Chapter 6
The Moniker
She had thought more than she would have liked to admit about the rider she had met in the woods near the crossway.
She had wondered at his presence but heard nothing about him in town when she went for her regular visit to the Bates'. That was uncommon, especially considering that it was a gentleman she had met. And that he was clearly, from his mannerisms and his dress, a gentleman in good standing who would have undoubtedly had connections.
Surely even the Bates' would know about a new arrival in town, and one knew without question that what Miss Bates knew of, she also spoke of at length.
As Miss Bates had said nothing on the topic, it must have been the case that he had not come from town.
It was a strong rationale, but it left the question as to where he had come from.
Where had he come from?
Where indeed, with his teasing manner and smooth way of talking?
Where had he been going where he could say with confidence, after looking down every path that he was not one bit lost?
And how had he looked so serious and genuine as he teased her calling her an elf creature?
And then she had given him her name, her old name. It almost caused her cheeks to flush. She had not meant to mislead him.
She did not feel it fair that she should lose her entire name; it was everything she had been since birth. Emma Woodhouse.
But now she was only Emma.
And she knew she would never feel at home in the name Emma Knightley. It seemed so regal, so ancient, so harsh.
Mrs. Knightley was, if anything, perhaps more austere.
She would have to remember in the future that she was not Emma Woodhouse.
And now to remember would be an entirely different matter.
It would take time to understand it fully. She could only hope that in the meantime she would not mess up too badly.
Afterall, it was one thing to mess up with a perfect stranger whom one met on the road and who was very likely not to be seen again. It was quite another to introduce oneself in a group or at a party with an old name.
She imagined the sort of scene it might cause and felt almost clammy thinking of it.
She wasn't sure why any of it should matter. What was in a name after all? What people were called shouldn't matter overly much and yet it had great significance.
Why should she cease to be Emma Woodhouse?
It wasn't as if she could forget who she was.
Emma Woodhouse had been a name spoken with great affection by all that had known her.
And now the name was no more. No one, save maybe herself, in error (should she not learn to do better quickly), would speak her former name again.
It was as if that person had died.
It wasn't as if she would forget her new role, her new household or her new husband without a new name.
She knew she was connected to Mr. Knightley now. She did not need to bare his namesake to be clear on that point.
"Emma?" Mr. Knightley's hand was on her shoulder and she jolted from her daydream.
"Mr. Knightley!" She exclaimed as she startled. His hand on her shoulder had surprised her. It brought to her attention that she had not recalled him touching her in times past. Save for his consoling her after her father's death, he had never been a very tactile friend, and in those days it would not have been appropriate.
"I hadn't intended to frighten you," he apologized. "I have been calling you but you were somewhere else," he told her motioning to the space around her head. "Are you feeling alright?" he inquired.
"Yes, yes. I was just daydreaming," she told him offering a small smile.
"I had been wondering if you wanted to take a walk and then have tea," he asked.
"Yes, I think that would be nice, I have been sitting here, and living all in my head all afternoon," she accepted.
"Is there anything in particular on your mind?"
"Oh not really, I was thinking about titles," Emma offered.
"You were thinking about titles?"
"Yes, names and what people are called," she clarified.
"Ah, I see, and what has you thinking about names, titles and what people are called?"
"I have both gained and lost a name. Does it not feel strange to you that you will never hear the name, Emma Woodhouse?"
"I had not thought of it before, it is not as great a hardship for me as I have only ever called you Emma," he reflected, and she almost wondered if she heard a hint of the teasing note that she heard in the tone of the gentleman from the woods.
She and Mr. Knightley exited into the back garden and began walking.
"Why do you think it is that women must change their name upon marriage?"
"I think that men want to share their name and that a woman when in love, wants to bear their husband's name,"
"But women took their husband's name long before love matches were popular," Emma retorted, "Our arrangement has more common with most of history than love matches. Even just fifty years ago, love had little to do with it,"
"Oh but love wasn't counted out simply because a marriage was arranged," he told her, "Is that it, Emma? Is that what has you worried? Are you worried that I won't love you? Or are you more concerned that you won't love me?" He asked, and she was almost certain this time that she detected that same teasing tone she had never understood him to use.
"I am at present thinking very seriously about the death of the name Emma Woodhouse, it was a good name and I will miss it," she told him with an earnest tone in trade for his jesting.
"And when you are done anguishing over the loss of your name, then surely you will move on to consider my question,"
"If you persist to tease me, Mr. Knightley, it will make me vexed and such feeling is known to diminish the quality and enjoyment of both walking and tea," she tossed back making a few paces of ground on him.
She would swear she heard his stifled laugh and yet she had never known him to chuckle at or tease her. She wanted to confirm her suspicion but she could not bring herself to forego the pride of it and glance backward at him to settle it. She continued walking from him at a clipped pace, the only solace is that she was certain nothing would please him more than to goad her and that alone irked her and spurred her on all the same.
She startled awake and bit her lip not to scream.
Carolyn Knightley had been in her dream, had placed her cold fingers against Emma's cheek.
She placed her own hand against her cheek; it was as cold as ice. So cold, it could have easily have been touched and frozen by that ghostly hand.
Heavens, she was a haunting figure, stern, morose and dressed in black.
Emma tried to subdue her panicking heart. Her room was silent, save her rapid breathing and it was clear to her that there was no one else there.
It was after all completely logical; well save for the icy fingers she imagined she could still feel against her cheek.
It was reasonable because she had been looking, with interest, at the picture of Carolyn Knightley in the back hall.
Emma discerned she was a proud woman, her chin and the expression on her face made that clear. She appeared to be a great lady, her stern brow suggested that she knew every tactic and had no plans to concede to anyone. She looked strict as well, perhaps more so because her hair was pulled back harshly from her face, revealing her cheekbones and giving her eyebrows more of a striking appearance.
Emma tried to understand what the emotion was that was in Mrs. Knightley's eyes. And was it a true emotion or something placed there by the artist?
Emma considered that of all her friends, Miss Bates would likely know and remember well what had befallen the last Mrs. Knightley. The challenge there would be how to seamlessly interrupt the latest news for Jane Fairfax without raising questions. Miss. Bates dearly loved talking about Jane; any topic that drifted outside of the close proximity of Jane was typically redirected back onto darling Jane.
The last time she had been at the Bates' there was talk about Jane being in Cardiff with her good and faithful friends the Campbells. It would be difficult to feign a connection to the late Mrs. Knightley.
She wanted so badly to understand how Mrs. Knightley had died. While she could have the answer with a simple question to Mr. Knightley, she felt certain that she did not wish to ask Mr. Knightley directly.
After such keen analysis, it made perfect sense why Mrs. Knightley would play a role in her dream. It was completely logical.
Her words, however, seemed less logical. Emma was not sure where their roots lay.
Mrs. Knightley all but told her that her son did not want her. Emma felt the same feeling of offense rise in her that she felt as she had dreamed it.
She wanted to protest, of course, he wanted her, he had married her when it was not required that he do so. He was her dearest friend.
"He did not need a friend, he needed a wife—nay he deserved a wife as capable as he is,"
"I am capable," Emma assured; Mrs. Knightley caught her eye sharply then, looking unimpressed and scathing.
"He deserves more, you know it as well as I,"
Emma couldn't reply.
"I understand you have recently lost your father, but if you will not be a true wife to my son, you shall lose more still,"
"I do not understand; but I assure you, Mr. Knightley has saved me from any further losses,"
"Mr. Knightley," she said in a sharp tone with a scoff.
Then the woman, for Emma did not believe after all that she was truly Mrs. Knightley, reached out to touch her face in what appeared a gesture of sympathy.
Her icy hands touched Emma's face and she felt at once the woman was a ghost, so cold, so stiff as if her flesh was made entirely of ice.
It was at that moment that Emma jolted awake and did everything in her power not to scream. Every fiber of her being expected to see a corpse leaning over her bed with hands at her face; instead she was met by perfect darkness and the silence of the large room.
Since her illness, she had found her room unbearably cold. It was as if the fire was unable to warm even the bottom foot of her bed and it felt to her that the entire room was iced over.
At first, she was convinced the solution was to build the fire bigger with more logs but this did not seem to make any grand effect.
She added additional blankets and quilts but these were not warm of themselves and her body was so cold it felt as if the window pane was warmer than her own skin.
It was not just the temperature. Since her dream with the haunting figure that looked keenly like Mrs. Knightley, she found sleep abated her easily and without the slightest provocation.
She wouldn't admit it to anyone, but she felt lonely and at times pangs of hopelessness in the nighttime hours.
She had on a whim imagined a solution that might solve for each issue. Fear, cold and companionship all at once.
Mr. Knightley had an Irish Wolfhound, named Virgil, which slept in Mr. Knightley's study. Virgil was sure to be warm and it should not matter to a dog if he slept on the study floor or in a four-poster bed. In fact, a comfortable bed should be a happy luxury when compared to the hardwood floor. Additionally, the dog was clean. The dog had likely received more baths at the care of the housekeeper than the average child might from a doting mother.
People of old, and royal families, in particular, had the long-standing tradition of having dogs to provide them warmth through the night. Unlike a hot water bottle or iron with coals, all through the night, even on the coldest of nights the dog would still be warm come morning.
It seemed the perfect solution.
The dog was heavy and less willing than she had originally assumed. It was a rather stubborn animal. It was after all a hunting companion, and she had little doubt that it was spoilt by its master. She was instantly grateful that it was late and dark and the all the servants were sleeping. This way no one would see her in her nightdress as she prodded and pulled the dog in the direction of her room.
She considered that it may have been easier if she had thought ahead to bring a treat for the dog. Yet, it was late in the night and she was cold at the moment. At the mere thought of the warm, cuddly dog she did not have the willpower to put off the plan until she was better prepared with bait for bribery.
"Virgil" she hissed pulling at him again as he tried to pull his way down the hall in the opposing direction. The dog made no appearance of responding to its name.
Finally, she grasped the collar and turned its head as one might a horse, setting its direction again on the proper course towards her room.
If moving the dog the distance from the study to her room seemed an impossible task, then she believed it would be of an equal challenge if not greater to get the dog up on the four-poster bed.
It was to her great surprise that Virgil leapt up onto the bed with ease and no resistance what so ever.
As she climbed on to the bed herself she had the fleeting thought, "Perhaps this dog was not quite as misbehaved as she had felt short moments earlier,"
No sooner had she thought it, then had the dog moved to stand directly on her chest, with one massive paw against her right shoulder. In the same moment, the dog began licking her face.
"Virgil, stop," she sputtered, it was ineffective.
Virgil almost seemed encouraged by her protest and she started laughing hysterically and the dog continued to slime her.
Her laughter tumbled out as she made efforts to push him off of her.
"Virgil!" She groaned out, unable to free her shoulder.
"What is going on?" Mr. Knightley's rich baritone cut in over her high pitched protest.
"Virgil—I thought— Virgil " Emma babbled now with only the excuse of surprise as Virgil had stopped licking her face the moment he heard his master speak.
"If it were anyone else, Emma, I'd assume there was a perfectly reasonable explanation, but I'd never expect one from you, " Mr. Knightley's offered tongue in cheek followed by a teasing laugh.
The massive dog had his head and ears turned towards Mr. Knightley but remained with his front paws standing on her chest and shoulder, effectively pinning her.
"You look at me as if I am deranged. Each night I have been so impossibly cold. And before you offer suggestions, I do set the fire and I have used extra logs but it is not enough and end up waking with my whole body feeling entirely frozen. So I had it that the perfect solution was to bring the dog to share body heat and help me stay warm. And don't look at me like that, I am not crazy, it was done by royalty in France for many years, very popular.
"Yes, small dogs Emma, lap dogs, which would prevent your current predicament…" Mr. Knightley told her and as he said it, he simultaneously reaches over and pulled her nightdress from where it had ridden up on her thighs directly down to where it normally sat at her ankle.
She fought the blush. This was her husband after all; it was not untoward that he should see her like this. Well, minus the dog standing over her trapping her in place, which would be moderately embarrassing for anyone. "Virgil off," Mr. Knightley said and the dog listened at once stepping off Emma's chest and jumping down immediately.
"You act as if the plan was deeply flawed, despite minor complications—due solely to your dog being spoilt and unruly—I still think it is most brilliant as it doubles as a solution to loneliness as well."
"You have been lonely, Emma?" He asked all pretenses of humour gone and replaced by a very serious tone and features.
"Well, it has not been so bad, when you say it like that it sounds so very serious. It was simply a minor and sometimes momentary feeling," Emma confided.
"Emma, if you were lonely you should have told me,"
"I desperately do not wish to be an inconvenience; after all, it isn't as if you would have a better solution to my cold and loneliness—and what that you would take the dog's place?" Emma giggled but then cut herself off at seeing his face; her husband was standing only in his own long nightshirt with a robe clearly thrown on in haste but not tied, hanging loosely at his shoulders.
Had she really just insinuated that he replace the dog with his own figure?
She must have blushed purple.
"I meant it only as—"She began feeling the strain of anxiety and embarrassment.
"I know what you meant and yes I would replace the dog should you find that acceptable."
She couldn't even respond, she just stared as if lightning struck at his words.
"It would not be a poor solution by comparison; you would find I have far better manners than Virgil,"
She nodded mutely, intending to agree with the statement that he had better manners than Virgil, and it seemed that her gesture was taken to stand for acceptance of the idea itself.
"Well, you'll have to move over slightly, it'll be like camping," he told her.
"Camping?" she said in confusion as she moved over making space for him.
"Yes, didn't you and Isabella build forts in the woods?" he asked, taking the space that she had vacated and laying on his back looking at the ceiling.
It was all done so very casually as if this was the most normal thing in the world to him.
"Yes certainly, but we were never brave enough to sleep in them!"
"Well, perhaps you were wiser than your Knightley neighbours. John and I attempted it, to sleep in our fort out in the woods on the west side of the estate, farthest from the house."
She smiled, it was not so bad having him near and talking to her.
"You have piqued my interest, Mr. Knightley, what happened next?" she asked.
"It was solidly dark when it started to rain. John and I spent a while bickering over whether to stick it out or return home. You see, it was colder than we anticipated, we even had a mattress and bedding but everything was wet from rain and we were both cold and both petrified of the animals that might be out in the darkness."
"The animals?"
"Ah yes, the animals. John was certain that he'd seen a wolf in the woods a few weeks before!"
She giggled at that, "There are no wolves in our area; there haven't been for hundreds of years!"
"Yes, I think even John is willing to own that what he saw was a large dog, but at the time it was enough of a possibility to keep John and I were huddled together shoulder to shoulder until two in the morning, at which time our fears of nature and the woods were outweighed by cold and the desire to sleep,"
"I like your stories Mr. Knightley," Emma confided sleepily.
"I'm glad Emma, sleep well," he said and as she relaxed her shoulder pressed against his and she felt the warmth he had been talking about.
"Camping is nice," she murmured.
And she felt more so than heard his chuckle as it reverberated into her where their shoulders touched. He looped his arm around her then and tugged her closer to his side.
It has been forever! Sorry! Review if you are still interested in this story continuing and I will put more effort into it.
Thanks for the support!
