A Time to Recover
Chapter 33
"Do you have a moment?"
She hadn't seen him in what felt like days. It was as if he had said his piece on the hill that afternoon and it has been as if nothing else was needed to be said in his estimation.
It was reminiscent of the days after she had persuaded Harriet to reject Mr. Martin. She knew that she had not yet regained her footing yet in his regard. Since Box Hill, things had not been the same. She felt that there was little she could do to repair the fissure; time would have to take its course.
"Of course," she agreed this might have meant she was finally forgiven or at least that he might speak to her more about what needed doing to set it all right.
It was if they were each two ships passing in the night unbeknownst to one another, sleeping and waking, eating and working at different times.
It wouldn't do. They couldn't repair the damage without addressing it, hopefully with relaxed emotions and gentle manner this time.
She was meaning to ask him about Amy staying with them but didn't want to jinx it by asking at the wrong time. She would not approach it without seeing proof of his better mood. She knew well from the days of her youth that her skills of persuasion were never any use when he was cross with her, to begin with.
To his credit, he had some right to be upset, she was his wife and her behaviour, nay her mistake—she liked to phrase it that way better, did reflect poorly on him. It could not be denied.
Yet it felt unfair at the same time; after all, Miss Bates had re-ingratiated Emma into their good opinion after a few hours spent in her company. George, though a second party in the original offense, was not so quick to forgive her.
She placed her needlework down beside her—she was embracing all sorts of actives to distract her mind while indoors. She made as many attempts to visit town, meet with both doctors and make the rounds to Amy and her mother as much as possible. "You have my full attention," she promised. "Please," she motioned for him to sit opposite her on the chaise lounge. He did not take the invitation to sit.
"I am a man consumed," he told her starting to pace. "I feel so impossibly stricken, I can think of nothing else," he told her and she blinked at him, finding it hard to follow.
"Miss Bates has forgiven me if that eases your—"
"It is not Miss Bates, rather it is not solely Miss Bates and it is certainly not Miss Bates that brings me the most torment." He told her.
Torment was such a strong word; it seemed overkill for the situation. She opened her mouth to ask for more information.
"I think I should go to London for a while," he stated.
"To London? Now? But you would never go at harvest –never in all the years I've known you—"
"Larkin has it in hand," he assured, "I'm more of a fixture than a necessity. I think some separation would do us good,"
"I don't want you to go," she confessed, "not on the present terms," she added.
"I've told you that I am a man consumed," continued, "I cannot stay to see him and the carrying on, and since Box Hill with all of his sycophantic praise—I can think of nothing else but the man in love with my wife and seeing no evidence that she isn't also in love with him,"
"In love with him? Are you joking? Nothing of the sort and he is not in love with me! He's even asked me find and train up a wife for him, and if I have anything to say for it Harriet just might have her day in the sun yet!"
"He loves you, it's written all across his face when he speaks to you and of you! It doesn't matter what he is saying— it is how he says it. To think of him at the picnic raving about you and your beauty and personality and talent and hosting prowess—you'd think he'd met the greatest figure in the entire known world for the sparkle in his eyes and the exaggeration on his tongue!"
"He may exaggerate but at least he appreciates me!" she admonished with tears threatening to betray her.
"Is that all you'd like Emma? Fawning? Empty flattery? Do you want me to join him in singing your praises? Well, then you could have two singing songbirds on a stool! Do you want me to boast about you being talented beyond your every other quality? To rave to the world about your obvious esteem, just in case it may have escaped their notice? Do you want me to sit there and tell people at a picnic how fantastically beautiful you are? Hmm?" he looked at her sharply at her features then, his eyes tracing her face.
"I shouldn't have too; it seems your physical merits speak for themselves. Ah and your personality, should I reel them all in with how sensational you are?"
"Stop" she shook her head.
"Must I? I haven't even gotten started on your perfection, oh and of your taste, let's not forget about your exquisite taste—" he exaggerated his tone and expression, almost to mirror or echo Mrs. Elton more than Frank. It wasn't like Frank for his tone had not been so unrestrained and nowhere near as excited, or maybe it was merely the falseness in it that allowed her mind to draw parallels.
"Maybe he was foolish, but I assure you he wasn't meaning anything by it," she told him.
"Oh yes, he is foolish! We can agree upon that, but it isn't as benign as you say. He has some motive in this and to issue a toast to you publically? While your husband stands a few paces away? What could that man be thinking? I've never met anyone so full of their own conceit!" He hissed out, and then was pacing again.
She sighed, before beginning to speak, "Look we can—"
"Don't say it," he warned sternly stopping directly in front of her, "if you say one word about being more discreet or something of that nature I am liable to lose my mind," he cut in.
"I wasn't going to," she insisted.
"Not that discretion would be remiss. Because of the way he carried on and with the way you stood there blushing under his praises would have caused even the staunchest believers in your character to question if there was not some scandal yet to be discov—"And it was his turn to be cut off.
She had slapped him.
She stood wide-eyed looking at her own palm. Her hand still pulsated with pins and needles, proof that indeed she had done that. She had never struck another person in all of her life. Even Isabella as children –she had never been violent. She had heard of some women that thought it called for to slap a servant in the event the cause was justified—she had never been such as a person to agree with them. These were not normally high ranking women either, those often left discipline to another servant or overseer—it was beneath them to take it into their own hands.
"I'm sorry, I just became so angry! It happened so quickly, I hated that you would insinuate something vulgar like that and couldn't bear for your words to continue and I acted rashly without sense or thought—forgive me?" she asked him, her eyes pleading.
His cheek was red, but he'd made no move to soothe it or acknowledge it, even with his own hand. Her hand itched to pet it gently and soothe it—a blend of desire to care for him and to erase what she had done. Yet, he had taken a large step back placing distance between them after she had hit him, now to offer comfort she would have needed to step into the space he had intentionally created.
"What do you expect people to think?"
"We've been over this before and the conversation is the same every time, Frank Churchill and I are friends. Sometimes I'm doubtful of that even! In the morning, before the picnic, we had had a row and his stupid flamboyant speech was his own method of trying to earn his way back into my good opinion,"
"What did you fight about?"
"It isn't important now," she confessed.
"I'd like to know what it was about Emma,"
"He had given me some advice and it turned out not to be true," she offered after considering her words a moment. Although vague she hoped it would satisfy.
"What kind of advice? It must have been rather substantial for it to cause a quarrel,"
She looked at him and pursed her lips gently, "I would rather not explain the details," she told him.
"And I would rather you did, especially since it has brought colour to your cheeks," he tossed back, sounding highly self-contained but also displeased all in the same instant.
She took a deep breath and fortified herself, attempting to remain as detached as possible, to be almost scientific about it would assuredly be the best way. "You might recall that I had kissed you in the week before this one, that was Frank Churchill's doing—well the action not the sentiment –the sentiment was all my own but he was the one to suggest a kiss," she told him.
"And what business is that of his? The gall of that man! I've never met any person so full of his own conceit! How dare he insert himself into such a role! In what way could he ever think it would be tolerable to give council of any kind to another man's wife and especially of that nature! And what does he aim by it? What is his reason? To be a voyeur perhaps? Or maybe there is some draw to living vicariously through it somehow?"
"I can see that it—that the information has upset you, I believe he was only trying to help—"
"To help by meddling?" he hissed. "That you'd kiss me because he told you to, what exactly did you wish me to think of that information? And all in the exchange of letters—of which you assured me there was nothing untoward—"
"There is nothing untoward about suggesting to a person that they are free to show affection their own husband who belongs to them rightly in the eyes of God," Emma countered. "For that is all he did say!" Emma insisted, "he said it was my right to kiss you if I wished to do it, as it would be as much your right if you wished to kiss me," she justified.
"And the row was because you'd obeyed him then?" he posited, sounding caustic. "Did that displease him that you would follow through? Perhaps he was only goading you the whole way along or maybe he has had his own change of heart,"
"It wasn't as you describe it," she assured him.
"I need a break Emma, I need some time to think and I feel it best I go to London to do so, as it will raise fewer questions."
She let his statement hang for a long measure, debating if she should be selfish and beg him not to go.
"For how long exactly?" she asked finally, resolving not to.
"I can't know it, the time required to clear my head and be sure my own sound judgment prevails,"
"I'll pray it is a quick recovery then," she told him, steeling herself to be sure not to cry. It was her own doing, she wouldn't allow herself to cry in his presence. "I'll need time enough to get together some treats and presents for you to bring to the children," she told him, distracting herself about the thought as soon as it came into her mind. She would need to focus on other things now, it would be a distraction and she'd always been able to cope better while being focused on other tasks.
"Certainly," he agreed.
Here is a quick-ish update (based on my standard of late!), thank you for all the reviews for the last chapter. I really appreciate it!
I'm sorry that this chapter is a crappy one-ick, You can bring out the tomatoes and rotten veggies for this chapter!
What advice would you give Emma, and what would you say to George?
