As a positive response of my first Emma, I decided to grace you with this. It's not as cute and fluffy, kinda sad and melancholy. I hope you enjoy as much as the first.

It came from a short little clip from my mind of a little Emma tugging on Knightley's coat asking if her mother was coming back. I should mention most of this is based from what I learned on the mini-series... and the little I have read of Emma so far, and the Emma calendar of events that I found to be very useful, though I wish I knew Emma's birthday! I have set hers to be late winter, possibly late February maybe March. Making George's break in May. I originally was going to make her born in the summer, since she is a lively girl. And my birthday is in summer lol. I also tried to find a reasonable reason for Mrs. Woodhouse's death, and I concluded it could only be either she caught a fever, consumption aka tuberculosis, or possibly childbirth or a miscarriage gone bad. Or maybe freak carriage accident though Mr. Woodhouse seems to like carriages so I ruled that out.

Anyway thanks for reading!

And thanks to my amazing Beta Chocolate is my drug who probably need some meds for the headache after she corrected this and gave her input. And the long deliberation of what to do with the names lol and among other things. I thank you dearly and maybe after long enough you'll be able to do what teachers often tried to teach me and have me learn proper English! I am gonna try and log all the tips and facts away for future references. I shall not write twelve as 12...lol

Till next week!

P.S if you see a few random sentences that seem out-of-place of badly edited, those are mine that I added after the finish edit.

SCB

Angels and Sorrow

George Knightley frowned as he sat at his desk after reading the news that his father Mr. Knightley had sent him of poor Mr. Woodhouse, Isabella, and most of all poor little Emma who barely five with her birthday few months away. It seemed Mrs. Woodhouse had been in a condition that did not fare as well as her two previous ones and had taken her life this time to the grief of her husband who had confided in General Knightley with hopes of a son. It was a time of much sorrow for the tenants of Hartfield, and the surrounding community of Highbury; even he himself felt a pang of sadness for Mrs. Woodhouse was a great lady who was a great friend of his mother's. But most of all he felt for little Emma, poor dear motherless little Emma. He closed the letter, and went to go make arrangements to be relieved from his duties till after Christmas.

Soon everything was settled and decided, and the gifts safely stored away, the most precious one carefully wrapped up in in his extra shirts and clothing so it could not be broken. When he had seen it in the window he had immediately thought of his dear little friend. William a jolly fellow who was one of his old bunk mates while he was at Oxford was visiting for the time had laughed at him when he saw the doll. William often found the situation amusing once last summer when they were both at Donwell together helping his father with the orchards, he gotten to meet the 'dear Emma' or 'little Emma.' She apparently had a notion in her head that she was going to marry Mr. Knightley one day.

George chuckled as he remembered that day Emma had been walking with Isabella to visit Donwell and to see John. She had marched right up to him and told him, "Miss Winters got married last month to Mr. Summers, so now she's Mrs. Summers. I don't know why she didn't keep her own last name – they're all seasons anyway. But I decided I want to marry you, Mr. Knightley; Knightley is a much better name then Woodhouse, so will you marry me?"

William at that point had been laughing his head off before George looked at his friend pointedly, and he found himself having to explain to the child that he was much too old for her and she was much too young to be marrying and that her last name was just fine. Emma Woodhouse – it suited her and she should be proud of it. Emma had in the end shrugged her tiny shoulders and started to tell him of the cat she had found in the barn the other day. Nothing seemed to bother dear Emma for long.

It was a dim evening as he arrived in Highbury, and after making the choice to go by Hartfield, he saw his parents' horse under the shelter. It was too late for a social call, so they must have been there since the morning. He stabled his horse and quickly made his way up to the house. The housekeeper was surprised to see a visitor at such an hour, but when she recognized him, she let him in solemnly. The death of the mistress of the house was a terrible loss, and young Isabella was only twelve and still far too young to run a house by herself and with the youngest still not much more than a babe it was a difficult loss for everyone.

"George!" his mother exclaimed as the maid announced him. "We just wrote to you two days ago; you did not have to come so quick!"

"It's alright, mother, I wished to good evening father," George told his parents' as he walked into the sitting room. "How are you, Mr. Woodhouse?"

"As well as can be expected, though I fear my sister shall try and take my girls away from me, saying that they need a woman's hand. It is too dreadful to think about. I know Mrs. Woodhouse would never have wanted the girls to leave this place. And I don't think I could bear having them away; it would be too much – first my dear wife, and now my children too. Do people have no feeling, no conscience?" Mr. Woodhouse rambled.

George looked on, shocked, as he seated himself in a chair near the fire to warm up slightly from the chilly ride. Someone take his little Emma? It did not bear thinking about.

"What about a governess?" George told him after a moment. "Then the girls would have a female guide and woman to go to."

"Those things take time, George, you need to advertise or look for advertisements, interview, hear from references," Emily Knightley told her son gently. "It's a large task to find a good governess."

George nodded his head as he learned back in his chair and accepted the cup of tea he was handed, letting the warmth go through him.

He turned as he heard a small voice that belonged to a tiny girl in a billowy white night gown with ribbon and lace all over it. "Papa?"

"Emma, my dear, what are you doing out of bed, when you could catch a chill?" Mr. Woodhouse asked his daughter anxiously, but heedless of his worries the child ran to her father and climbed up on his lap.

"I didn't get my goodnight kiss from Mama, nor did I give her one," Emma told him with a pout.

George looked at his mother, whose look explained it all. Little Emma had no notion of what had happened just yet; the little white figure didn't know that she would never get to kiss her mother goodnight again or vice versa.

"Your mother is..." Mr. Woodhouse began, but then he paused for a moment. "Unwell," he said finally. "But, dear child, where are your slippers and your robe? You'll catch a cold scampering around barefooted and disrobed."

Emma looked down. "I forgot Papa, I'm sorry," she said in a small voice.

Mr. Woodhouse nodded and told her it was alright this once, but not to forget too often.

"Now off to bed with you." Mr. Woodhouse told his daughter gently. "Say goodnight to Mr. and Mrs. Knightley mind you." he told her. "and I do believe there is another you may wish to bid goodnight." Mr. Woodhouse told her with amusement from her confused face knowing his daughter's attachment to younger Mr. Knightley.

"Why don't I take Emma back up to her room and get her nice and warm once more?" George spoke up and Emma's confused little face lit up when she heard his voice.

"Mr. Knightley! When did you get here? Oh, I did get my Christmas wish!" George grinned at her surprise and stood up and moved the few steps towards her. Wondering how she did not see him when she first made her appearance.

"Come on, Munchkin, let's get you off to bed," George told her as he picked her up and the little body snuggled into him. She smelled like flowers and talc powder.

"Mr. Knightley?' Emma said in her small voice as they climbed the stairs.

"Yes, Emma?"

"Did something happen? Because everyone keeps looking at me strangely and I know I didn't do anything wrong."

"You'll find out soon enough, Emma." George told her, sighing as he opened the door to the nursery and walked to the rumpled bed and deposited Emma back into it.

"That's what everyone says," Emma told him pouting. Then she brightened "Will you read me a story?"

"Will you promise to go to sleep?" he asked her, smiling as she nodded her blonde curly head.

George recited what he remembered from the few fairy tales he knew. After some time he gazed upon the child who had fallen asleep within minutes. He felt himself smile softly and let himself brush a tiny curl away from her face.

He stood next to her when she saw her mother taken away after the wake; the other adults had thought it best that she didn't go to the burial and he was satisfied to stay with her. Barely five was no age to see your mother or anyone being buried. He felt a small tug at the back of his coat he looked down at her.

"Mama is not coming home, is she?" she asked him in a small voice, her large hazel eyes dark with sorrow.

It tore at his heart to see her thus. Sighing, he knelt down to be almost at a level with the golden-haired child. "Your Mama isn't coming back, Emma, at least in body," he said gently. "But you know of angels, do you not?" He saw the golden curls bounce with her nod. "Well, your Mama is going to be an angel now, so even though you can't see her, she'll always be here and most of all she'll always be in here." He told her as he tapped his chest where his heart was. He saw her look at him in some confusion so he picked her up and took her tiny hand in his and placed it on her own heart. "Feel that beat; she can never truly leave you because she's already in you, so whenever you are feeling sad and want her, just remember that she'll always be in your heart."

Emma nodded and cuddled into his neck. "Mr. Knightley?"

"Yes, dear Emma?"

"Promise never to leave me like Mama did?" Emma asked him as her fingers clutched on to his collar. "I don't think I could bear to lose you too."

"I promise," George said softly, and he silently hoped it was a promise he could always keep.