Chapter Twenty-Five
Ten minutes later, Mr. Knightley walked into the Hartfield drawing-room. The gentleman took his bows, exchanged several warm words with Mr. Woodhouse, inviting the old friend to the Abbey to watch the celebration at the Donwell Harvest Supper with his daughter. As expected, Mr. Woodhouse thanked and declined Mr. Knightley's kind invitation, for the old gentleman infinitely preferred a quiet evening in the comfort of his own home next to his glowing hearth.
Unaware of what had transpired between the old father and his young daughter only minutes ago, Mr. Knightley walked over to the window and asked Emma smilingly, "Are you coming at the same time, Emma? I have asked Mrs. Hodges to place extra hot-bricks on the terrace to keep you warm, as the weather has been unseasonably cold these past several nights."
"Oh..." Emma looked up at Mr. Knightley uneasily, "...ah... that is very thoughtful of you, Mr. Knightley... but... ah... but..." she stalled distractedly.
Her father had already denied her wish to go to the ghost-hunt, so what was Emma stalling for? Only if her desire to go on the adventure had vanished with the hope of her papa's approval, it would have been easy to answer Mr. Knightley's question.
Mr. Knightley was puzzled by Emma's mumbling. "I know how much you love watching the reapers' singing and dancing, you are coming, are you not, Emma?" he asked again.
If it was any other year, Emma would not have missed the joyful event at Donwell for the world, but, today, more than anything in the world, she wished to taste a real life adventure. Rather than giving in to her father's order as she had done numerous times before, as much as she disliked being deceitful, the fourteen-year-old decided to find a way to make her wish come true.
She feigned a sneeze and a sniffle, and in a weak voice she replied, "I... I do not think I am well enough to go to the Supper, Mr. Knightley..." feeling the guilt mounting inside her, Emma looked down at her wrung fingers, nervously avoiding Mr. Knightley's eyes.
"Are you unwell, Emma?" the gentleman asked, feeling quite bewildered, "You were very well only this morning..."
Mr. Woodhouse might not have heard his daughter's sudden malady, but Miss Taylor had caught the sound of her charge's sneeze. The governess immediately came over and took Emma's hands into hers; she asked concernedly, "Are you unwell, Emma?"
"Ah..." her guilt-ridden heart pounding at her chest, Emma went into a small panic, "ah... just... just a little chill..." she muttered in an unsteady voice.
"But your hands feel warm to me, my dear..." the governess examined her charge's colour, "Your cheeks look fine too..." lifting one hand to feel Emma's forehead, "and your forehead feels fine as well..." Miss Taylor was quite at a loss, "...and you were very well all morning long! You have been looking forward to the Harvest Supper for an entire week, Emma, are you sure you cannot go tonight?" Miss Taylor's confused eyes looked into Emma's uneasy ones searching for a response.
Emma quickly withdrew her hands from Miss Taylor's, replying hastily, "My hands and forehead may be fine, but I am shivering all over!" Unable to meet Miss Taylor's eyes, she wrapped her shawl round her person as tightly as possible.
When it came to Emma's mischief, Mr. Knightley seemed to possess the senses of a hound. His senses were hard at work at the moment, and his mind churning for the possible reasons why Emma would not wish to go to the Harvest Supper – but he could not find one!
"Are you certain you have a chill, Emma?" the gentleman wanted to be sure, "You had never missed the Donwell Harvest Supper for any reason before..."
"Of course I am certain!" Emma cut off Mr. Knightley curtly. Averting her face from her two interrogators, she said defensively, "Why cannot you believe that I am not well enough to go to the Supper tonight? I have a chill and it is all that matters!"
The fourteen-year-old stalked out of the drawing-room without looking back, leaving Mr. Knightley and Miss Taylor staring at each other with concerns.
Emma shut the bedchamber door behind her and dropped onto her bed, tears of frustration came streaming down her cheeks. A mixture of emotions had overwhelmed the fourteen-year-old. The immense guilt that flooded her heart from lying to Mr. Knightley and Miss Taylor, and stalking out of their sight so impertinently had certainly made up a big part of those emotions, but, perhaps, an even bigger part of it was – that she was ashamed of herself for feeling that the world was unjust to her!
How could the world be unjust to her when she had so much? She had her father, Miss Taylor, Mr. Knightley, and... Hartfield! Yet – how could it be that something other children could participate so freely, she had to lie in order to be able to do? All her life she catered to her father's unusual depositions, loving him, caring for him with all her heart, willingly subjecting herself to his fretting over the countless things that wrinkled his nerves, keeping her from doing most things that were commonplace to other children. She had thought that she was completely accustomed to the confinement and oblivious to what was imposed upon her, then why was her disappointment so insufferable when her father denied her wish for the ghost-hunt tonight?
She heard a gentle tap on the door.
"Who is it?" she asked – not because she did not know who it was, but because she needed the time to wipe the tears off her face.
"It's Miss Taylor, Emma," replied the muffled voice.
"Come in..."
The door opened silently, and came in the kind governess.
Emma had laid herself sideway on the bed, hugging her pillow, purposely facing away from anyone who entered in. Miss Taylor walked in and sat down quietly on the other side of the bed.
"Is everything well, my dearest Emma?" the governess asked ever so gently, leaning forward and placing a tender hand on her charge's shoulder.
Emma would not turn round, and she would not say anything – she only shook her head.
"You do not wish to go to Mr. Knightley's Harvest Supper tonight?"Miss Taylor asked kindly.
With shame and guilt flooding her heart, and her back still facing Miss Taylor, Emma shook her head again.
Miss Taylor stroke Emma's long curls gently, tenderly swiping them away from her cheeks; she beckoned tenderly, "Would you like to talk about it, Emma?"
For the third time, Emma shook her head silently, willing to keep her frustration only to herself.
Miss Taylor understood – she knew very well that Emma meant it when she said she would not wish to talk about it, for the governess had known Emma to be a brave, strong child since the day little Emma became her charge – in her own special ways, Emma was always able to cope with her emotions without disturbance.
Miss Taylor had come to the Woodhouses only a week after Mrs. Woodhouse passed away. While the beloved Hartfield Mistress was stricken with illness, the loving mother had the wish of finding the perfect governess to fill the most important office at Hartfield. Many credentials, recommendations, and replies for her advertisements were received, but Miss Taylor's application stood out, and Mrs. Woodhouse had chosen to correspond with the applicant.
Through her tireless correspondences with Miss Taylor, Mrs. Woodhouse had discovered the governess's many virtues that touched her heart. The loving wife and mother realized that Miss Taylor's extraordinary patience and kindness were the very qualities that would be required of the Hartfield governess in order to cope with her husband's unusual, and, perhaps to most people, tedious nature; she also reckoned that Miss Taylor's steady temperament and excellent achievements in art and music would help her mild and meek Isabella to become an accomplished young lady and prepare her to be the proud wife of any gentleman.
But the dying mother's heart ached at the thought of leaving her precious little angel without her mother's love and guidance. Mrs. Woodhouse prayed to be able to find someone who would be gentle and tender to her little Emma, someone whose principled-nature could lead her lively and mischievous child onto the right path, someone with a superior mind to match her daughter's innate cleverness, to be her intellectual companion as she grew, and most importantly, someone who would love her precious child just as she would love her very own.
The stricken-mother thanked Heaven for answering her desperate prayers – she knew she could not have found a more superior governess to take the most important office at Hartfield than Miss Taylor. In her deathbed, Mrs. Woodhouse wrote to offer Miss Taylor the governess position, but unfortunately, her time parting the world came before Miss Taylor was able to extricate herself from her previous engagement.
Miss Taylor could never forget the scene that she saw when, for the very first time, she walked into the Hartfield drawing-room on the first day of her employment...
Everyone was dressed in their mourning attires, a girl of perhaps eleven or twelve, was sitting on the sofa, her eyes and nose were red, holding a doll with one hand, and wiping her tears with the other; an older, very grave and distraught looking gentleman, with disarrayed hair and a loose neck cloth, was slumping deeply in a wingback armchair staring emptily into the dimly lit hearth – But – next to the gentleman, stood, even in her sombre black dress, the most adorable little girl the governess had ever seen!
The little girl could not be more than four or five years of age, with the palms of her tiny hands, the precious child smoothed the gentleman's grey hair lovingly, her little fingers ran down the gentleman's waistcoat fastening meticulously its buttons before straightening the cloth round his neck, all the while saying tenderly to him, "Do not be sad, Papa... Mr. Knightley said Mama had gone to Heaven, he said Heaven was the most wonderful place! Mama is very happy now, she is surrounded by angels, Papa, dancing and singing beautifully! And she does not hurt anymore; nothing could make Mama sick again... Pray, do not be sad, Papa!"
When the little girl looked up and saw the stranger standing in the middle of the drawing-room, she came over and looked up at the stranger with her round hazel eyes, her sweet little voice spoke to the stranger, "We have been expecting you, Miss Taylor!"
"You must be Emma!" The stranger knelt down to greet the precious child.
"Hum, hum," little Emma turned and pointed at the older gentleman, "he is my Papa, you may call him Mr. Woodhouse, and she" pointing at the girl on the sofa, "is my sister Isabella. I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Taylor!"
Little Emma curtsied gracefully.
"It is my greatest pleasure to meet you, my dear Emma!" Removing her gloves, Miss Taylor reached out her hand to stroke the sweet child's curls, smiling at her most tenderly. Little Emma smiled in return, even though there was deep sadness in her eyes, and her adorable plumped-cheeks had no doubt sunken, the sparkles in those beautiful hazel eyes shone like the North Star in the celestial sky.
"Mama said that you would sing to me... she always sang me to sleep at bedtime..." the heaves in the precious child caused her small chest to rise and fall heavily, her pretty little nose had turned bright red, blinking away her tears, she continued softly, "I cannot sleep without being sung to... Miss Taylor... would you sing to me tonight?" little Emma beckoned politely.
Miss Taylor took hold of little Emma's hands and clasped them to her heart, tender tears were filling up her eyes. "I would love to sing to you at bedtime or anytime you wish, my dearest Emma!" Not even two minutes into their acquaintance, Miss Taylor's heart was already captured.
But when the clock suddenly chimed, little Emma jumped, she gasped, "It is time for Papa's gruel!" she said hurriedly, "Mama had everything arranged... Betsy will take you to your chamber, which is the one next to mine. Supper will be served in two hours. You must be fatigued after your long journey, you should go refresh yourself!"
Little Emma entreated her new governess to follow her maid, but Miss Taylor asked her new charge curiously, "Should not I first speak with Mr. Woodhouse, and perhaps Isabella before retreating to my bedchamber?"
The little mistress shook her head, lowering her already small voice before she would speak, "Shhhh!" placing a tiny finger on her rosebud lips, turning to look at her father, and turned back, "Papa does not wish to speak at the moment; you shall meet him at supper. Isabella has been very sad and quiet the last few days... perhaps if you would read to us after supper like Mama used to, it might cheer her up a little... but pray, do not be late for supper, Papa does not like it! Go on... pray!"
And the precious child immediately returned to her father's side.
From that very moment, Miss Taylor had no doubt that one day this brave, strong little girl would turn into one very fine young lady!
But at this present moment, it broke Miss Taylor's heart to see her sweet charge's disheartened countenance, nevertheless, the governess respected Emma's wishes, giving the space that the fourteen-year-old needed to smooth the wrinkles in her heart, she asked very kindly, "Would you like supper be brought to you in your chamber, my dearest Emma?"
Silence came upon the next moment.
But in the moment after, Emma took a deep breath – she sat up at last, willing to look at Miss Taylor with her soft eyes, she shook her head and said collectedly, "Papa would worry if he does not see me at supper, I shall change and be down in half an hour."
A/N: Thank you so much for reading!