Chapter 12
The week that lead up to Mrs. Weston's ball was the most anticipation I'd felt for any event since my sister Isabella's wedding.
I went down nearly every day to Ford's to check on my dress, and the kindly tailor permitted my frequent visits with good humor.
Just this morning I'd received a note saying the dress had been finished and was ready to be picked up. So, at my father's insistence I took the carriage into town this time and stopped at the Ford's running in excited as a child on Christmas to see his finished product.
He led me into the back room, and the dress was everything I'd expected it to be, and more. It was dazzling, but not blinding, stunning but not garish. It was simply perfect.
Except one thing.
The sleeves had followed the pattern exactly, and were on the upper arm, not the shoulder as I had requested.
"The sleeves!" I blurted. Would there be time to fix them?
Mr. Ford colored, "I am sorry Miss Woodhouse." He rubbed his hands together nervously, "I don't think there would be time to fix them though, not with the ball tomorrow."
"Don't hide your scar Emma, it's a beauty mark for your soul…"
If I hadn't known better I would have said he'd planned this.
"It's alright," I turned to face Mr. Ford, "I'll take it anyway. How much was it?"
If it were even more possible he turned redder at my question. "I'm afraid I can't sell it to you." He replied.
"Whyever not?" I asked confused
He wrung his hands nervously, "Because it has already been paid for anonymously, as a gift for you."
There were only two people in all of England who knew my scheme, and Isabella was in London.
George. That devil!
"May I ask who is giving me such an extravagant present?" I asked anyway
The shopkeeper shook his head, "He wanted it a secret." Mr. Ford instead turned to bundling his precious creation into a bag.
When he had finished and handed it off to me he winked, "I think you already know though."
As I walked out of the store, I wondered whether I should curse or thank George.
After safely depositing the dress in my wardrobe at Hartfield I returned to the carriage, intent on Donwell and cornering it's Master.
He better not have looked at my dress before he bought it.
When I arrived, I threw open the carriage door disregarding the rainstorm and bounded up the marble stairs of the Abbey house I knew almost as well as my own. I opened the ancient oaken doors like they did not exist and stormed into the library where I knew George was likely to be.
Sure enough, in the only room in the house with a single window, and surrounded on all sides by his precious books, seated at his well-worn desk scribbling letters in response to a large stack at his left sat George, jacket discarded unto the sofa, vest half-unbuttoned and cravat askew, his fingers playing with his hair and quill at the same time as he gathered his thoughts.
My heart skipped a beat at the sight of him, and in spite of myself I could feel my anger dissipating. Devilishly handsome to be sure.
I stalked in nonetheless, trying to re-kindle my anger. "Did you pay for my dress?" I demanded, standing there in a puddle of dripping rainwater.
He looked up at me; a smirk flashed across his face but was gone just as quickly as he crossed his arms behind his head, "I do not know what you are talking about." He said evenly but his conniving smile told otherwise.
I knew it! He's lying to me!
I crossed my arms in frustration, he stood, and fished at his belt, "However, I do believe you came for this." He found and offered me an ancient and delicate key that could have only gone to one lock in the house.
The jewel casket of his mother.
My hand shook a little as he dropped it in my palm and closed my fingers around it.
"It's the only key, so don't lose it," he joked turning back to his work.
"Aren't you coming with me?" I asked confused.
"No," he replied sitting back down and biting the end of his quill, "this is pressing, and I should spoil your dress if I knew what jewelry you chose."
I hesitated still, he turned to look at me, "Well? I believe you know the way…" He made a shooing motion.
Finally my desire to see his mother's collection overtook me and I dashed up the stairs.
His room looked exactly as I had left it a month before, scattered books and pens everywhere, and a pile of papers on his bed.
Some things will never change. I laughed to myself.
I turned down the hall and found and opened his mother's chest with the small click of the lock.
Tray after tray of rubies, emeralds, sapphires, pearls and diamonds winked back at me.
I was overwhelmed at the variety and quality. There was easily enough money here to buy all of Hartfield twice over, and possibly all of Highbury.
I was reminded just how old his family was when I picked up a medieval looking crucifix studded with blood-red rubies and lustrous pearls.
The Woodhouses had made their money in trade over the last four generations, before that we had been London merchants. The Knightleys as far as I could remember had been royal servants, and this jewelry casket told their story just as well as any book.
There was any overly ornate gold and topaz necklace that bespoke the excesses of the Sun King's era, a string of pearls nearly four feet long with a bejeweled Tudor Rose at the end, clearly meant to wrapped around one's neck multiple times. A huge sapphire and pearl necklace that reminded me of the night sky.
It was a bewildering amount of jewels to be sure.
The I saw it, the perfect piece, winking back at me in the candlelight. I gingerly picked up the delicate necklace, for that was what it was, a veritable lace network of tiny diamond flowers, scattered about in no apparent pattern at first, but upon further examination, there was a haphazard one.
The flowers were so tiny they could almost be mistaken for snowflakes, and it had a matching pair of earrings.
As I went to close the casket, a ring tumbled out onto the wooden floor with a clatter.
Stooping to pick it up I was amazed by its exquisiteness. The stone was a dark green perfect emerald, cut in the newer French style, an oval with pointed ends, longer than my thumbnail and wider than my smallest fingernail at its thickest point.
Surrounded by diamonds, it was a breathtaking piece, the gold band was worn, but something made me look inside it.
"To Addie, From James on the occasion of our marriage."
Adelaide and James. Why did those names ring a bell?
In any case the band was too small to fit my finger, and green and gold would not match my dress.
Reluctantly I put the ring back in the box, and re-locked the trunk.
Walking out of his room I glanced back at his parents' portraits.
"Adelaide MacKenzie Knightley" read the plaque beneath the red-haired beauty. I felt a chill sweep over me. I glanced at his father's portrait, "James Owen Knightley."
I swallowed.
That was his mother's ring of engagement.
I knew some of the older families used rings of engagement, though amongst the newer ones, it was not so commonplace. Apparently George's was one of them, I should have remembered this though, since John gave Isabella a fine ruby ring when they married.
Feeling more than a bit ungrateful at coveting his mother's ring of engagement, I shuffled downstairs and towards the library.
Placing the key in his hand I thanked him profusely.
"Did you find something? He asked genuinely interested.
"There were so many choices!" I blustered
He laughed, "I told you she had a large collection, though to be fair some of those jewels are centuries old."
I swallowed again, nodding vigorously, "How old is your family again?"
George scratched his head for a minute, "Well I believe the first recorded Knightley we have trace of was and Edward Owen Knightley swearing allegiance to King Edward IV of the House of York in 1461, claimed he was from Wales originally, but we're not sure."
"I believe he was granted land in what they called 'Highberry' at the time for his services to the crown just before the War between the Houses started."
I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand; his family was centuries older than mine. Suddenly I felt so inadequate.
He stood immediately, reading my mind, as he had so many times before, he grasped my hands in earnest, "Emma," he said, "Look at me." I did slowly.
"I have never cared for names or money, and you know that. Where you come from does not matter to me, all that matters is what you do with your life." His kind words reassured me somewhat, but I still felt like I wasn't worthy of him.
"George," I choked, "I'm not good enough for you."
"Emma!" He smoothed my hair out, "If you've been listening to Mrs. Elton again I'm going to have to tell her off for you. There is no better friend in the whole wide world than you…'No greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friend…'"
"I'm very much afraid Emma, it is I who am not worthy of you." He spoke softly.
"That's not true, you were just as prepared as I was, I simply beat you to it." I protested
His face shadowed over, and he reached over to my right shoulder again, "Yes," he said sadly, "Yes you did."
He removed his hand and turned back to the study, calling over his shoulder, "You have everything you require then?" He picked up his letter and frowned at it.
At my hesitation he turned to face me again, waiting a response.
"Yes, thank you." I squeaked like a mouse, floored by his generosity, his forgiving spirit and simply everything about him.
"I'll see you in the morning then," He said sitting back down in his chair.
As I walked out and returned to the carriage I realized that I had forgotten to angry with him about the dress…
A/N: Thank you for my faithful reviewers! And for the rest of you out there, I hope that you will leave one! Thanks! Don't you love how George distracted Emma?
Bet: Yes, scandal, I have been told things are getting out of character for the Regency Era. However, the aftereffects of the duel are my excuse for George and Emma being this 'touchy-feely.' It is surprising what near-death experiences do to the mentality. Don't worry there's only 15 chapters to this story, and I promise you he tells her before then.
Iambbq: Yes it is somewhat out of character, but as I mentioned to you, the duel is what caused this 'lapse in mentality' if you will and it is my interpretation of what would have happened to these characters if such a duel had occurred.
Chexbb: Thank you for reviewing! I always love it when people tell me they normally don't review but my story prompted them to. I know Austen was not a 'action' type of person, but I felt that given what we know of her characters, Frank's abuse of Emma's emotions and Mr. Knightley's ever-honorable self, I found it hard to believe he didn't challenge him to a duel over her. After all, we already know he's impetuous when it comes to anything Emma-related…