This chapter is dedicated to EngLitLover, who although just started reading has been reviewing each chapter she reads. I can't tell you how much that means and I love seeing how you were responding to the past chapters! It is a truly great person that takes the time to respond before jumping to the next chapter, I am so honored!
I was feeling a little bit down after not seeing a big response to the new chapter, wondering if having too big of a gap between posts had lost people's interest. I had a lovely PM from Laina Lee who also writes Austen fanfiction.
I just wanted to publicly thank all that faithfully review. Thanks for the encouragement to write.
I so appreciate it.
Chapter 22
Strained
Strained, that was how she felt. In fact, a truer word could not have been found, as it did justice to her entire being; her physical form stretched, wrought like a kite string in a sudden gust of wind-reaching up higher and higher still-almost painfully at the outer limits, and her mind and emotions pressed flat and pulling in the opposite direction of something-what exact thing? That she did not fully know, but she had actually reflected on it, she would describe the sensation as a rider pulling back on the reigns to stop a frantic, out of control horse.
At present she was stretched up, against the gentle morning breeze and from tip toes to her finger tips the muscles and ligaments almost remembering the elongated shape they were drawn into while peeling wall paper months before. The balls of her feet perch at the top of the ladder and she told herself she was graceful enough that she ought to have no fear of falling. And for the most part she was not afraid, it was only at sharp moments, when the chosen article was freed from the branch with a violent sounding snap that she would teeter slightly, and only very slightly for her balance would be restored almost instantaneously. You just could never predict when one was to let go, she thought to herself silently. For if that could be predicted then certainly her balance would have been unwavering.
But alas, it would never be predictable and in those mere seconds, her heart would skip just a little, before embracing the normal pattern once more. And she wouldn't speak it aloud to anyone but for those fleeting moments she was aware at how alive she was and felt, as if the other moments were grey and dingy somehow by comparison.
Well, except for when she spotted another prized article-bright and gleaming like a star when the morning sun glinted off it!
"What are you doing Emma?" he asked, sounding very much his old self, and by that 'old' self she meant the one from days long gone by, he sounded like the man she knew when she was a young girl and he'd relegated himself the sole proprietor of all things sensible and with the chief responsibility of dolling out wisdom and better sense to those less fortunate, namely Emma Woodhouse.
"I am picking apples," she offered, sounding so drab as she spoke it, it almost enhanced the obviousness of his question. For what else could she be doing, stretched towards the sky, standing on the tallest ladder in Donwell's apple orchard with a basket, containing four perfect apples plucked from the highest of branches, hanging against the second highest rung.
His face, though she only looked at him for the briefest of a moment, revealed his regret at the wording of his first question, "For what purpose are you picking apples? We have employees to do that, and I can see you are trying to pick the ones from the highest branches, but really Emma you aren't supposed to stand on the top rung like that, it really isn't safe," he told her.
"Everyone knows the highest branch have the apples that taste the best," she said, disregarding his mention of the method-she wasn't alarmed, nor should he be for her sake.
"It is a wives tale, a myth Emma -if you were to read a book about horticulture- never mind that isn't the point! You look liable to break your neck, and I really would prefer if you stepped down a rung, the top is meant that act as an aid for balancing as one's shins press against it."
"I only need eight or maybe ten for good measure," she insisted, ignoring his request that she step down to a lower ladder stair.
"And for what purpose are you needing eight or maybe ten for good measure?" he asked, and if she had looked down, which she had not, then she would have seen the slight bite of his lip in annoyance or possibly anxiety, and the fact that he moved a full stride closer to the ladder, as if to be ready to catch her but not so close that he wouldn't be able to move if she fell the opposite direction.
"I am making a pie for the Westons," she told him, her voice turning up to reveal a pleasant sound, excitement and a lightness that suggested an almost carefree optimism.
"A pie? And you, are making it?" his was quizzical, he had never known a fine lady to make anything but intricate stitch-work patterns, decorative pillowcases and doilies. Food items? Never, that was reserved for the cook or the help.
"Yes, the cook at Hartfield when I was young allowed me to learn the art of pastry," she explained, and he didn't comment on that fact that she was young still, he thought better of it. "It is really a good deal simpler than I thought, the right amount of flour, the right amount of lard-" she teetered again as the apple released from the branch. Mr. Knightly startled reflexively, lurching forward almost mirroring her movement.
She giggled, perhaps at his reaction, he was not sure, and sometimes he felt she was such a chit, and this was one of those times, as she talked on easily as if nothing was the matter and as if she wasn't in peril standing atop of a two meter tall ladder. "And an egg, cold water and a pinch of salt. Cook used to let me help with pastries all of the time, I am quite confident I should be able to make a great pie. The real trick is making sure the pastry dough is rolled thin enough, that is where the real technique is and if I am out of practice I am sure the cook at Donwell will allow me her help. She does seem very nice and a talented hand from the pastries I have tasted from her pursuits." Emma informed him.
"You are making the Westons a pie. Are you making it for any particular purpose?" he probed, if she wanted an inroad into the conversation he'd do his best to give her one.
She gently shook her head.
He sighed, "because Emma although I don't make a habit of gleaning or relaying the tittle-tattle of servants; my overlooker William Larkin is a different matter. He approached me, hat in hand looking very grave to have to speak at all, let alone to confide that he had seen you being dropped off with a deal of hast by Frank Churchill."
She stopped picking, and gave him her full attention, a slight pink colouring making its way to her cheekbones and nose. She nodded, "That is right, he did bring me home," she agreed easily before returning the pick another apple, perhaps less scrupulously than before-for suddenly she wanted done the task so that she could leave her perch.
"And were you crying Emma? Larkin described your visage as looking blotchy and as one who was in or had recently been in tears," he continued.
She hastily picked two more apples and began the motions of climbing down from the ladder. Ignoring his question for the longest of moments, she didn't want to think about it.
"Were you crying when he brought you home?" he asked directly, and she found herself standing directly in front of him as she turned around after descending from the ladder, and he took a full step back - and action she perceived wrongly, and one he'd done to allow himself to see her face plainly, as having a full head and shoulders taller required him to do so in order to see her expressions at a natural angle. Surely with her personality he would be able to read the information as it appeared on her face, she had never been one with the ability to cloak her countenance from portraying her every thought and emotion.
She wavered slightly, before willing herself to meet his eyes, "Yes-yes but it was not on account of him, he was only doing me a service, a kindness really, a chance to preserve whatever good opinion public opinion the public might have left of me, to protect me from the opinion of others that might look on, to keep me from being laughing stock," she assured.
"So I shouldn't be upset?" He asked, perhaps a little too bluntly to be believed impartial, it was as if some small part of him was already upset at the notion.
"Certainly not with him, or with me, I don't think," Emma offered, lowering her eyes to the basket in her hands.
"And what was it that had you so upset that you needed Frank Churchill to provide you a ride home?" he asked her then.
"It is a private matter," she told him, raising her eyes to his.
"A private matter?" the appall was etched in his tone, as if he thought she said it just to goad him or dodge the question.
"It is not mine to repeat, " she told him before changing the subject, "I must be making them a pie as a thank you-for I had not thought of it that way but on reflection I think I must have thought it a way to show my gratitude, and it will force me to recover from my embarrassment to bring it to them, for one cannot remain embarrassed forever and Mrs. Weston is hosting a dinner party next week and it couldn't be too soon to get over the shame of it," Emma said, talking more to herself then to him.
"And it doesn't go deeper then that?" he inquired.
"They are to have a party, can you believe it?" she said, ignoring questions she didn't like or wish to reply on.
He sighed.
"It will bring great joy, and I am certain it will be such great fun-I didn't suspect I would see it, my dear friend every bit the hostess! I will bring the pie over as soon as I am able," she continued a bit absentmindedly switching topics again.
"You cannot just avoid conversations you do not enjoy. Because really Emma, I was trying to decide if I should have words with him, with Frank, and if I should what it was exactly that I should say,"
"No," she insisted, "It is not like that," she promised him. She shook her head a pained expression taking up residence on her face "No-I cannot imagine that you could even think that, no you shouldn't have words with him, he was only doing me a favour,"
"And someone else could not have done you this favour?"
"No one else was around!" she exclaimed, her voice jumping into a higher octave in her defense. "Mr. Weston was off to visit an estate and would not have been back until later that day, you -you were gone," she reminded.
"But surely you could have taken their carriage?" he persisted, lending insight into the fact that he had considered things a long while this morning before speaking to her directly, identifying all the places where she might have made a different choice in his estimation. "Mrs. Weston could have accompanied you in their carriage," at that was voiced as a statement, rather than a question.
"I don't know. I am not even sure that they have more than one, I know that Mr. Weston took one carriage for his trip as it was a ways off and at his age he does not do for riding anything more than short distances. I do not know what their situation is at present, whether they have another or not. I did not ask this. I was not partial to the decision making yesterday. All I know is that I could hardly bare the thought of walking disconsolate, arm and arm the entire distance of 2 miles from Randalls to Donwell, which was what I was imaging prior to the offer of a ride on horseback. I was so very relieved when this option was presented, that I could hardly tell you what the other options under consideration were. I was merely told to try to calm down and to let Frank take me home and that is what I did. When I arrived home the household was not ignorant of my-my state of mind and they were all very kind and they made a bath ready and I had a bath. Afterwards Lily braided my hair and then Cook brought me warm milk with honey and almond cookies before dinner. And they were the best cookies I think I have ever had, and before I knew what I had done I am embarrassed to say that I had eaten six of them. Is that enough of a testimony of my afternoon or are you still desiring more from me?"
She was glad she had brought the pie over earlier last week and had resolved the sense of awkwardness one felt when in a situation as she had been. First were always the worst and once past them one had lesser anxiety. It was good that she had seen both Frank and her Friend Mrs. Weston or she would have been facing the initial awkwardness now. Instead she felt near enough to comfortable to feel rather at ease amongst the guests and whenever anxiety or a sense of self consciousness began to press she changed her focus from herself (ego and pride) to others who perhaps could be made more at ease. Jane Fairfax for instance.
Jane seemed almost ignored by the others, not intentionally maybe, Mrs. Goddard and Harriet Smith could hardly be responsible for the had told Mrs. Weston that they would arrive slightly later than the others, the men had gone out of doors to see Mr. Weston's trout pond— he was very proud of it— and Mrs. Weston and Miss Bates were fussing over Mrs. Bates, bringing her a tea, having a side table for her cup brought in, fetching a lap blanket, though Emma thought it was plenty warm enough. In the summer it might be more likely for the old woman to succumb to too hot a temperature especially with warmth of the day, the tea and a blanket! She did not voice it and instead turned her full attention to Jane.
"I have heard that you are very fond of music. Would you like to play a duet with me? We can consider the selections and see if there is a thing or two that we both know well," Emma offered and Jane seemed pleased by it because she nodded and wordlessly smiled her agreement.
They had found quite a few songs that both knew well enough and Emma only laughed when she herself played an error—which was occasionally but she never practiced and was fortunate to be even half as good as she was, for her aversion of practicing had not been newly acquired but rather a lifelong endeavor.
Miss Bates and Mrs. Weston had come over to sit nearer. And so had Harriet and Mrs. Goddard when they arrived, so by the time the men joined them they really had quite a crowd.
Unlike some, Emma seemed to have fewer foibles the more people were watching and Jane, well Emma had yet to hear her make a mistake either in the playing or the singing of any of the songs.
"Do you know Robin Adair? It is too high for me I am not a true soprano but if you will sing it, I can sing harmony and play," Emma asked pausing for just a second until Jane readily agreed.
What's this dull town to me
Robin's not near
What was't I wish'd to see
What wish'd to hear
Where all the joy and mirth
Made this town heaven on earth
Oh, they're all fled with thee
Robin Adair
What made th' assembly shine
Robin Adair
What made the ball sae fine
Robin was there
What when the play was o'er
What made my heart so sore
Oh, it was parting with
Robin Adair
But now thou'rt cold to me
Robin Adair
But now thou'rt cold to me
Robin Adair
Yet he I loved so well
Still in my heart shall dwell
Oh, I can ne'er forget
Robin Adair
"Bravo, oh it is the finest of songs and sung with so much convincing emotion Miss Fairfax and what wonderful playing Mrs. Knightley, it was so well done, may I request another?" Frank Churchill congratulated, "Do you know that one about the solider leaving— the name escapes me at present?"
Jane was staring at him, wide eyed and nodding, Emma did not know the one he was referring to.
"I'll allow you both to take a turn," Emma excused herself and moved to stand next to the piano.
They played that one and then Jane insisted Emma return for another that Emma hadn't thought of since playing it as a young girl— it was a upbeat Scottish song about a lover returning.
Frank said excitedly with zeal and upbeat speech, his words almost saturated with laughter, "That was such fun! Do you know the one about the traveler missing home?"
"No, I think they have played and sung enough for one evening," Knightley interrupted.
"Surely one more song would not harm any thing," Frank posited, sounding more good natured and innocent than disagreeable.
"Jane has had enough, can't you hear that her voice is starting to wane? She sings so clearly and at such an octave and with such impressive volume that she is bound to tire from exertion but despite her obvious training you can tell she is growing hoarse, if Emma wanted to play and sing for you I would not stand in the way," he said flatly.
Frank shook his head, "It was not a selfish motive, I had hoped we all could keep singing and having such fun, I meant no harm to Miss Fairfax's voice, alas we will be entertained in some other way now," he agreed but the way he dropped his eyes suggested his had taken the dressing down rather personally.
Emma felt she might have known something of the other man's motives, for it was in the way that he said 'if Emma wanted to play and sing for you I would not stand in the way,'— his tone or perhaps the inflection was slightly skewed, she could tell by his voice, even if others could not have, that he meant something greater by it than was initially obvious.
"We might play a game," Emma offered excitedly, a bit of a rouse but wanting to take the focus off of Frank and his genuine sounding embarrassment.
"Oh, we very much like games, don't we mother?" Miss Bates said loudly, so the nearly deaf woman might have hope of hearing her.
"What shall we play? Do you have any idea which type of game, Emma?" Harriet asked.
"We shall consult our hostess, I think" Emma said fully pleased the diversion had been effective in turning the tide.
"Ah, we have a new game of alphabet squares, if you are marshalled into pairs of two you will be able to play on teams and more of the party may enjoy the game, Mr. Weston and I will sit out with anyone else that would prefer conversation to the game, " she stated.
It was a ruthless game Emma realized part of the way into it.
She was paired with Miss Bates who, despite her effusiveness with words, was not a great mind for such a game and had in each of her turns put up small low scoring words such as 'cat' and 'dig'.
She understood just how intense a game it was when Knightley shot down her attempt. 'Allium' which was the Latin name for the common onion, and would have been high scoring for the 'u'.
"It doesn't count, since it isn't English," he insisted.
"It's a plant name, the correct name," she retorted.
"All scores must be in English, it says right here in the rules," he handed the card from the front of the box to her. "Your team doesn't collect any points this turn,"
Worse still when she had mistakenly misspelled the word interrupt 'interupt' by missing one of the 'r's and for that Jane, George Knightley's highly capable partner, called it out—called Emma out really. Gaining the points Emma would have scored with the wrongly spelled word for her team. They were already ahead by a large margin, thanks to high scoring words like Jane's 'Zephyr' or George's 'Mixture'
Frank and Harriet Smith were no better off for their efforts— though both were so agreeable and jovial it would have been hard for anyone from the outside looking in to tell that they were in fact losing.
Emma grimaced more as the game progressed, she was not having fun.
