Chapter 4

The Wedding

Quick note: I am taking liberties with the seasonal timeline in this story. I've written it with the ideas that Mr. Woodhouse dies in Late January or Early February; making the earliest wedding date (bans being read on three consecutive Sunday's) Late February to Early March. The problem is Mr. Elton is married by Mid-March and this will cause issues with the plot.

I've decided I won't be a stickler for the tiny details! I will build it out from here and let it ride! If you are wondering why dates don't line up that is why. This is what I get for wanting poetic winter weather to reflect the sad mood in the first chapter. Oh well, it puts the timeline off but I think it is worth it!


Since the time when Miss. Taylor left Hartfield to become the amiable wife of Mr. Weston, Emma had become friends with Miss. Harriet Smith. Although they were not the sort of friends that did all things together, Emma had felt that in recent months they had grown closer and Emma had even welcomed Harriet into her confidence.

While Emma had not thought it prudent in the past weeks to burden Harriet with her pain or with the grieving process that followed the death of her dear Papa, she did feel it was the right thing to let Harriet know of her engagement to Mr. Knightley before it was announced in church.

She was Emma's friend and it stood to reason that as such, she deserved to know before a common stranger. Despite that being felt, Emma was struggling with how to broach the topic.

Having consumed the tea and pastries, and chatted idly, Emma felt a renewed sense of urgency—every time Harriet stirred she felt certain it was to bid her farewell.

"Harriet, there is something I must tell you," Emma began, biting her cheek in regret of pausing.

"Oh? What is it?" her friend asked her bright eyes wide with interest and looking up at her with full attention.

"It will be announced in a few days but I felt it was best for you to hear it from me directly. Mr. Knightley and I are engaged and will be married next month," Emma told her, hoping she did not sound as flat to another person as she did to her own ears.

"Really! Well, that is wonderful," Harriet beamed looking fully delighted, "I have always thought Mr. Knightley to be such a gentleman and the best sort of gentleman really—I think possibly the best gentleman in all of Highbury," Harriet reflected.

"Why yes, yes he is," Emma chuckled. It was in her mind was a vast understatement; as far as she knew, from other people, for she had not traveled widely, Mr. Knightley was the best sort of gentleman there was, period.

"You will be so happy," Harriet told her.

Emma's heart thudded painfully in response. She hoped she would feel happy again someday and she would not be selective over the reasoning; anything to dull the ache beneath her breastbone.

"I shall be happier with him than I could be with any other," Emma agreed to try to keep up a happy spirit. It was true. There was no one she enjoyed so well as Mr. Knightley and he was helping her tremendously.

"It is a dream Emma to be married! I am so thrilled for you, I feel such elation and excitement I can hardly contain it. Dear friend, I am so happy for you! I feel almost as if it were I that were to be married," Harriet laughed at herself then.

"Well, don't lose heart on your own account, Harriet. I know I have been otherwise occupied recently, but have the full desire of moving forward in my plans from the fall. I have every intention of seeing you happily settled with a wonderful gentleman of your own," Emma told her forcing a smile. She knew that any task would do her mind good and if matchmaking would not take her mind off of the sorrow, then nothing would. "I have in mind some good opportunities, and I absolutely intend to pick up where I have left off once I am settled at Donwell," she promised.

Harriet nodded agreeably and they continued to chat about the future and their idealized plans for it until it was time for Harriet to return to Miss. Goddard's school.


In her young life, Emma had imagined one thing more than any other thing; weddings. As a young girl, she was fascinated by them, by the very idea of a wedding. Her dolls played parts, the people involved, the appearance and festivity of it—they all wore many faces. These ceremonies were reenacted under almost every table in Hartfield, the only requirement seeming to be a tablecloth overhang, to act as garland.

In the entirety of that time, Emma had never envisioned her own wedding. She had grown up in a life of privilege. Her early life was the embodiment of perfect peace and comfort, without a single concern; it had never crossed her mind that marriage would ever be for her; she was Emma Woodhouse and she would never have the need of it.

Yet, in all the weddings she had imagined as a child, each of them had the consistency one thing: garland, or at very least the imagination that there was a garland. The tablecloth, daisy chains when in season or sometimes ribbons stood in for the famed role of the flower garland in her dramatic imaginings.

For this reason, Emma could say that her wedding was not as any she had ever imagined; it wasn't like any wedding she had ever conceived. For while there were flowers present, there wasn't a single strand of garland anywhere to be seen. How could any wedding really be called a wedding without flower garland?

She did not voice her concerns; after all her dearest friend was doing her a considerable favour. She didn't need her wedding for its charm and beauty, but for the perfunctory requirement of it; a wedding was needed to solve a problem and her wedding solved the problem regardless of the decorum. She would be free of Isabella's interference and demands; she would never have to leave Highbury. Garland or not.

The air was crisp and the sky was clear, and she was very pleased that it was decently warm for March. She had felt like the shroud she had been living under these past weeks was lifting slightly under the bright sunshine. Emma was told that she was born to be in the sun; that as a toddler nothing had made her more pleased than to be in the sun's rays as they shone through the wrought iron window panes and cast bright shapes and patterns on her face. And with the bloom of a few spring flowers, crocuses, aubrietia and even the wild primroses it seemed as if life was returning to the country landscape.

The wedding followed the usual pattern. Mr. Elton, though he had looked at her harshly as he read the bans that first Sunday, had been throughout and dignified in conducting the ceremony. Emma had wondered if at the first reading he was judging her for marrying so soon after her father's death. It seemed whatever his complaint had been, it had not hindered him in carrying out the ceremony successfully, and that was all she cared about; his judgement of her was not her concern.

The wedding breakfast was full of rich foods and excited well wishes. And yet Emma felt less attentive than she expected to be. She felt almost lost in thought and it wasn't for the reasons that were typical of late.

She was thinking about the ceremony.

Mr. Knightley, for she wasn't sure she could ever grow used to calling him George, had kissed her. She had never been kissed before, it was soft and warm and quite pleasant, but it was over before she could really process everything or decide how she ought to conduct herself.

Upon considering it, she should not have been as surprised by it as she was; for some reason, she had assumed that he would not kiss her, as it was not truly required of him.

It reminded Emma of something Mrs. Weston had told her a few days prior, something to the effect of "Husbands want affection from their wives, they like to feel needed and worthy of their wives. As his wife Emma, it is your job to support him and love him,"

Her friend and former governess had told her so much on the subject of men and marriage and affection, Emma wasn't entirely sure what to make of it.

Even when she had been her governess, she had always been protective and kind to her—constantly seeking Emma's best interest. On one hand, she believed Mrs. Weston to be very wise and thoughtful to share with her. Emma had heard of women vastly unprepared for their wedding nights, as they understood nothing of what was required.

Emma was grateful to Mrs. Weston; though she was not her mother, she cared for her as any good mother would—even when her role had changed and she was no longer employed to provide this care and nurturing.

Yet, Mrs. Weston could not understand the circumstances of her marriage. It wouldn't cross Mrs. Weston's mind that what she was telling Emma in good conscience might never come to pass.

Would Mr. Knightley seek the affections that Mrs. Weston mentioned in vague detail?

Mr. Knightley had kissed her. It was not a requirement that he do so, and yet he chose to. It was more than likely out of a desire to draw the appearance of authenticity.

Would he join her in her room this evening?

She was not sure.

The light pressure on her arm as she passed through the crowd of well-wishers brought her attention back to the present.

She was surprised to see a sharply designed phaeton carriage.

He gave her a hand up; she sat primly against the brightly coloured velvet cushions. Mr. Knightley took up the reins.

"I can't believe you purchase a phaeton for the occasion! It's lovely," Emma told him, continuing to survey the pretty carriage. "If I knew that marriage would be all it took to prevent you from riding everywhere on horseback and transition to riding in a stylish carriage like a true gentleman, I would have offered to marry you years ago," Emma teased.

"Dearest Emma, I am afraid I will be causing you disappointment, but I have not purchased this carriage—it is frivolous and overstated, and I am grateful to be borrowing it from a friend and not adding it to my list of possessions. I don't have the conscience to spend good money on something that I would only use once." He retorted slowly.

"Only use once? This carriage is gorgeous, I would drive it every day!" Emma challenged.

"And yes Emma, but now you have a husband, who wouldn't wish to drive it every day. And therefore between the two of us, we must come up with a form of transportation that is pleasing to both—"

"I know of ladies who have been given, as part of their wedding trousseau, a brand new carriage with decadent upholstery and a stunning team of horses," Emma commented dryly, "but I suppose their husbands must not have minded shiny things and drawing notice or riding next to them in a fancy carriage on the way to parties. And we will go to parties and you would be terribly misguided if you are imagining me riding alongside you on horseback!"

"I won't ask you to ride on horseback to parties; well maybe only the summer ones, or when the weather is sure to remain nice" he teased back. "but those ladies you speak of, I imagine they were married on not quite so short of notice? If it makes you feel better darling Emma, I did inquire about a new carriage like this one. There is three months duration between placing the order and the assembly; I rationalized that you might prefer to remain in Highbury and marry sooner by foregoing the new carriage. "

"Ah well, yes I suppose you are right. But it is a beautiful thing to behold; perhaps you may borrow it again some time?"Emma smiled.

"Anything to make you happy,"

"I think you must be right again. I have heard it said men are happy when their wives are happy, this adage may be worth adhering for the entirety of our marriage," Emma smiled.

"You look lovely, Emma," He told her, the sun was on her face and the wind was blowing pieces of her ringlet hair across her face.

She beamed at him, her eyes dancing, almost asking if he were serious.

"The dress you chose, it is my favorite of all your dresses, I am glad you chose that one for our wedding," he explained,

"I am sure I have told you before that this dress is my favourite, I think that must be why you like it so well." She smiled.

"It may be one of many reasons, but I should say I like it best because it makes your eyes shine and skin rich and vibrant, you look very pretty in peach tones,"

It seemed before any time at all had passed that Mr. Knightley guided the carriage through the gates of Donwell and up to the front entrance.

"The staff will be lined up to greet you. It is a formality. You will not need to worry about running the household just yet Emma, Mrs. Hodges will be able to ease your transition by handing things over gradually, if and when you feel inclined to take it on," he told her. "You are free to take up as much or as little of her purview as you would like,"

She nodded mutely, feeling unsure and less comfortable that she had in a long time. For the first time, she realized she was not fully sure of her role or of what he wished her role to be. Did he want her to take on all of Mrs. Hodges tasks with as much efficiency as she normally would have? Or was his inviting her to a slow transition an invitation to forgo the tasks that would normally fall to the lady of the house? Donwell dwarfed Hartfield. Did he not think her capable, or was he worried about how she was coping with the loss of her father?

The carriage stopped and Mr. Knightley stepped out of the tall carriage and offer his hand again as she dismounted to greet the staff. Each of them greeted Emma happily and echoed their good wishes on her marriage.

They slowly disbanded after each had been introduced. Emma hadn't the wherewithal to remember all their names.

"Would you like to see Donwell?" Mr. Knightley asked her.

"Mr. Knightley, I have been to Donwell before," she assured him.

"I know that you have, I was thinking you may finally deserve the grand tour. If I am honest, I hadn't fully trusted you near the finer things before," he told her.

She gave him a sharp look.

"What? Don't look so surprised. The last time you were here I think it was Christmas shortly after Isabella was married. I think you were still ducking under tables and liable to break something,"

"If you say so Mr. Knightley," she laughed, she honestly couldn't remember the last time she had been anywhere but his front parlor—he was probably right as it felt like a lifetime ago. The recent memory of the blazing fire that welcomed her in the face of the tragedy of losing her dear papa was the only memory she had of late.

"And am I to be Mr. Knightley forever?" he asked almost as an afterthought, she was not certain if she ought to read anything into his grimace.

"I am convinced I could call you George Knightley if I were to try very hard, but as much as I try to call you by your Christian name it feels so strange, I fear I cannot,"

"And yet, I call you Emma," he remarked softly.

"Yes, but you have always called me Emma, so it is no great change or improvement, nor is it any difficulty for your mind or tongue. It would be more foreign for you to call me Miss Woodhouse," Emma replied, looking at him earnestly.

"Or Mrs. Knightley," he said reflectively.

"Yes, that is the same idea," she agreed.

"I should have no issue calling you Mrs. Knightley," he told her. "And as Mrs. Knightley, I do not mind what you call me when we are alone together, but in company I must ask that you do not call me Mr. Knightley, it is important to me that our marriage is seen to have validity, and I know you are more than capable of calling me George if you put your mind to it," he told her.

"I am skilled with words Mr. Knightley, I think I can arrange that I speak of you as my husband, and I may find that I prefer to use any number of other words that avoid the technicality of having to call you George in front of people, because as you now see, I cannot do so without blushing terribly. It is so terribly odd, I don't think I would ever become used to it,"

"I have full confidence in you, and I trust you will do as you see fit. But do trust me, if you were to ignore the strangeness; the novelty and foreign feeling would wear off quickly," he assured her.

"I am not sure I would survive the interim, what with all the blood leaving the rest of my body to flood my face," Emma smiled, nonchalantly ignoring his suggestion.

"It does sound dangerous," he deadpanned, shaking his head, seemingly to laugh at her, or with her, she was not fully sure.

"On with the tour then?" He asked looking back over his shoulder at her.

He looked boyish and happy and she could not deny that her new husband was a very attractive man.

Mr. Knightley was right to say she ought to have the grand tour. She realized that while touring the grounds and the house and outbuildings, that there was much to see that might not be the usual areas for a girl still preoccupied with dolls to see or take note of.

She could still feel her own surprise jolting up as the double doors were opened to one of the master bedrooms. It was grey and cold looking; his words surprised her but at first, she could not fully grasp why.

"This is your room, draw up any changes and Mrs. Hodges will arrange for them,"

Perhaps she thought it strange that he directed her to arrange it with his housekeeper.

She wasn't sure why it hurt so much.

Her chest felt as if it were throbbing, and she took great pains to keep her face neutral.

She would talk at length with her father over every idea, minor change, hypothesized design, silly inclination or future undertaking.

Should they reupholster the chaise, or maybe the chair? Would lily flowers be a pretty paper for the drawing room? What colour pillows should complement it best?

Could they move the dining room table to the breakfast room and get a new carved piece for entertaining?

Could they afford the silk French curtains from Lyon? Did he like olive green?

Could they get a small table for the entryway hall? Which vase would be best with the primroses for the new front table? Where could they move the portrait of their great-grandfather William—he didn't complement the roses.

It had always been a conversation topic, a joint effort and a happy pass time for both; or at very least her Papa had never voiced any displeasure over it.

Mr. Knightley was not her father.

She had not fully realized how different things would be until that moment. She struggled to make peace with the full feeling. Perhaps this was what loss felt like, the sinking sensation that nothing will ever be as it were, and that there was no imitation or replacement.

She could never go back to how things had always been.

"Yes, I will. I'm sure it will be fine as it is," she told him making a full effort to be agreeable. All she wanted now was to retreat to the depth of the grey solitude promised by the heavy fabric curtains and dull looking burgundy damask paper.

The whole of the room was somber and grey; while it suited her mood, it would do nothing to lift her spirits.

"No need to be modest Emma. This room is tired, dreary and worn; My mother was not a proprietor for anything lively or fascinating; I am sure you will make many changes," he laughed.

She nodded, "I will speak to Mrs. Hodges if changes are necessary,"

"Very well, your things have been brought up and your maid is near if you wish to change before supper," Mr. Knightley told her.

"Very well, thank you, Mr. Knightley," she replied and watched as she turned and left her in the grim room.


A/N: Hey all, if you've ever felt inclined to review please do so now! I've been having such a stressful week-I am waiting to hear back on some job applications. I really just need some encouragement (want to feel like something is going right!)