Chapter 29

Of Letters & Leases


"Oooh!" she hissed loudly, she recoiled her hand from the pen and nearly tossing it but she thought better of it, she was not a savage. Instead, she dropped it back onto the polished silver tray, hissed another bout of air outward, paused for the longest moment and took a big deep breath.

It did not help. If anything, the agitation grew—that was not supposed to be the way it worked!

This wasn't supposed to be the way it went!

"Everything all right Emma?" He asked dryly, his eyes he kept on the pages in his hands. It was almost like it might have been if they were sitting in her father's study years ago. Her about ready to start railing on dramatically, him and her father maintaining a gentle countenance—her father because that was merely his nature, but for George's part it was sometimes only to goad her further or to see her reactions–though he'd never willingly admit it.

"Of course I'm not all right. It is miserable!" she announced, "No! No, I am miserable!" she told him before he could even ask for clarification. "The whole situation is miserable! And what is more, we will be even more miserable, can you believe that? Yes, we will certainly be infinitely more miserable when the invitations are answered and certain people arrive to attend our dinner party for the presumptuous Eltons, I guarantee it!"

This time he raised his eyes to her, and before he could make any comment or suggestion she continued on.

"Oh, it is horrid! And I just blotted up another one! I think it is a sign! Oh yes, this is a very bad omen indeed! A very terrible sign, for each time I attempt to write the Eltons invitation there is an unparalleled calamity! A misspelling of Augusta, A-U-G-U-S-T-A –I mean it should not have been difficult! And then the inkpot spill and now this!" she cried out.

"Certainly it cannot be as bad as all that," he recommended from his spot in the study in his armchair, by the unlit fire, reading over something or another.

She rose, "But it is!" she offered with a heartfelt pout, "See I got ink on my sleeve," she moved over to him to show him.

"Oh indeed. I feel compelled to say, out, damned spot, out" he quoted and she smirked, she never heard him use any sort of language. He turned her wrist over and kissed it. "That's the most consolation I can offer, for even with an expert laundress in our household, it won't come out."

"You're certain?" she asked, rubbing at the spot.

"Positive. It is certainly ruined," He said matter-of-factly

She sighed. She'd liked the dress, it was written all across her face.

"You'll pick another, one you'll like more," He assured her.

"I could switch the sleeves to a cap sleeve and do a pretty white linen or muslin underlay in cooler weather," Emma reflected.

"Or you could let me buy you a new dress. Would you like me to surprise you?"

"If you really wanted to," she smiled at him "Although, truthfully I've already talked myself into redesigning the sleeves. I'll likely do it anyway, a new dress or not."

"Alright, then it will be like having two new dresses after this one is madeover, now that's hardly miserable," he teased.

"Oh, but it solves for only one problem, the lesser of the two frankly! It does not get my invitation sent to the Eltons!" she retorted.

"Would you like me to write it?" he asked.

"Their invitation?" She beamed, "Would you?"

"Only if you don't judge my penmanship," he told her.

"You have beautiful penmanship," she told him earnestly.

He shook his head as if to call her ridiculous but without any words.

"Don't laugh at me. And I'm not just saying that because you are doing my bidding! You have beautiful penmanship, I've always thought so—it's so perfect and the scrawl has loops in the right place and it is impossibly crisp and precise. And what more is that in all the letters I read aloud for my father, which were many, I never once saw you make a spelling error. I think all my life I've tried to emulate your writing style if I'm honest, especially your 'M's, 'W's and 'K's –I think I've mastered those," she confided.

"I almost believe you, Emma," he told her in a jovial tone—his goading smile still at work.

"You should, I'm not exaggerating!"

"You've already gotten what you desire—no need to gild the lily with superfluous praise and flattery, bring me the stationary," he told her.

"Oh, but surely, you'll write it at the desk, won't you?" she said.

"Ah, now you're concerned! Here I thought you trusted my penmanship and style? Trust me, Emma, I've written a number of notes from this very spot"

"Certainly you couldn't do it justice from the chair," she reflected.

"You cannot go from admiring my penmanship to questioning my judgment, I've written many things—notes of all types, everything from shopping lists for William Larkin to farm inventories, to magistrate business—important documents all from right here, using a book behind the paper—I own that it is nearly as good as a proper desk," he said with conviction.

"Nearly as good? But surely that won't do for this occasion," she commented and it was only at the very end of her comment that he cracked a smile. He was beautiful when he wore his boyish grin that way.

"You can't be serious. You're teasing me!" She exclaimed with a giggle, her matching grin breaking across her face.

"Naturally for it is such fun," he agreed, "I wish you could see your face. I wish I could mime its expression for you—your face—it looked –well let's just say it made teasing you very much worth it!"

"Do. Do mime it for me George," she said with a laughing tone of her own.

He was grinning back at her, his face looked as if it would be hard-pressed to dispose of the smile that radiated. It seemed in that moment that it would be impossible for him to compose his features in any other way than in a grin. He was brimming with laughter. Even his eyes are laughing at her.

"Come on George," she goads, "Mime it for me," she encourages. Bring her hand to press against his cheek, her own eyes full of spirit and laughing back at him. "You said you would, and I am sure you can –you would just need to attempt it," she told him, looking every bit the cat that got the canary.

She ran her index and middle fingers along his left cheekbone and then under his chin. "Aren't you going to be a good sport and try it?" she asked him, knowing that he was likely eating his words. He for all his abilities was not an actor and he hadn't the slightest spec of the dramatic within him. Even to tease her by way of emulation was likely to be eschewed for its potential to be cruel or cutting—he was not the type to embrace that sort of thing.

"I'd reproduce the likeness if I thought it would do any justice, I know it would never measure up, a toddler may try to produce a replica of one of Michelangelo's sculptures-it would bear no resemblance."

"Fine, I'll have to be placated in other ways, you should draft the invitation for me," She told him, taking a few steps back and motioning to the desk.

"As you wish," he told her. "Before I start, I should let you know that on the same Thursday evening you have planned for this dinner, we are likely to see both John and Henry at Donwell, so they will be here in attendance, they will be staying until mid-day on Saturday. It is possible they may arrive Wednesday night or more likely Thursday mid-afternoon"

"Oh, that is very agreeable, I'm glad to have anyone else with us to dilute the presence of key individuals," she told him.

"Emma, I know I have been remiss previously. I do not want to make the same error at this juncture. The reason that my brother and Henry will be coming to visit is that there is a strong likelihood that we have found a family that will let out Hartfield. It is not set in stone yet, that is why John will be interviewing with the candidate. But if they match in person their description on paper then they will make very good tenants to Hartfield and there will surely be no grounds for refusal."

"Thank you for telling me, George," she said slowly, her words in careful measures and sounding that soft-spoken tone of someone trying to contain emotion. "I appreciate the information."

"Yes, and I realize from past errors I would rather you learn it from me, even if nothing has been fully established, rather than to have you hear it from some other source, or by the method of hearsay. " he acknowledged.

"Yes, you are right, your method is best" she nodded her agreeance, still remarkable subdued in tone and expression, and hardly above a whisper in volume. "Would you mind horribly if I left you to pen the invitation? I am confident your words would be as eloquent, if not more so, as mine," she asked,

"I am certain I can accomplish the task," he promised.

"Most excellent, I am equally as confident," she assured him and yet her words would sound flat and listless to anyone taking them in, like sentiment without expression or intonation, dull and somehow insincere by proxy.

He nodded and watched her carefully as she left, looking for anything that would suggest tears. Certain he did not want her to cry and yet a feeling of uncertainty over how to aid her with regards to this.

He did not see a way to ease this specific pain, it was a strange place in which to find himself. He was always the man with the solution –any problem had a solution and those that could not find them simply were not trying hard enough.

For this? What could he do? It was not his place to dictate what his brother's family did and it was a good idea to let out the residence. Especially in their circumstance where nobody was in a position to live in the house. The idea that it would remain dormant was far more offensive to his rational persuasion than almost anything else. They had secured tenants for the land which was important and a sign of good stewardship, it was only right that the home should also generate a profit.

And yet he knew that this lease, should it go through, would make Emma feel officially displaced.

It would be as if there was finality to her time in that happy residence. And although he was often known as the man with many ideas and solutions, he was at a loss over how to make her feel this less keenly, how to soften the blow, how to make Donwell so much her home that she couldn't recall a place happier. He did not see a way for that.


"Miss. Fairfax!" she heard the voice call out.

And she was sheltering her hat and face from the rain with a periodical, so she needed to turn fully to ascertain the caller and determine exactly where their voice was coming from. The other side of the street was a man, in a top hat and she recognized him to be the younger brother of Mr. George Knightley and his young son who, from her vantage point, could not have been big enough to be older than seven.

He crossed the street with the boy in tow, "Miss. Fairfax, would you allow me to give you my umbrella" he asked.

"Oh goodness, no! Not at all." She protested. And added a defense, "I am almost to the post office, where I may stop a moment to dry off or warm-up should I need to, but I have no mind to be bothered by a light rain. In all honesty, I find it rather more soothing than a hot day," she explained.

"It was light before but it seems to me that it has really started raining now," he told her, moving to stand under the same overhand as she did, "Are you sure you wouldn't take the umbrella?"

"I am certain I shall be all right, thank you for the consideration, Mr. John Knightley," she said.

"Oh, yes forgive me, I am glad you recognized my face, for it has been many years but you haven't changed very much since I would have seen you last, you must have been fifteen or so. "He acknowledged.

She smiled genteelly. "Thank you, that is quite the compliment," she confessed.

"Well, I was about to say you hadn't changed at all—it would be the eyes and the face shape that give you away. I would have recognized you should the last time have been when you, Frank Weston and Emma were running around playing hoop and stick." He told her "It feels like just yesterday that my brother and I were setting up bowling pin for you and Emma in the yard, watching both of you cheering heartily any time you successfully knocked one down, why you would have been younger than Henry here, it is amazing how time flies," he told her.

"Ah, well I should not have been too hasty in welcoming the compliment, to look as youthful as fifteen is a compliment to look three-years-old might be another thing entirely," she said, all smiles so that he could see her sense of humour despite her even tone of voice.

"Yes, well, one can never be too careful." He teased, "I do think the rain is letting up again, so I will leave you to sending your post; will you be at the Knightley dinner party tonight?"

"I shall," Jane agreed.

"You are certain you do not want the umbrella?" he offered one last time.

"I am certain," she said with a nod of agreeance.

"Very well, until then Miss. Fairfax," he said with a gentle bow, and though he said nothing to the lady little Henry did the same, and with that, he led his son back into the light drizzle of the tapering rain and back in the direction of the shops.


Oh, it had been both worse and better than she had expected, she was not fully sure how.

On the side of better was her little nephew Henry who after tiring of the adult's mundane conversation curled up against her and fell asleep. It had been a long day for him, but it felt peaceful to have the boy sleeping against her arm as he did.

On the side of worse was Mrs. Elton's frequent use of the words Caro Sposo still rang in her ears. The woman was truly a clanging gong!

And her non-stop chatter about herself was garish and insistent, "I am dotingly fond of music, instruments of all sorts are so intriguing to me, though I only play the piano, but I have always been told that I play amazingly well, a good friend of my mother's once said I might have been a concert pianist, if only I have enjoyed the privilege of practicing more—that really was high praise this friend for she was very talent herself indeed. Beyond that, my friends say I have exquisite tastes—it is my ability to pick the perfect selection for just the right occasion that really sets me apart from others! I cherish music, I even told Mr.E before we were married that I could tolerate not having two carriages and I would even accept a smaller house but I could not live without a piano!"

Not to mention her desire to start a musical club – uh. Emma could not even bring herself to think a second longer on that mention. She could think of nothing else to say but that she herself would not be interested but that she would wish the venture well if others were interested.

And then she professed her desire to 'adopt' Jane.

"Is this angry piano playing that I am hearing?" her husband asked entering the room just off of her room.

"Possibly," Emma agreed. "I would never suspect you to despise anything that would encourage me to practice," she added with a touch of a cheeky tone.

"Ah, truthfully I am not sure whether to be pleased that you are practicing or dismayed that it seems a venting point," he told her.

"Oh, Mrs. E and all her musical giftings might understand me perfectly! Would you hazard a guess that she has ever played angry piano?" Emma inquired with a sing-songy voice for the first half as she emulated in her phrase and intonation, all the while playing some violence across the keys.

"Emma," was the only warning.

"What? She said she wanted to adopt Jane—and she said it right in front of her no less!" Emma told him, "and she tried to rope me into it! 'Emma, don't you think it is our duty as leaders in this community to adopt Jane? Who else could be more positively deserving than our Jane?' – Ugh, she makes me want to scream! She who has been here all of five minutes conceives of herself as a leader in our community! Really? Really! Who exactly does she think she is!?" Emma continued and George placed his hands over her hands to stay them on the keys.

"You'll wake Henry," he told her.

"If he wakes up then he will hear a very dramatic and fast tempo version of Bach's Praeludnium VI!" she told him more sharply than she wanted to.

She sighed, "I'm sorry, it really isn't your fault! I am truly so frustrated by her it—well it astounds me that she can get under my skin in the way that she does."

He watched her, silent but taking in her words, she knew this by the focus of his gaze and the look on his face.

"The bit about Jane's private mail was almost enough for me to feign an illness and remove myself from the room," she told him.

"Really? And I thought you handled that rather well, diplomatically and without extending any insult," he told her.

"I did mention the notion of interference to one's 'privacy'" Emma confessed, a little guiltily and the expression remained on her face.

"It may well have been her servant that might be the intrusive person to Jane's privacy, it was well expressed, tactful and I was proud of you for standing up for Jane there, it wasn't her fault that my brother had brought up the walk to the post earlier today. And Jane seemed unable to extract herself from the clutches of Mrs. Elton's idea. Jane's explanation of having an enjoyment of walking to the post office did nothing to convince as they fell on the deaf ears of Mrs. Elton. Oh, but perhaps allow Mrs. Elton to express her personal distaste for plebeian tasks such as walking or doing anything a servant ought to do in her stead. You did a noble thing, standing in as the voice of reason and aiding Jane," he told her.

"Oh and that Mrs. Elton had the audacity to ask if the mail she was posting was of a personal or private nature! How horribly unrefined! And yet she thinks that it is she who should adopt Jane? Perhaps Jane should adopt her and teach her a thing or two about manners!" Emma fumed.

"Emma," he cautioned again and removed his hand from over hers at the keys.

She forgot about the piano and swiveled around so that she could face him, "Oh and then there is the matter of the donkey!" Emma said loudly, her eyes sparkling with the hints of laughter that she had not felt in the slightest when Mrs. Elton brought it up. At that time she was merely annoyed at the woman and her ability to ruining nearly everything hoped for! It may have been a touch dramatic but Emma had visions of the entire Box Hill picnic overshadowed by a pace of braying donkeys! The reminiscence of earlier in the evening fueled her ire again, "I mean is she mad? Does she have one single piece of sense? One solitary wit about her? Does she have one iota of an idea about geography and distance? Such as where Box Hill is in proportion to where we are now? No! No, she really mustn't! For if she had any of those things, and then she never would have suggested a donkey"

"Emma," she heard him break through her ranting.

"I have arranged carriages!" she told him "If she wishes to 'approach Box Hill on a donkey', that is her own business," she exclaimed, using the same tone of voice that Mrs. Elton had in her own phrasing. Mrs. Elton had claimed it would be majestic and nostalgic, the woman was ridiculous.

There would be no pace or drove of donkeys! Not if Emma had anything to say about it. "With any luck, the donkey she chooses will be so stubborn and horrifically slow that the event will be nearly half over by the time the poor miserable beast deposits her at the picnic area!" Emma said with a measure of spite.

"Emma," he chided once again but she would have sworn that she heard the slightest of unrestraint mirth in his tone then, she darted her eyes to his, they were not laughing eyes but nor were they vexed.

Who was he and what had he done with her husband-who would have been thoroughly appalled?

"George?" she retorted, giving him a look, one he shot back that basically was a silent bid for her to be more gracious.

She continued with her tirade, "I'll permit that Donkeys, for some unknown reason are in fashion! Why? That, well of that I have no idea. It baffles the mind. But it is a perfect fit with the ridiculous impracticality of all things that are 'London'—the backward place that it is! It is something about these Londoners, these people who don't understand at all about practicality or efficiency or—"

"Emma," he reprimanded.

"Very well. I'll let it be," she said with determination and she did mean it at that moment, for that instant, especially when his eyes lit up as he smiled at her.

"Good," he said with pleasedness to his tone.

"Oh but really, a donkey George?" she groaned again, hoping that if her tone was cute enough that he'd let her continue. "Please! Say something impossibly mean about it," she told him, "Say something about it being absolutely ridiculous!"

He chuckled, "Emma, I am not going to do that," he told her earnestly.

"But you agree, right? In your heart of hearts, you think it is as absurd as I do, right? Even if you will not own it or say it aloud, you do agree with me," she persuaded.

"I'll not say that, but I will say this, should I look for an animal for practical use, for purpose of transportation or otherwise, it would not be a donkey," he told her.

"Thank you! The stubborn creatures," she offered with an almost sneer, and then continued "Mrs. E probably sees a lot of herself in them," she added, knowing it was cruel but feeling better to say it out loud!

"Emma," he admonished this time he was the most stern that he had sounded all evening.

"Fine, you will have your wish, I'll say nothing more about it!" she told him.

"Good!" his tone was sincere, "I do not want you turning into a cruel creature," he told her, "for that is not your nature, Mrs. Elton or not,"

She almost wanted to tell him he needn't worry about that but did not want to appear haughty and the sly grin that spread across her lips told her, and him as well that she wasn't altogether sorry for being a little cruel where Mrs. Elton was concerned. On reflection, she really wasn't very sorry at all, and how could one claim to be contrite if they did not feel bad about their actions? They couldn't. Not really. To do so would be to lie to him, she settled on an honest course of action, "Very well, I'll keep my unkind thoughts to myself," she told him for that was a middle ground of sorts. "Goodnight George," she said, raising herself off the piano bench to stand on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"Goodnight Emma," he echoed, watching her all the while and until she smiled, turned away and gracefully exited the room.


She wasn't sleeping when he entered their room, hardly-instead she had pillows propped up behind her head and she looked like the Queen of Sheba with all the decadent plumage of pillows surrounding her.

"Were you waiting up for me?" he asked her softly from the doorway as he entered the room.

"No, not at all-well, yes, maybe a little?" she told him.

"I thought you were tired," he offered. "I half expected to find you snoring," he reflected.

"I'll have it that I do not snore, you should take that back immediately, George Knightley," she began, and then continued headlong into it, "I am tired, it was a long day, I couldn't sleep," she admitted, "I keep wondering if tonight went all right, and I was hoping for more validation from you, but you hadn't really said anything about it. You are so happy to correct me and you are so happy to tease me, in fact, I am surprised I have any self-esteem at all but to praise me might be like drawing blood from a stone," she told him the fact that she was talking so quickly let him know that he was getting the unfettered version of her thoughts and feelings.

"Well I wouldn't correct or tease you if I did not think you could handle it," he told her, "and I do like seeing your face all scrunched up at the mere mention of your snoring," he reflected "But perhaps I should have been more intuitive, so are tired and I did not intend to provoke you or deny you well-deserved praise. The evening was a fine party everything well thought out and organized. Certainly, it will stand as the first dinner party of many that Donwell will likely now host. I appreciate that you worked hard to plan it and everything came together so well, all things considered," he offered.

She sighed contentedly, his words were like honey to her soul, "Someday George," she said this with a wistful and dreamy tone, "I hope to see that praising me up is your first instinct; that the first things you notice about me are the best features instead of the foibles, that you are quick to point out everything that is wonderful that I do," she told him.

"I believe I do that? Or are you suggesting that I don't do it frequently enough?" he asked the slightest hint of defense within his tone, feeling a little stung by the suggestion.

"Do you?" She asked with an upbeat tone that held a positive tone that her words did not match.

"Maybe not frequently enough! How could one praise you enough? You who are Emma, the greatest creature to grace Highbury with her presence-how could anyone ever give enough to make up for it?"

"Now you are being insincere," she retorted.

"I' m not insincere. I am proud of you Emma! I am so pleased with how tonight came together and how you planned everything and were so forbearing and have tolerated everything Mrs. & Mr. Elton have thrown at you. You've impressed me. Mrs. Elton has not been easy, she's thrown you every sense of challenge and you have handled it diplomatically, with grace and tact. Everything I know you to be has not been compromised or trifled with because of her manners and because of her veiled animosity and your dissatisfaction with her nature. You have done well Emma,"

"Thank you, it is big of me indeed, I am growning and learning in this-that's what I say," she said softly. "For I know even a year ago, I don't think I could have handled this," she admitted

"Then you have grown and changed, that's wonderful and it shows your steadfastness, unwillingness to relent as things get difficult," he agreed. "That is proof of your character," he told her with a proud expression.

"Ugh," she sighed loudly, "You must know that when you- ah, George that when you praise me it just-it is as if no one else can make me feel so rich, so impossibly full and so light-a-foot at the same time. It is as if I am walking on air when you say you are proud of me," she admitted.

"Well, then you are welcome," he said softly, not quite matching her breathy airy tone.

"Does it have the same effect when I praise you," she wondered aloud.

"Well, I don't know I would know it," he teased once more.

"Oh! Come on, stop it. I am agreeable and I say all kinds of positive things-all the time! It might be on occasion mixed with a few things that are choice criticisms- can we call it giving some critique? Yes, let us call it to critique because it is just like in art where it is a work in progress and there are corrections that will better the piece for the artist to be cognizant of them. But by and large, I am a positive person," she owned.

"You think you are praising more often than not?" he asked her

"For most things" she told him, "I am a happy spirited person,"

"Alright," he said, the tone neither agreed or disagreed, it was neutral but to her it still smacked of disbelief of her statement.

"I am!"

A paused for a moment, he just smiled gently at her.

"I praised your penmanship," she told him.

"Yes, you did," he agreed.

"Well, if I were to keep praising you, it would go to your head," she admitted.

"It would, would it?" he laughed, still sounding good-natured despite the light scoff his tone took on,

"Yes, I would praise you more but you might turn arrogant," she said with big eyes and whispering the last part as if it was a secret from the walls of the house.

"Would that not be a judgment call? Amazing what you must think of me," he teased once more.

"I didn't say it like that," she retorted.

"Well, what would you praise about me then, if given full rein and if you were not concerned that I might turn arrogant? he prodded.

"That you are kind to me. That you would write the Eltons invitation on my behalf, with a script as beautiful as it is, it was still an incredible kindness. I think you are the kindest man I have ever met. And it is not just duty, I love how you are. You do what you think is best, and even if it ignores certain protocols. I don't know any other husband who would pen the invitation for his wife -can you imagine Mr. Weston drafting an invitation to dine?" she laughed aloud with full force at her own image as it conjured in her mind's eye -"that would certainly be a sight! Can you imagine it, George? Perhaps not adequately, and if you cannot it merely exemplifies the fact that you are special. I behold a great man, and I know it."

"Thank you Emma," he said, sounding almost subdued-gone was the teasing tone and laughing eyes, in their place someone more somber and serious.

"I could never admire someone as much as I admire you," she confessed.

"Emma," and his tone was like the check cord used for training horses. A light inflection in how he said her name cued her to his attitude.

"No, I am serious. Never. It is not possible. For all I know of you, I who have known you so long, the amount of good I find around every corner, I could never admire anyone the way I do or as much as you. Even my own papa." she assured him, thinking it was only his sense of doubt in her words that had his tone as it was.

"Emma." Again, her name was the only cue, he said it as if her words were harming him in some way.

"I'm not making a judgment call on him, he was a good man, I loved my father. But, he and I-that love was different and my feelings were more to care for him, to make him well." She sighed softly, her feelings for George were not like that. She felt overwhelmed thinking on what exactly it was she felt for him, her mind felt full and yet empty all at the same time. "I will tell you more about it later, I do not know all of my thoughts at the minute," she explained for it seemed as one might see with a building snowball, many things had accumulated and suddenly the snowball was much larger than expected.

She wanted to tell George Knightley her exact thought of him and the contrast she felt when comparing him to her own father but needed to collect her own thoughts. How could she have loved George Knightley so thoroughly without fully knowing it?

"Goodnight Emma," he said with a light kiss to her hairline. Her heart raced in response.

"Goodnight George," she whispered back, turning over quickly and hiding her blush underneath the blankets. She really was in love with him and probably always had been.


Thank you to all those who spoke into my life with encouragement. I decided to FB message a guy that I met last weekend at a wedding -I am nervous and waiting to hear back, so threw my self at finishing this chapter! I really hope he wants to get to know me better! Wish me well! I need some more good things in my life these days. I feel like I need a man and some hobbies! Any hobby suggestions?

Storywise: I would love feedback! On the story, on this chapter -how things are coming across? How are you finding Emma? How are you finding George? Tell me anything :)

Next chapter is Box Hill! Oh my, oh my! Are you guys ready?

Please review. this story is nearing the top of the most review Emma stories and I'd love for that to stick! It's been such a fun story to write!