Chapter 19

London


The blanket rustled as she shifted again for what felt the thousandth time. Each shift of the bedding sounded like loud cracks of thunder to her ears and needless to say she could not sleep through something such as that.

She wasn't even about to blame the bed or the bedding for each seemed perfectly comfortable to her.

She sighed, turned again.

Each time she blinked her eyes closed the image she had conjured of the blue-eyed blonde child reemerged against the backdrop of the darkness. Earlier she had been chasing butterflies across what appeared to be the field nearest Hartfield and then she was sitting on the patio settee on Donwell's terrace cajoling with a smaller boy who must have been the girl's little brother.

She snapped her eyes open quickly, it all looked too real to exact—almost too vivid to be merely imaginings. And yet when she opened her eye she was met with nothing but the darkness of the room and the sound of George breathing.

She rolled over once more and closed her eyes again.

This time the little girl held out a doll invitingly as if beckoning her to play too. The coy smile Emma could not deny looked very much of her lineage.

She snapped her eye open again, it was too much for her to keep in.

"Are you still awake?" she asked into the darkness, softly but a little breathlessly—half hoping he was awake to distract her and yet also not wishing to awaken him if he were asleep.

"Yes, and are you surprised? How is anyone to sleep with a spinning dreidel next to them?"

"I'm sorry," she winced.

"It isn't something to apologize for, may I ask what is on your mind,"

"You know me too well," she admitted. "I'm merely thinking of tomorrow," she told him but if pressed on it she might have admitted a preoccupation with a more distant future.

"Henry wants to sail boats in the park and I might have promised him I'd buy him a rather grand kite if it was not windy,"

"Kite flying in the park? Is that the same one that has the rowboats that John was telling us about after supper this evening?"

"Oh no, that is at a pond in a different park, the stream for the toy boats is hardly more than a small trickle, perhaps better called a creek,"

"Maybe we could pack a picnic," Emma suggested.

"If we are venturing to buy a kite tomorrow before going to the park then perhaps we might do a picnic at the park with the rowboats a different day, I think nothing is worse than warm sandwiches, that and carrying a heavy basket through busy London streets,"

"Yes, nothing is worse than carrying a heavy basket through busy London streets; except for carrying a heavy basket, toy boats and a very grand kite through busy London streets,"

"Well, obviously I had expected you would help by carrying the kite," he told her, "I'd not thought you'd lose the very self-sufficiency I've always known you for, I'd half expect to have to hassle you over the privilege to carry the basket of boats,"

"Well, I hadn't known I was invited, I suggested the picnic as a means to gain an invitation, I rather assumed I was unwelcome at the suggestion that we picnic another time, but I gather now that that was not what you meant by it," she admitted, sharing her motives freely.

"Well, you know that you are always invited," he replied, "—Now with your mind more at ease about the features of tomorrow, will you be able to sleep?" he asked gently.

She hesitated a brief moment, just long enough to begin biting at her lip lightly. "Well quite possibly if it was only tomorrow that I was roused by. But if you must have it, it isn't just tomorrow that has caused me to feel so very restless that it is impossible to sleep. And if you must know more still, it is mostly your fault that I cannot. You are the main reason because I cannot stop thinking about our blonde haired child that you described earlier. Every time I close my eyes it is as if she is staring back at me or wanting my attention or to play with dolls together, or to show me a butterfly or squealing at her little brother's shenanigans, I mean they were both sitting on the Donwell settee—the blonde girl and her little brother, I can see them as plain as day," she divulged.

"Well yes, you have always had an overactive imagination, you can hardly blame me for that" he replied, definitively almost as if he was unwilling to carry the conversation future.

"Well and then it has me thinking that perhaps I would like a small blonde girl to play with and teach all the tricks for getting extra cake and other fun things I've missed since childhood,"

His reaction was half a mixture between a surprised stiffen and a chuckle, which he stifled somewhat successfully with the edge of his index finger against his lip line. "Children are about much more than that and I am afraid there is much you do not understand about the process of begetting children, but do not fret about it and we may put this conversation aside. "

"Well, I don't believe I am entirely ignorant, Mrs. Weston told me that it has to do with affection, and if that it all that it is then I do feel affection for you, and you know that because I've told you about it before."

"Emma, not all affection is the same. We will leave it there, as I think it is maybe best if we talk about this at a different time," he told her flatly, belaying no emotion or sentiment.

"But I do tell you about my feelings, and you always refuse to acknowledge them as legitimate," she protested.

"Emma, this is not the time or place for this discussion," he told her succinctly and she imagined she had before her George Knightley the landowner and magistrate, instead of her beloved friend.

"It is never the time and place," she sighed out, thinking more of her own thoughts and feelings of late and the cowardice that always pressed her away from a decision at the last moment.

"I do not want either of us to say anything that would make the other upset," he offered, a softer tone more the one she was used to, gentle around the edges but still as direct in their point.

She bit her lip then, wanting to say everything on her mind all at once but steeling against the pain sensation and willing herself to be more sensible. For once in your life Emma be sensible, she thought to herself.

"When would be a good time?" she asked carefully hanging the words together as they came to her mind.

He seemed not to hear her at first.

"George, when would be a good time to discuss it?" she asked again.

"Yes, Emma I did hear you—I am not fully sure—maybe we can reconvene on the issue in a few months to reassess,"

"Reconvene and reassess?" she retorted, keeping at bay the measure of disgust she felt at the words.

"That's right," he offered sounding more confident in his own statement.

"Does it not sound to you more like a transaction between trades' people or a meeting of parliament?"

He took a very long deep sigh but did not say anything for the longest time. Only pressed his fingers against his temples, "Emma do not push me in this. I do not want us to say what will surely hurt the other, and you will needle me until I have no option but to say more than I know I should,"

"George, you mention not wanting us to say what would hurt each other but as I see it I have nothing to say that would hurt you, leaving me to believe that you have something to say that will hurt me." She paused for a long moment, carefully considering if she really wanted to know. "Please tell me, I won't mind if it is painful—"

He shook his head that he would not.

"Pray, tell me. I've always had the desire to know, regardless of the outcome,"

"I'll not do it. I'll say I'll not but you'll not have that. It is the story of us, isn't Emma? That I am made to do your bidding because you ask so sweetly," he told her. "I specifically asked you not to press me on it and in your own pigheadedness you do exactly as I asked you not,"

"Ah, is that the beginning of the wounding then? That I am manipulative and pigheaded—and you are certain you do not wish to hurt me? You appear to hold nothing back in your choice of words," she asked the higher notes sounding vain but only in a way that seemed bred of a manufactured haughtiness—as if to mask the underlying emotion of it.

"Yes, I am more than certain that I do not wish to hurt you and in addition I did not wish to spoil our time visiting in London, but you ask it of me and you are not easily refused—so you Emma will have your wish and please do not forget that I asked you to let it be and you would not have it," he told her sounding almost like a man in pain. "I will not in good conscience bring children into this" he motioned wildly between them with his hands. "this—this arrangement—you are right when you liken it to a business transaction or an act of parliament –for this it is not a real marriage and I'll not continue the charade by adding children to it. They deserve so much more than that—it would not be fair to anyone."

She thought she might be able to hold it all in but she swiftly began to cry. He was correct, what he had to say would hurt her.

"If you want to pass on tricks and enjoy watching something grow, then perhaps you may be placated by a puppy," he added in an attempt to soften the blow but it seemed to only shock her more because she couldn't find the will to meet his eyes any longer.

She batted a row of tears from her eyes and considered her words for a long moment.

Then she sat up in bed to look down at him, as if the position would gain her some tactical advantage, and she willed herself to meet his eyes. "For years there have been marriages that were nothing more than a business transaction, in essence, they were literally arranged, how few marriages are built upon anything else? Not everyone may be like John and Isabella—love right from the beginning, few are so lucky to be able to afford that—"

"Emma, I understand where you are taking your argument and I will stop you by saying that I care for you far too much to accept that from you,"

"Oh you say that but I am somehow still cast as the guilty party. And you—You with all your silly talk about dreams dying and new dreams! I thought maybe you would wish it—that it would make you happy and then how you talked of my mother as if she was the most wonderful saintly creature and then all but told me that I would be the same-you can't claim you did not put the very idea into my head and then to say—I cannot even repeat it –as if it would be some injustice to bring a child into this," it was her turn to gesticulate wildly between them.

"Emma, what we have may not be deficient for a friendship but it is inadequate for what is called a marriage and that cannot be denied and I'll not pretend differently,"

She rolled away from him then, as far away as the bed would permit, she would not say what it was that she felt well up in her heart. She wanted to say, Well, that must be said to be on you then, for I have done everything in my power to show you that I love you and you'll not hear it. But it was blaming statement and she knew to speak it out would do the damage he had spoken of earlier so she held it in.

Sharp sobs—ones she had not known since grieving her father in the first days of his death—escaped her but this time he made no move to comfort her.


Hey all, to all the reviewers who have kept with me during this incredibly long absence thank you. And for anyone that was concern about my health or safety, sorry to cause any undue alarm. I have been doing well, and I might be falling into an unrequited love scenario in my own personal life that has kept me a little too absorbed. Sometimes books are so much easier than real life but enough about me.

I am also sorry that my return brings such a deadbeat, low spirits feeling chapter. I hope you can see progress in what feels like a step backwards for our favorite couple.

Sorry for the long time between chapters, I have had moments of uncertainty over where the plot needs to go. I think I am on track again now. Let me know if you are still interested in reading this story.