Thank you all for the kind words and encouragement! I got a job, which is why my posts have been far less frequent. I am hoping as I get into the groove with my job that I will be able to continue writing. Chapters might take longer to upload but I am certainly eager to continue on both of these stories. Also, check out my other story if you haven't already!

Cheers & Enjoy!


Chapter 5

The House Isn't a Home


She had almost wanted to ask the servants to sit with them in the dining room. Everything had been impossibly quiet.

She resisted the temptation and it had not been completely unbearable.

Mr. Knightley had attempted conversation and offered ideas on topics that would have interested her under normal circumstances, but she hadn't found herself to be in her usual spirits.

She wished with her whole heart that her father were there to remark about the tenderness of the pork and to follow with a testimony of the virtues of cooking pork to the perfect degree to avoid encountering an insurmountable list of ailments.

She would have given anything in the world to hear his long speech about boils or even the many dangers of draughty windows.

She felt sullen and was sure her features were subdued in contrast to her normal appearance.

Overall, dinner had been fine—and in her estimation—fine simply meant that she had successfully avoided bursting into tears over the gravity of it all. One must take joy in small successes.

In all likelihood, Mr. Knightley probably had not noticed. And if Mr. Knightley had thought anything, he certainly had not said anything about it.

She had not thought she would be so altered. She was not sure if it was the newness of everything, or if it was merely that certain days would be more painful than others.

Perhaps this day, her wedding day, was simply preordained to be one of the painful days.

She didn't want to think about everything that she had lost; about all the moments that could never be again.

Her father had played such an instrumental role in her life; she had never fully understood how key a piece he had been in her happiness until his death.

Not everyone was so fortunate as to have someone who listened as they talked. She presumed he had listened; he did not interrupt her lengthy ideas or rants and he did not fall asleep and on the rare occasion he would give a reply to some idea or questions.

No, he did not like puce.

Yes, he liked the idea of lilies on wallpaper, as the actual flowers made him sneeze and caused his sinus congestion to flare up. And then he gave a powerful testimony to why he believed that there were few things more vexing than sinus problems.

It had escaped her notice in the past but he had also been the central feature in her relationship with Mr. Knightley as well. The majority of their interactions had been with her father at their side.

While her father did not often say much, aside from recommendations and making predictions over ailments, he brought a stability that seemed missing over dinner.

They no longer had a guy wire to set their course. Emma had always been the voice of chipper optimism to contrast her father's doubts and woes. She wasn't at all sure she had the strength to pretend for Mr. Knightley. It wasn't for lack of desire—she did care deeply for Mr. Knightley's feelings; instead, it was a question of practical feasibility.

She had retired after eating very little and she felt as dour and grey as her chambers. The dull grey walls stared back at her from her spot on the bed.

She wasn't sure if the walls influenced her mood or if her mood influenced her assessment of the walls. They were drab and remorseless; if nothing else she was certain that Caroline Knightley, at best, had enjoyed no taste for colour and, at worst, had a fondness for bitter solitude.

She wondered silently if her late mother-in-law would have received her warmly or not. She had never heard her spoken of, but to say that she had died when both George and John Knightley had been away at Eton.

Emma had not given any sort of thought to the circumstances of her death. It was well before she had been born. Yet, in the darkness of the room, Emma had a curiosity to know what had happened to the late Mrs. Knightley. She felt an eerie sense that the very walls had trapped misery and loneliness that went beyond the paint hue.

As she sat in bed she felt the chills that rolled of the dark walls. The whole room seemed frozen, frozen in time with the colours and fashions, frozen in reality with the sharp cold feeling that echoed.

Despite her earlier thoughts, Emma decided she might need to make adjustments after all. Truly, she couldn't be remotely happy if the very walls haunted her.

She would have her maid put another log on the fire. Or perhaps Mr. Knightley would.

She bit her lip.

She was not entirely sure what was expected of her. Their conversation over dinner had been as normal as could be given the circumstances.

He had given her no indication of what his intentions were.

When he spoke of her duties pertaining to the house he had stated that she take on as much or as little as she felt prepared for and he had acknowledged that she may need time to adjust.

Perhaps he would allow her that in all regards.

Yet, he seemed concerned about the validity of their marriage. He had even asked that she call him by his Christian name in the presence of other people. She easily recalled Mr. Knightley's grimace at her retention of what ought to have been his former title.

She was not certain she understood him, or at least not to a degree of predicting his future behaviour.

Mr. Knightley had surprised her at the wedding when he had kissed her. The kiss was warm, pleasant, and smooth but she hardly had the time to dwell on it before it was over. Since it was not required of him, she had assumed that he would not kiss her. But he had, and she was not sure what it meant in terms of his intentions.

It was his right after all.

If he would kiss her when it was not required, surely he would be diligent in carrying out the required action. Mr. Knightley was nothing if not methodical, he had a careful, detailed approach to life and business, and a keen regard for law and duty.

It seemed the longer she thought about it the more convinced she was that he would enter at any moment.

She couldn't abate the panic she felt or dim the sense of dread.

It was as if Mrs. Weston had told her all too much and exactly not enough all in the same moment.

All she could hear above the sound of her heartbeat in her ears was Mrs. Weston voice saying, "Husbands want affection from their wives" ad nauseam.

The imagined tone was nothing like the original; instead, it seemed grating and condemning, as if it was only looking to provoke fear.

For while she did have affection for Mr. Knightley as a friend, her dearest friend, she had no understanding of the affection Mrs. Weston spoke of and was not certain she was capable of it.

Every creak of the floorboards, rattle of sound or clatter had her on high alert.

This was it.

He would be here at any moment.

Her heart frenzied.

Her mind raced with questions.

What should she say?

Was she meant to say anything?

What should she think of?

How was she expected to act?

Silence would set in bringing momentary calm and then new sounds would resonant and reset the cycle.

Her eyes felt tired and heavy, blinking them open and closed in periodic increments allowed her to stay wakeful as long as she could.

It was the early morning hours before she relented and drifted into a muddled sleep, which was restless and interrupted with bad dreams.

"Don't touch it!" Isabella told her pulling at the scarf in Emma's hands.

"But it is Papa's," Emma insisted pulling it back, "and I would like to keep it,"

"It was Papa's" Isabella corrected, "It belongs to Henry now. It is his inheritance, after all,"

"But I bought it for Papa in Highbury last Christmas," Emma protested, wiping tears from her eyes with her free hand and gripping the scarf tighter.

"Let it go!" Isabella insisted.

"I want to keep it,"

"You can't keep it!"

"But it should be mine," Emma retorted.

"You've done enough! You have already taken enough," Isabella snapped, pulling the scarf firmly and causing Emma to stumble. Emma let go of the scarf to catch herself with her hands as she fell to the floor.

"I've taken nothing!" Emma protested, "You've left me nothing of Papa's!"

"Well, you've taken all of Donwell, surely that is enough!"

"Give me the scarf," Emma demanded, weakly trying to grasp it back. Isabella held it out of reach.

"No, it couldn't be enough for you, could it?" Isabella jeered. "You would never be satisfied, not even with your new husband," Isabella laughed.

Emma woke in a sweat, the light was streaming through the windows and she felt completely sick.

"Are you all right mama?" her maid would ask her through the day as she watched Emma dab sweat from her forehead.

"I think I am feverish, it will pass, nothing to be concerned over," Emma told her.

"Shall I let Mr. Knightley know ma'ma?" she asked.

Emma shook her head vigorously, "No, that is not necessary,"

"He may wish to fetch Doctor Perry," her maid suggested.

"No, it is not serious, I'm hardly unwell," she insisted.

"Very well ma'ma," her maid nodded with a curtsy.

She was not all right. It seemed most unfortunate that her heavy spirits would be further hampered by sickness.

She would spend the next week mostly in bed, with Dr. Perry checking in, despite her protests to the contrary.

She was sick enough that her protests were rather weightless and she hadn't the energy to place anything more than words into the struggle.

It was no surprise to any that knew her that she was up and outside as soon as the sickness broke. She had felt so trapped and confined and it was worse to have the Doctor fusing over her at all.

She found a footpath that led up and away from the estate. The cold air felt such a relief to her lungs and brought clarity to her mind as well. She was thankful to feel well again, having spent the past week in a groggy and sweaty stupor.

She was halfway down a pathway that led towards Randalls when she noticed a horse and rider.

The rider kept turning the horse and peering in each direction of the crossway.

"Sir, are you lost?" Emma called out, feeling comforted that her voice did not sound as if she had spent the entire week in bed.

"Not a bit," the gentleman smiled. He had bright eyes and curly hair that was windswept and disheveled and yet pleasing all at the same time.

"Are you certain? I've lived in this area my whole life, I would be able to direct you anywhere you pleased to go, I am quite sure,"

"Ah, a fair maiden of the woods, or are you an elf creature—Yes, I think an elf creature. What should I call you?" He teased.

"I am Emma Woodhouse," She told him out of habit, feeling suddenly shocked as awareness dawned on her. She was not Emma Woodhouse, a name which came so naturally to her lips and mind. She was someone else now and how would she remember it.

"Well, Emma Woodhouse I apologize, it seems after all you are a maiden of the woods," he said with a grin that reached even his eyes. "Emma Woodhouse, it has been a pleasure! I will be sure to ask you directions should I ever require them in the future, good day," he smiled, turned his horse in a direction opposite to Highbury and the moved his horse into motion. At the turn, he gave a quick wave and set his horse into a canter.

What a strange encounter Emma thought as she walked back towards Donwell, what a different young man. He was a gentleman to be clear, but she had never been teased before in such a casual way.

She wondered where he was headed and if he would ever need directions in the future.