Chapter 12
The Meaning of the Word
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She had sought him out that same day; after their argument, no it was not an argument, at least not on her part for she was not angry. It was perhaps better called a discussion, but she knew that he had been angry about it and therefore felt that word imperfect as well.
She had not expected him to remain cross about it, but is seemed that he had. This was evident when he did not take afternoon tea with her. She set out to find him and realized that he had set himself up in his study, she had not entered that room save from their tour.
The study felt set apart somehow, as if the space was his and should remain that way. She considered the options from the bannister rail. She could see his face well from the vantage point. He was reading but not for leisure she was certain, his brows set slightly too intensely for an enjoyable afternoon read.
She debated the options –to disturb him in his work and in a space of solace from her? Or should she let the moment pass and speak gently with him at supper?
Perhaps it would be better leaving him more time to relax, she had not interrupted him yet, she could still decide to pass him by. She considered it for that moment. There was something she could own—it nothing else she could have been more discreet in her conduct, she would own that. It seem best to do it right away, as she knew with all things easily avoided it was best to take them on straight away as soon as the one had the emption.
"I waivered over whether or not to interrupt you," she confided, making small steps to approach him and he looked up from his papers then.
"Yes?" he asked, she heard a softness in his voice and hoped it meant that he was not so terribly angry with her.
"I wanted to apologize for arguing with you earlier, upon reflection I can own that I should have been more discreet and I will aim to be more discreet in the future," she vowed.
"Discreet?" He asked, the soft tone gone and replaced by a more etched gravelly quality. "Please understand that that is not the heart of the matter Emma. However, I do not have the luxury of time, the willpower or the energy to go into it further at this time. I will see you at dinner," he concluded, looking back to his papers.
Had she really been dismissed? She stood looking at him for a short time before turning and leaving his study in the same gentle way he had earlier—though she was curtain that he would not have had tears pressing at his lashes that were trying to escape.
She knew there was something biblical about the wounds inflicted by a friend but she could not bring the verse to mind. She took deep breathe all the way back to rear door and then made her way into the garden, nothing lifted her spirits better than time spent out of doors.
She took the chair opposite to the one she had selected at breakfast, nearest to him but at his left instead. As she thought it might be productive to allow the setting to feel different, as breakfast had not gone as she had hoped-she did not wish to encourage its repetition. The promptness of his staff was evident in their seeming effortless efficiency. Supper was only just served as she opened her mouth to speak to him further. "I have been hoping to speak to you more about our discussions earlier,"
"I have had an exhausting afternoon Emma, I think I would appreciate if we say no more about it," he told her—not sharply, she felt she could have risen to the occasion and argued with him had his tone been sharp or tenacious. Instead it was the tired, the subdued flatness of it that caused her willing agreement.
"Very well, may I talk to you of other things or would the tranquility of silence be better suited?"
"Considering the events of the day I feel tranquility would please me," he answered, and then true to his word said no more about anything.
It had not have been fully understood by Emma how much she needed talking or even appreciated the artful expression and peace within the buzzing of a room.
It was one thing to sit in quiet tranquility beside a bubbling stream or a humming meadow but at the table it was wrenched. Every touch and scrape of silverware against the plate seemed jarringly and worse yet the very sound of her own chewing burning in her own ears—it was torturous. Could he hear her chewing? Was it really so loud or only so evident to her own ears?
But he said it would please him.
Oh she withheld the question as long as she could bear and then when she could take no longer it was out and broke the silence quickly
"Would you please pass the salt?" she caved asking as demurely as she could.
He complied, she smiled, perhaps more to herself as he did not seem to be looking at her fully, and she would know because her eyes –having little else to do to occupy her attention had been relatively fixed on his person and particularly focused on his visage.
"I dare say that this pork is the most ten—der—"she began but the words died slowly on her lips as she saw the look he gave her. She would have to save her compliments for another day.
"Right, tranquility—I nearly forgot," she excused with a forced smiled—the kind that always seemed painful to hold in place for longer than the briefest moment.
Oh how she disliked having him at odds with her. It was nearly a hellish meal— her personal hell that is and unfortunately another that she was set on not repeating.
It would pass she promised herself. It must for they could not remain this way, it was inhumane and not in their nature to remain so divided.
She did not want to leave things as they were. Let not the sun go down upon your wrath. That was biblical as well! And biblical wisdom declared that they ought address it and sleep peaceably. She was impressed that despite it all, he still took his place at his side of her bed.
They had moved back to her room as soon as the wallpaper work was finished. It was pretty, Mr. Knightley had suggested the flower and birds print and she enjoyed the warmness it added to the room.
In hopes of a conversation topic she put on the new chemise. She would do everything she felt reasonable to win him over and return to his good graces.
She spent long minutes busying her fingers playing with the lace on the sleeve, gathering her words and determining exactly how to phrase it. She finally bit her lip sternly, and then let it free just as she began to ask her question, "George, do you know where this nightdress came from?" she was pleased at how natural she sounded to her own ears.
She was privileged with his attention for all of seconds while he appraised the item of which she was speaking.
"Isabella picked it out," he told her turning his attention back to his reading.
"Isabella," she whispered back with shock and disbelief.
"Your sister, yes," he added.
"Was it a gift? I was wondering at having not seen it before—not until the night—not until I fell asleep after sobbing upon you," she admitted at blush following swiftly behind her words.
"She picked it out to be part of your trousseau, in that case yes, I suppose it was a gift from me," he replied in a very fact driven sort of answer. Emma would have used descriptors such as disinterested, perfunctory and jaded to expand on his tone and countenance.
She willed herself to do it, she told herself it would make him happier, she'd give her life's blood for his happiness, why could she not use words? "Thank you George, it is very pretty," she said softly, genuine but unable to meet his face she was not sure if he noticed or cared.
He made no audible answer and although he may have nodded agreeance, she hadn't the courage to look.
"Sleep well," she bid him, turning to tuck her arms and shoulder beneath the blankets and settling gently beside him with her back to him.
How could one afternoon spent with three other individuals be so horrendously boring? Emma asked herself, walking up the steps into the main entrance of Donwell.
It was exhausting.
She wished she had someone to lament it to in dramatic fashion. Her father had often listened dutifully while she expounded on such a topic—sighing, shaking his head or suppling a "How right you are Emma," in the right places. Even though things were more even keel between them since what she now thought of as 'the dinner of odious silence', Mr. Knightley for all his goodness, had never been that sort of friend.
She could well imagine his verbal chastisement without having to scarcely think at all.
He liked Jane Fairfax, he always said she was a sweet tempered young lady who deserved compassion. No, he would not stand for a word spoken against her or the Bates'—true or not.
It seemed odd to her that she be censored from sharing her thoughts in this area. After all, to be boring was not necessarily a bad thing; it was merely fact and subject to individual tastes and fancies. While some might be wildly entertained by Ms. Bates' suffuse retelling of a book Jane had once read (about the history of Ireland) and communicated the details of said book in a letter she once wrote to her Aunt from Ireland, Emma was not.
"Such a coincidence, to be in Ireland, reading a book about the histories of Ireland and relaying the details to her family in Highbury, who for our part have always been intrigued about Ireland, but have never been," Ms. Bates had reflected
And poor Jane, Emma felt mortified for the poor soul to be sitting there nodding agreeably. Jane for her part was encouraging, even so far as to include the odd, "Yes, I did say that," and "You have remembered every word exactly!"
It was too much, in fact she was glad for the walk as it allowed her to feel the pent up tension and energy to leave her extremities.
The butler was quick to let her know that a letter had arrived for her.
For me? Who might it be— it dawned on her, alas Isabella surly. If Isabella was writing of anything other than begging forgiveness for her ill-treatment she would be in some mood—Emma thought to herself.
She made quick steps toward the butler to receive the post from his care.
It was not from Isabella but instead a Frank Churchill direct from Enscombe, Yorkshire.
She turned to post over in her hand, as if viewing the transcription again would change it somehow.
Indeed, she held a letter from Frank Churchill.
With an afternoon of sheer monotony she had never felt more tempted to read anything in her life. Ohh! It pained her but she knew she ought wait; she needed to show the letter and perhaps even read it alongside her husband, simply to put his mind at ease, so that he would not think it meant anything more than it was; a letter from a new friend.
It felt ages from his return from his business—the face time he put in with his tenants though touching in the sentimentality of the action was not truly required. He would say it was all part of managing a grand estate but Emma knew he employed his bailiff Mr. Larkins for just such a purpose.
Under normal circumstances she was pleased at how actively he was involved in the running of his estate, he had from her earliest memories invested time, energy and passion into his role—it became him really, master of Donwell Abbey—it was a duty, which in the aspects and tenacity that he took it on she did not believe John Knightley could have ever made it what it was.
Though he had lost his father earlier than most, George Knightley had run the estate he had inherited with more skill, foresight and drive than any of his forbearers, or at least the ones that she had ever heard spoken of. It was an uncommon thing for a young man to surpass his own father in skill and ability—she had heard once that Donwell had steadily increased in its profitability since it was inherited.
She was pleased when he did return and knew she would find him in his study; she brought tea service with her and a few light pastries to accompany.
Pouring his tea as he liked, she had known his preferences since she was old enough to hold tea parties with imaginary tea. Although it was not until she had grown old enough to pour the actual tea that she had learned what he made up for in goodness, he lacked in imagination, for he took his actual tea in the same fashion as the imaginary.
"Would you like a scone or pasty?" she asked, moving to sit in the chair nearest him.
He did not, she took one and held her own tea, thinking of how best to start the conversation.
It did not seem useful to delay it with chatter.
"I have a letter here from Frank Churchill and I have not looked at it yet; but I know that it contains nothing untoward—but would you like to read it first?" she asked producing the letter from her skirt pocket and holding it outward towards him.
A look she could best perceive as annoyance crossed his features, "Emma, I am not your father to censor you. I am not—I am not going to—or rather I should say I have given you my thoughts and my full opinion. I will not protect you farther Emma. Right now you are your only rival—you cannot be hidden from yourself, I cannot shelter you from yourself—from your ways, from your stubbornness. It is who you are Emma. I cannot change you; I do not wish to change you—but should you see a reason to act differently you will take it upon yourself to do it for I have known you all your life and that is also who you are. And it is not that I do not trust you Emma. It is simply that at my age there is a wisdom that goes beyond your experience. I have no wish to read the letter for it was not addressed to me and if there is a matter that pertains secrecy, then you shall have your secrets," he concluded.
"And you will be cross with me," Emma retorted, with a knowing look.
"Emma, I am tired—for I do not know what else to say to you but that I do not wish to read the letter,"
"May I read it to you?" she asked, looking for an alternative solution.
"No Emma, for I have no wish to hear it," he answered, placing his tea on his saucer and moving his hand to rub at his temples.
"Then do you wish me not to read it?"
He made no answer, and she was not sure if he was thinking or simply opting for silence.
"What would you have me do? Burn it?" she asked with a tone that was more reproachful. "Burn it without looking at it?" she pressed.
"Emma, I do not have a solution that you wish to hear," he replied finally.
"Then would it be fine with you if I were to sit here in your study near you to read the letter? And perhaps bring it to you should there be anything that were suspect or untoward?"
"Emma." His intonation was enough that she understood what it meant. It was the same warning as given by a growling dog.
"Well, I will be sitting just across reading by your fire and if you change your mind, or if you decide you would like to read it after me…" she offered trailing off.
"Enough Emma," he snapped with more finality than she was expecting.
"Ugh, but I have such a curiosity for the letter's contents but I also feel your judgement—which I hate feeling and I cannot reconcile it. For I believe it would be near impossible for me not to read this," she said waiving the letter with exaggerated motions. "It has been burning a hole in my pocket all morning, and my curiosity had only been abated by sheer willpower and for the fact that I wanted your approval. But it seems silly to me now—I feel just now that even mentioning it to you has made it look something it is not. For it is only Frank Churchill, were are friends and I simply wish to help him with his problem,"
She paused a long moment and could not read his expression full, but to say some part of it she recognized from their fight about Mr. Martin and Harriet Smith.
Perhaps it was disappointment.
"Don't be harsh with me," she begged him "I could not bear it, for you are my greatest friend,"
His sigh was heavy, "Emma, at times I wonder at what friendship means to you,"
"I think it must mean that I would do anything for you. Truly."
"That you would be unselfish for me Emma?" he inquired. "Is that what you are saying?" and at that he had taken on an uncharacteristic smirk and almost a scoffing tone, as if he did not believe it.
"If it were truly what you wanted, I would do it, I would burn the letter,"
She paused a long moment. Every part of her hating the look on his face—he had never looked at her like he did not believe her before.
"Pray, ask it of me if you do not believe me!" she demanded sharply, holding the letter out to him again.
"It is an unfortunate place we find ourselves Emma, for friendship means something similar to me. It means that I would sacrifice my happiness, my own well-being, my own everything for you. And I would be unselfish for you Emma, and I will not ask you to burn it. Although, perhaps it is not true altruism for I know that to ask you to burn it would build resentment within you. You would grow to believe I did not believe you and overtime perhaps to dislike me for my overbearing ways. You would begin to tell yourself that I was meddlesome and that I did not trust you. You would grow to think that I was heavy handed, domineering and the very picture of controlling. No! I will not ask you to burn it, for I suffer the same affliction of friendship—that it would bring me everything to see you happy, and I know for some odd reason, although I cannot explain it, he has made you happy. He brings you a happiness that I have not been able to in several months,"
"But I am not unhappy with you," she protested, there was a softness about her eyes and mouth and he felt as if it were perhaps pity or some other compulsory emotion.
"Go read the letter Emma," it was softly spoken but she felt it unwise to challenge the directive.
It seemed reading material was common place in their bed now; and as her husband read Emma was certain she did not wish to interrupt him. She did however wish to speak to him once he was no longer preoccupied.
So she determined she would wait for him to close the book.
Feeling it would not do to be unoccupied—oh as if her patience would allow it! She left the bed briefly and found a handkerchief and an embroidery hoop, she worked mostly quietly but on occasion caught herself mid hum and slowly petered out the song.
While Miss Taylor had always said she had a natural talent for embroidery, Emma felt she had to concentrate heavily to prevent simple errors. She was very out of practice, and her stitch work confirmed this. The loop in Mr. Knightley's first initial curved awfully sharply; she almost began to undo the stitching when she heard the sound of her husband turning over.
How had she missed it? When had the booked closed? Was he silent as the grave, or was it that she was so focused?
Oh, well it was not impossible to talk with him as she lay beside him, but his back was to her.
She placed the hoop on the bedside table feeling a tad perturbed with her own unawareness. It was important; she felt she would not sleep well without having spoken her mind to him.
He was not so very far away. She though from where she was laying on her side of their bed.
"We have had our arguments, I know it," she said, "and I am sorry for bringing you frustration, for making you cross with me," this she spoke to the ceiling above her.
She twisted then, turning over to face his back. It was not enough she felt, to apologize into thin air.
It would not be too difficult to slide nearer to him so that she could speak to him.
If he had been on his back, facing the ceiling, it wouldn't have to be so odd; for that was not all that dissimilar to how she had walked with him in the gardens of Hartfield –arm in arm or brushing shoulders while laughing at something clever one or the other had said. The memory seem so long ago now, as if their tumultuous feuding of late had made it seem distant past rather too quickly.
Could she hug him to her? She was affectionate by nature and to be reserved, especially in her youth, was often a battle of her will tampering down her natural feelings. How many times had she thrown her arms around her father as he sat in his arm chair? She would hug him to her and give him a kiss on his cheek before carrying on excitedly about the news of the day.
It was love that allowed her to hug her father, why should it be any different with her husband?
She trusted him, if she did mess it up and if he did not want her near him and did not like her words, then she trusted at very least that it would remain between them. Any embarrassment would remain theirs alone.
"I relished in your smiles, I do wish to see you happy as well," she told him scooting herself closer to him then. For he had not moved, had said nothing and she could decipher none of what he was thinking. She reached out to him and he did stiffen at the touch of her hand to his shoulder blade, "You are my dearest friend, and we may bicker, we may fight but I do love you,"
She pulled herself to him then, bringing her own cheek to rest against the space between his neck and ear. She could feel it as he took in breath, her hand moving to press the muscle at where his shoulder met his bicep. "There is none that I love better than you," she assured him and then she was hugging him to her, feeling that maybe she could impart to him in action where words seemed to constantly fail.
"I cannot express in words how grateful I am. That you would take me –provide me a solution that would please me, when no one else would. That when I was out of other options, you would take my happiness before your own." She sighed this out against his back.
"I know it is a debt I can never repay, and I hate being indebted to you!" she added, feeling the tension of it and relaxing her grip of her hug slightly.
"I feel like I owe you something and have no means to repay it," she urged, feeling the honest words trickling out without real thought of what she was saying.
"You owe me nothing Emma," was the first words he spoke out, with them it almost seemed his body relaxed as she felt his back press into her relaxed hold.
"But I cannot shake the feeling," she explained "and I have this strange worry that in time—well —or that perhaps you did not fully realize how vexing I can be. To be so near me at all times—you will have noticed that I am not a perfect creature; I am not the charming angel that could do no wrong. I will have noticed that I am wrong and wrong often. And I think for your part you knew that –or at least partially. But perhaps you hoped that I would grow out of it, that in a few months or a year, or two that I would be better in time. That I would not be so silly, but I am silly—you know it. And you have said yourself that men of sense do not want silly wives. Which is exactly what you are, I could not express your personality with any other characteristic than the word sensible. And if men of sense do not want silly wives, then you do not want me," she told him. "You must see that. And I am fearful over what I feel when I think about that. To have a husband feel that way—not just any husband—for I think we are closest to a love match than I had originally thought. For I love you like my own hand, like my own arm, like my own skin—like my dear papa—I love you. And yet, to think that you do not want me is heartbreaking in its own way. I don't know how to express it—but it is heartbreaking because while I am still able to hold it at a distance from me, to tell myself that you have helped me out of the kindness of your heart, in contrast it also upsets me knowing that while you have done me the greatest kindness, you are unhappy in it—unhappy to be married to me. And the worst part is that I know you are trapped—unable to make any changes to the situation. I feel sick at that and I am sorry if I have been acting out towards you. I am sorry, I am mainly angry at myself for not being more unselfish towards you, but I think perhaps some part of me wants to give you an excuse—to give you a reason. Nothing has been done between us that would prevent a dissolution—and I cannot help but feel that maybe it is what you would wish."
"Emma, I am not sure what brought you to think this way but I would never consider an annulment, and it grieves me to think that you could fathom I would do that to you," he responded.
"Not to me," she insisted.
"Emma, you would be more rejected than a widow or even a single sinister who deigned to live alone ever could be—it is as if you forget exactly what I desired to prevent you from,"
"But that is just it, but I now consider everything you traded from my happiness and that perhaps it was in direct contrast to your own. And more than anything I desire you to be happy and what might be the consequences of me ruining your previously happy situation? What if in time you grown to hate me for it?" she asked urgently.
"Shh, I could never hate you," he responded, patting her hand where it was at his breastbone. It was almost matronly in its style, for Emma recalled her mother's mother visiting Hartfield when Emma was around six. The woman was a grand lady, married to a duke and then widowed long before Isabella was born. It was not on many occasions that marrying into the Woodhouse family could have been considered marrying down, but it had its rare exceptions. Emma could recall two things with perfect clarity. One was her grandmothers pinched facial expression—perhaps an etched look of distain as she was said to walkabout life never agreeing to be satisfied with anything—clearly her mother's disposition which all said Emma had inherited was from her mother was from her grandfather the Duke line. The second was the stiff, almost unfeeling way her grandmother had patted her hand when greeting her. To her recollection, the patting gesture was just the same, though her husband was perhaps more sympathetic.
She bit her lip but consciously chose not to release him from her hold. He might not have hated her, but if that were true it was only because he was above it, far too good a man and this she knew so well already. It was nothing to do with what she deserved but simply a point of fact in having married the greatest gentleman in all of Highbury—and very possibly all the world.
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