Chapter 17
A Realization
Emma held her teacup more carefully than normal, she had not broken a cup or saucer since childhood, but she knew she was holding their finest and felt the significance of it just the same.
Miss Bates had excused herself to go check on her mother who was said to be altogether well in health but napping.
"Again I am very sorry I could not attend," Jane offered again, which marked her third and Emma dearly hoped final apology.
"All is forgiven; I have never traveled for leisure but I am sure if a dear friend was near and it meant forgoing a party to make the trip to visit them, I think I would do it under the right circumstances," Emma admitted, mainly wishing to put an end to the profuseness of Jane's apologies. "Now tell me about your trip to London," Emma offered a new topic of conversation –with the potential to be the most interesting topic the Bates house had seen in many years—for obvious reasons.
"Oh it was very nice," Jane beamed. "Mr. Dixon sent his carriage, I was expecting that—but what I was not expecting was that he and my dear friend would take the trip from London to Highbury so that I would have company the entire way to London. My friend suggested that she wished to take the country air and enjoy the bucolic landscapes but I am overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of it. "
"Oh yes. How kind, yes they do seem to be very kind creatures these Dixons and Campbells," Emma agreed, "As I have never been outside of Highbury and the surrounding county, you'll naturally enlighten me with the other things you did or saw," she inquired, sipping her tea while Jane paused.
"Well, I did see one person that I am told is in your acquaintance," Jane offered shyly, the tone piqued Emma's interest and drew her to look more closely at the young women sitting across from her.
Emma inspected her in greater detail, if she was asked to attest to it by the magistrate himself she would swear to it that Jane Fairfax was blushing.
"To whom are you referring," Emma asked lowering her teacup to rest on her saucer—preparing herself to take in every word Jane said—as she had a certainty that it was sure to prove interesting.
"Frank Churchill," Jane told her, and yes the pink of her cheeks still stood out against her warm olive complexion. Jane didn't even have the countenance to blush readily. Emma's own mind began to race to solve for it—to explain it in some way for something must have caused her feelings of mortification—Emma came to a stop full stop.
Emma then felt her own mortification rise, pulling tightly in her throat. She had not experienced any kind of apprehension like it before, and certainly never socially—for she had been gifted from an early age with always knowing exactly what to say. But it was undeniable that she felt it now— she knew unconsciously that the feeling was certainly because she had no wish to speak out what she was now required to speak out.
There was no delicate way to warn Jane off of what Emma believed she was trying to say.
"Whatever you have heard, it is inaccurate. Although I do not know your source, they have spoken a falsehood. I am a friend of Frank Churchill but that is where it ends. I love my husband and Frank Churchill is merely the stepson of one of my greatest friends. If someone has insinuated differently, which would account for the colour in your cheeks—I would ask that you count it as false testimony that does not merit repeating." Emma spoke curtly; for she found herself growing more angry about the idea the longer she continued talking. She would reflect later that her upset was not at Jane, which may have been misconstrued at the time but at the source of such gossip instead.
Jane looked positively sick, her face wilted and her mouth trembling as if she was uneasy to speak.
"It is —is it—it is just that I—" she shook her head, "No, what I mean to say is that I am sorry but you misunderstand. I was not meaning to imply anything but friendship. If I blush it is only because –only because—well he is—It is only because I found him to be a very handsome gentleman." She finished, coughing and clearing her throat nervously at every pause and blunder. The finale had her pressing her hands against her bright red cheeks.
How impossibly awkward.
Emma knew it was her doing. It was her fault—her very nature of speculating and drawing conclusions and worst speaking out before she had fully thought it through. How embarrassing, and what a blunder. She was so thankful that no one else was near to hear it.
"Thank you, for clearing the matter. I am sorry—I overreacted and I have embarrassed myself badly. " She pressed her thumbnail against her other wrist sharply. Oh, how she had blundered, there was no prescribed recovery. She wished to ask Mrs. Weston her former governess but sadly it would not have helped—her former governess would not have a solution even if it were possible to ask because other people hadn't placed themselves in situations like this before. What did one do when they stumbled into them? Did one try to end the conversation with an excuse of somewhere else to be, or put it behind with the offering of another topic? Press on ahead; pretending as if nothing had happened? Everything in her wished to say, "Thank you for the tea, I will visit next week at the usual time if it is agreeable to you and your aunt,"
Emma could not bring herself to excuse herself. It was the opposite action of her usual fortitude and she hated the notion of being cowed into anything.
"Then you would have met his aunt?" Emma asked.
"Uh—his aunt?" Jane asked. Emma nearly huffed in exasperation. Leave it to Jane to try to spoil Emma's lofty attempt at recovery. Although it wouldn't have been intentional, no she was likely just surprised, as Jane had likely expected that Emma would excuse herself, saving them both the humiliation of carrying on in conversation.
"Yes, his Aunt—Lady Josephine Churchill,"
"No, she was not there," Jane told her, "Although the first time we saw him in London, it was a dinner party with many people, friends of Campbells and connections of the younger variety –it is possible that that was why she was not there," Jane offered.
"The first time? You saw him another occasion as well?" Emma asked.
"Yes, he was also at the apartment that the Dixon's were letting; he came there for supper and games on the last day," she acknowledged.
"I see, maybe she is not much for games. I think she is a stern sort—at least that is what I gather and sickly—Frank Churchill is apparently often called away in duty to his aunt,"
"Yes, I think it means he is a good sort of person that he is so caring over his aunt," Jane agreed.
"And does he know Mr. Dixon well?" Emma asked, trying to account for the time Frank had spent in London with them when she knew he was primarily supposed to be looking after his aunt, and failing that he had given his word to be at her birthday party. She wanted to figure it out, as from Jane's testimony it seemed he was not with his aunt, at least not with a dependable constancy, his sole reason for eluding her birthday party.
"I think he must, for I know that he does not know my friend Charlotte well," Jane concurred.
Emma nodded, and silently considered the more practical reasoning behind it.
Although Emma felt she had recovered as best one can from her blunder, ultimately the goodbyes brought both young women immense relief.
"It was horrendous," Emma stated.
"It couldn't have been that bad. As I've told you before Emma— I'll not have you rail on about your teas with the Bates'. If you do not wish to go, then do not go but do not go only to recount the tale of woe and misery to me afterward"
"But I haven't explained the horrible part yet, and it has nothing to do with Miss. Bates but Jane Fairfax, oh I blundered so badly," Emma hissed out.
"Let yourself off the hook on this occasion, come and listen, I have a letter from Brunswick Square, John and Isabella are addressing us both. I had a feeling it might please you to know that I was eager to know the contents but that I did not open it, though it sat temptingly on my desk all this morning," he told her.
Emma froze. "I've not heard a single word from Isabella, not since we exchanged harsh words last time, I hardly even saw her at the church after the wedding ceremony, I believe they left very quickly afterward," she admitted.
"Well, now you have a letter," he offered holding the letter out towards her so she could see it tangibly.
"It is addressed to both of us, it couldn't really be said that I have a letter," Emma offered her tone betraying the slight pout that was veiled enough to avoid being displayed on her lips.
"Do you want me to read it to you, or would you like to read it to me?" he asked her, ignoring her statement.
She sighed, "Who has penned it? If it is in Isabella's hand I will read it to you and if it is in John's—I don't know how the two of you can be brothers— you have such a neat, near-perfect script and his handwriting is so wild and unruly," Emma reflected,
"Yes, if it is in John's I will read it— but in his defense, John writes far faster than I, letters take me such a tremendous amount of time. I think he takes after our father, he could hardly spare the time to blot the letter before posting it." He told her opening the letter,
"Whose is it?" Emma asked leaning near him, and closer to the back of the couch in an attempt to inspect it herself.
"Ah, John's!" he told her.
"I thought as much," she told him succinctly, moving to sit on the couch beside him, thinking privately that Isabella was inevitably far too proud to be the first to break the silence that had hung between them some many months.
"Dear George and Emma," he began, flicking his eyes to hers for a brief moment.
"Yes," she said urging him to continue with the excited tone of her voice.
He just sat there holding the letter and smiling at her with a boyish grin.
"What?" she asked him, nearly wanting to pull the letter from his hands in impatience, John's handwriting or not.
"Oh nothing, I just noticed how much I like the way our names sound when read aloud," he offered,
She laughed, pushing him gently at the lapel with the palm of her hand "And I just noticed how much I like hearing the letter read as promised without undue anticipation," she retaliated teasingly.
"As you wish,-We are excited to announce that you are once again uncle and aunt. Little Emma was born just this morning, missing her namesakes' birthday by just over a week." he continued.
Emma felt she could hardly breathe.
"Both Isabella and the baby are in good health and we would like to receive you both as visitors as soon as your schedules. We would like Emma to be the Godmother as she has for each of the other children—"
"How could she?" Emma cried out cutting him off, without much thought and frantically wiping the errant tears away as quickly as she was able with just her fingertips. She was never prepared enough for tears as to have a handkerchief in her dress pocket.
She stood quickly; she had felt too agitated to sit a moment longer.
She was halfway to the door when he caught her, "How could she what?" he asked, confusion etched on his face and then concern as he saw her tears. "What is wrong, Emma?" he demanded.
"How could she do this to me?" she repeated, motioning in a wide circle with her arms as if the reiteration made everything clear.
"Do what?" He echoed, trying very hard not to allow the repetition to vex him.
"This." She replied insistently.
"This?" He echoed.
"This," she repeated with more emphasis in her tone, she truly felt at a loss for words, though some part of her worried that she would spew them all out all at once like Ms. Bates if she started. At the thought of Ms. Bates' verboseness, she cringed and settled on saying little but motioning to the letter as means of better description.
"This," he added looking down at the letter for some form of a clue. "Baby Emma?" he asked.
"Yes, Baby Emma," she repeated emphatically, he was such an intelligent man, how did the implications of this escape him? She felt as if all her vigor was zapped the very moment she spoke it out. Tears grew in volume and her hands began wiping the tears that slipped free as she spoke the words.
"I don't understand," he said as gently as he could, producing his handkerchief so that he could offer it to her.
Oh, heavens she would have to explain it now, even in his brilliance he didn't perceive the ramifications of the matter and she would have no choice but to make it clear. "She is looking to use this to bend me—using this to try to force me to accept them back into my good graces! I never knew her to have such manipulative intentions. She thinks that she simply has to go about naming her child after me and that it will solve this—" she gesticulated wildly with her hands, "I did not even know she was with child! She has made no attempts to make anything right between us, and now this! I have never been so outraged—no it is more of a wounding than that word implies, perhaps it is better to say I have never felt so offended in my life. How dare she!"
"Emma, they have requested that you be the Godmother as you are for Henry, Isabella, and George and that we attend the christening," he tried to reassure her.
"That is not all it is! It is her way of trying to avoid apologizing and to force everything to appear as normal," she contended.
"Emma, don't make it bigger than it is, and certainly don't twist their motives."
"You don't understand," she insisted again,
"Well, they already have a son George, what do you mean I don't understand?"
"No, it is the timing of everything," she urged. "It is the fact that nothing has been made right, this is not the way it should be. Nothing has been reconciled, my sister has not written me to ask for my forgiveness, and there has been no attempt to make things right. And now they want to sweep it under the rug, they want to hide the problem and just gloss over it by naming their next child after me. I should feel flattered but I can't help but feel the punch of it! The sheer brass of it—the absurdity—the crassness—I'll not go, I can't, I'll—"
He cut her off, "Emma stop, you are blowing this out of proportion," he insisted. "We must go,"
"But Isabella does not deserve it," she pleaded with him, crying out and a fresh stream of tears. She could admit it, she was feeling very sorry for herself, and her own husband would not take her side in this but instead rose to Isabella's defense. Everyone always did, since her earliest memories, it was as if figures in her life constantly took Isabella's side. It was as if they understood Emma to be capable and resilient and Isabella to be defenseless or incapable in some way.
"Do not forget that it is our newest niece we will be meeting, this is not only about John and Isabella—the picture is much greater than that. Our nieces and nephews will grow up and someday you will regret decisions made with rashness. I think as you cool down you will also realize that things are not fully as you imagine them to be in regards to Isabella's motives."
"I do not wish to go on these terms, with everything as it is between Isabella and me!" she explained, feeling it be imperative that he understood her.
"Maybe not, but you will regret the decision in time," he told her, "As the saying goes, 'don't cut off your nose to spite your face',"
She didn't say anything, just continued to cry and after a short while when she pulled at her arm wishing to leave the room she felt no resistance from him.
She felt weary and melancholy the remainder of the day and eventually told her maid she did not feel well and took the liberty of going to bed before supper.
"Emma, stop. You are asleep," she heard him vaguely but there was a much louder noise interfering with her hearing. It sounded like the screeching of an animal or something frightened.
"Emma, stop shrieking and thrashing—you are alright, I'm here with you," he insisted and after a few lagging seconds, the sound stopped.
She forced her eyes open, confronted by the darkness and the fact that he had her arms arrested against her sides—almost in a bear hug. Her eyes widened in surprise and in an effort to take in the dim lightroom.
It was almost evidence of the miraculous but it was as if the moment she saw him there with her and that he was holding still and safe, it felt to her that every semblance of fear fell away. None of it real, she was here safe in his arms.
"You were thrashing wildly, what were you dreaming of? Was it a nightmare? You haven't injured yourself anywhere, have you? How about your hand? I thought for sure you might have, you threw your fist against the headboard rather violently." His fingers moved to inspect her right hand, "Nothing is in pain?" he then asked after pressing his own along hers so that they almost danced over each of her fingers, applying the slightest of pressure and observing her reaction.
Her mouth opened feeling dry, her words were sure to sound hoarse, "Why George, if you wish me to answer any question, you'll have to permit me a pause so that I might get the answer out, at present you have rattled them off in such quick succession that it is impossible to get a word in edgewise," she offered with a gentle smile, trying to the best of her memory to paraphrase his words to her in the past and to preserve his dry but teasing tone.
"You startled me," he admitted, pulling the hand he still held to his lip to kiss it. "But, by your reaction, I can assume you are not injured," he placed her hand gently back against her side and made a motion to pull away from her.
"Don't, I'm sorry to have teased you, it was unkind as I didn't reflect on the fact that you would have been rather startled by everything. I like having you near me, I feel so safe in your arms like this," she confided.
"What was the dream about?" he asked pulling her closer again, possibly closer than before and shifting her slightly. As he did so his face was impossibly close to her for a few long moments, her heart sped up and she could feel it as if it were a bird trapped beneath her ribcage. Though it must have been a fleeting moment, it felt to her that it stretched on impossibly extended as time always does when laced with anticipation. She thought he was going to kiss her; and when he did not, he instead shifted her so that her head was tucked just beneath his chin.
"I honestly don't recall very much at all," her head felt so muddled if she had remembered anything after waking, she certainly did not recall it now. In fact, she was slightly surprised she was able to wittingly answer his question at all, for she was certain her heart still raced from the anticipation of what did not transpire. Though her cheeks were hidden in the darkness, her tendency to ramble belayed her residual nervousness, "Yes, I recall very little but your mother was not in it or at least I don't think she was. I do remember I was in a building and there were others with me but beyond that, I don't remember"
"My mother?"
She inhaled little too sharply, remembering she hadn't said anything about those dreams that seemed so constant but also so long ago now. "It was when I first came here, amidst dreams of my sister and father, I also had a few dreams about your mother, she didn't like me or us…or perhaps it is better to say she think not think well of our arrangement,"
He reeled back sharply then, almost as if she had burnt him.
"It was not real—it was not really your mother, I've never met her so I cannot speak to the figure's physical likeness to your mother but I am very certain there aren't such things as ghosts," she told him confidently trying to reassure him of whatever it was that disturbed him so. "There is a natural explanation, I had previously been looking at the pictures in the hall and wondering about her, I think my mind just conjured up a—"
"It's alright Emma, you needn't explain. Let's try to go back to sleep" he told her.
Hey guys!
I am sorry this update took longer than some of you would have liked. Here it is. Thank you so much to the reviewer that gave me a ton of feedback and editing suggestions. I LOVE that! Please don't hesitate to let me know about corrections or your own thoughts or feelings on the story.
I used Grammarly for the first time, I really liked it and I'm going to run chapters through there from now on. I'll also run some older chapters through that system because it is SO easy! If you are a writer and you haven't used it, I strongly recommend!
Um, for anyone that spotted it, I flipped the birth order for George and Emma. In the book I believe John and Isabella's Emma is older than baby George but I switched it for effect and the purposes of my plot.
I think that is all! Thanks again to all the incredible reviewers! It might seem trite but It honestly keeps me writing, work is busy and sometime it is simply a review that comes in that reminds me to write for 20 or 30 minutes that day.
Until next time,
PrettyPet
