush of his whiskers and softness of the skin underneath. She felt his face move; the mouth curving into a smile almost before she'd actually touched him.
Emma stepped back, feeling less than pleased with herself. She'd made him a promise now, offered him something of herself, but it was a promise as empty as the air she had breathed onto his cheek as she kissed him. She was a shell of a woman and she'd be a shell of a wife.
But all that seemed to escape Mr Jones at the present time. "That's uh…good faith. Yes. I think that is, indeed, good faith." He chuckled to himself and, when she caught a glimpse of his face through the darkness, he looked as though she'd given him something wonderful, which only made Emma feel worse.
"I will see you in the morning. Sleep well, Mr Jones." Emma walked back to the cabin and, after extinguishing the lamp, climbed into her high, cold bed. It took her a long time to fall asleep, although it wasn't the prospect of a returning fox that troubled her the most; her own thoughts were far more worrisome. She had spent years and years shutting herself away from the possibility of hurt but now, for the first time in a long time, she regretted what she'd become and, most of all, what it might do to the man who wanted to be her husband when he found out what she truly was.
Thanks for reading!
