A/N: Happy new year, everyone!

Hope you like this chapter – let me know what you think!

Chapter Two

"I cannot make speeches, Emma. If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me. I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it."

- "Emma", pg. 406

The very next day the rain cleared up. The clouds which had been hanging threateningly over them for the past few days had all but disappeared, and the sun reappeared – it finally felt like summer again. Edmund had been cooped up indoors for the past few days, a prisoner both of the house and of his own mind which plagued him by bringing forth the recollection of everything he had done wrong in the past year.

All the mischief had centred in his own arrogance to think of meddling in others' lives as an amusement to fill his boredom. Perhaps it was partly because being master of Hartfield was much less absorbing than being master of Donwell Abbey must be to Mr. Knightley, and Georgiana, who was also very much a part of its running – it being a much larger estate which also comprised of farms in addition to the far more numerous cottages of its tenants.

Still, whatever the cause, it did not change the fact that his own actions had brought him to where he was now: miserable, despairing and longing for some distraction. It would be a relief to him to have some change – any change – and he had never been more eager for a ride outside. Of course his mother would not wish him to risk going on horseback after it had just rained and the ground was so slippery and muddy, so he would defer that and walk instead. Even to breathe in fresh air would be highly welcome to him.

And when Mrs. Perry made an opportune call on Mrs. Woodhouse, Edmund took the opportunity of spending the disengaged hour out of doors. However he had hardly made it past the lawn when he perceived Georgiana entering the grounds through the large back gate and coming towards him. He had been thinking of her only the moment before as unquestionably sixteen miles distant. There was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind. He must be collected and calm, and not betray the turmoil inside him. In half a minute they were together.

The initial conversation was constrained and subdued on both sides. He asked after their mutual relations in London – they were well; when had she left them? Only that morning. He hoped she had left her father well at Donwell Abbey; she had.

An awkward silence fell, and it occurred to Edmund as he sneaked a sidelong glance at her, that she did not look happy. Could it be that she was not yet engaged to Henry? Perhaps he had called on her in London, and she had been pained by the manner in which he had been received by her brother and sister. But no – the London Woodhouses both liked Henry and would never have treated him coldly because of their relative disparity in status.

But she seemed often looking at him, and looked as if she wished to say something but knew not how to begin. He thought she might be looking for encouragement to begin confiding in him about her hopes and fears concerning Henry, and his heart quailed within him at the thought of having to listen and lend a supportive ear for that. He could not – would not begin that conversation; she would have to do it all herself. But he could not bear this silence – with them it was unnatural. He resolved to speak. 'You have some news to hear, now that you are back, which will rather surprise you,' he said, trying to smile.

She looked up at him enquiringly. 'Have I?' she said quietly. 'What is this news?'

'It is a wedding,' he said, trying to sound enthusiastic. He liked this topic; it would no doubt occupy them for some time – he would answer her exclamations of surprise, her questions, her conjectures – and hopefully she would be distracted from broaching the subject of Henry. 'Fanny Churchill and James Fairfax are to be married.'

'Oh,' she said, but she didn't sound surprised. 'Yes, I know – Henry told me of it yesterday when he called on us in Brunswick Square.'

Edmund suddenly felt as if all the air had left his lungs. So Henry had called on her, just as he had intended, which meant...

Georgiana slipped her arm through his and pressed it, and when she spoke she sounded earnest. 'Time will heal your wound, Edmund. Your own excellent sense – your exertions for your mother's sake – I know you will not allow yourself–' Then she sighed, looking frustrated at her inability to find the right words. 'You know I never thought she was right for you, but I never thought she could deceive you so. She gives all women a bad name.'

For a moment he could only stare at her, wishing that he could act on his impulse and kiss her for showing such tender consideration for his feelings. But much as it gratified him, it was based on a mistaken assumption. 'You are very kind, Georgie,' he said, 'but I must set you right. I admit that I was totally blind to their attachment, and it led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of, but I can assure you that I have no other reason to regret that I did not know their secret earlier.'

She raised her eyes to him suddenly, eagerly. 'Do you really mean that, Edmund? You are not miserable about Fanny Churchill?'

She deserved an explanation from him, even if he would rather do almost anything else. It was hard to have to lower himself still further in her opinion. He sighed in heavy resignation. 'Not at all – I was never really attached to her. I know,' he said, as she opened her mouth to protest, 'I know my behaviour gave that impression, and I am heartily ashamed of it. I never really cared for her, but she paid me attention, and I allowed myself to appear pleased. Many things aided the temptation: she was Mrs. Taylor's daughter, she was very pretty, and I always found her agreeable, but–' he sighed again– 'it all centres in this last: my vanity was flattered. I liked that this mysterious, wealthy, pretty, highly eligible young woman seemed to like me – and so when she flirted with me, I responded in kind.'

He paused, hoping she would say something, but she was listening in perfect silence, and he didn't know what she was thinking. 'You're going to despise me when you learn, Georgie, that even though I still behaved as I did, for some time now I have had no idea that Miss Churchill's attentions to me were anything serious – I thought it was merely a habit with her – that it was just her way. Now I know that it was a blind, to conceal her real situation with Mr. Fairfax; and it was effective – she blinded everyone about her, including me – except that I was not blinded – that it was my good fortune – that, in short, somehow or other I was safe from her.'

He had hoped for an answer here, a few words to say that his conduct was intelligible at least, but it took her a few moments. When she spoke, her tone was more tolerably her usual, and the silence seemed due to her taking in his explanation. 'I suppose I wish her well then. She and Mr. Fairfax will be happy together, I hope.' Then she smiled suddenly. 'Not as happy as Henry, though, I think – I've never seen anyone smile so much.'

Edmund really felt physically sick at her words, and he looked at her in anguish. 'Why was Henry happy?' he finally asked.

She looked up at him curiously, frowning slightly. 'Didn't he tell you? He's engaged.'

He shut his eyes for a second, trying to push down the torrent of feelings which were clamouring for his attention – anguish, jealousy, hopelessness, despair, the burning desire to tell her everything, to lay bare his own heart... Suddenly he found himself reaching out and clutching her hand in his. 'Oh Georgie,' he burst out before he could stop himself, 'don't tell me that I'm too late; don't tell me you've engaged yourself to him; haven't I a hope? Have I no chance of ever succeeding?'

He stopped in his eagerness to look the question, but apart from her profound astonishment, he could not read her expression. He half-wished he could take the words and stuff them back into his mouth, but it was too late for that. He had begun, and now he must blunder his way through to the finish. 'I know I've made mistakes,' he said, 'and I know I've been so stupid and blind, about everything – about Henry, about Fanny and James, about my own feelings – everything. I know I haven't always listened to you, but your opinion has always mattered to me more than anybody's.'

He paused, trying to swallow, but his mouth was uncomfortably dry. Still she said nothing, and her eyes never left his face. 'You know what I am, Georgie,' he said softly. 'You know me better than anyone; you always have. You know all my faults; you know all my weaknesses; you know what my behaviour has always been to you. I've teased you and ignored you, I've flouted your advice too many times to count, I haven't made any efforts to woo you properly – God knows I've been a very indifferent lover.' He paused, smiling ruefully. 'I'm doing a terrible job of this, aren't I?'

She spoke for the first time, her voice sounding a little shaky. 'What do you mean?'

'I think I was supposed to extol your virtues – instead I spent the whole speech talking about myself. That's me all over – I'm self-centred; and vain, and just a little arrogant sometimes.'

She made a noise that was half-laugh, half-sob. 'Just a little?'

He would have laughed if his heart hadn't been lodged in his throat. 'Very well, a lot. I'm all of that and more, and yet you've put up with me – you've always been there, and you've borne all my freaks and nonsense as no other woman in England would have borne them. So bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Georgiana, as well as you have borne with them – although the manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. I think I've been in love with you ever since we were children, although I only realised it a short while ago. That's why I couldn't stand the idea of you and James Fairfax when Mr. Taylor put it into my head so many months ago; that's why I can't bear the thought of you being engaged to–'

Suddenly he stopped, colouring. Carried on by his momentum he had forgotten that simple fact – Georgiana was engaged to another. There was absolutely no point in speaking all of this; yet like the idiot that he was, he had blundered forward, probably ruining their friendship forever in the process.

'Edmund,' she said slowly, and her voice was quite distinct, 'I am not engaged to anybody.'

His eyes snapped up to her face in wild hope, searching her expression for the truth. 'You are not?' he cried. 'Then would you give me your hand in... sorry, I know you could not so quickly... that is, would you let me do what I should have done years ago and court you properly?' He prided himself on having gotten out the sentence at least semi-coherently.

She smiled up at him warmly, eyes shining, and he stared down at her, mesmerised, hardly able to believe that she received the idea positively. 'Edmund,' she said, and her eyes danced in amusement, 'I have a better idea. Why don't you go back a little and finish what you were originally going to ask?'

His eyes widened in astonishment, and then he laughed joyfully. 'You mean, you really – then of course; would you – that is, I wanted to ask – if you could possibly–' Under her laughing gaze he blushed deeply. 'Georgie,' he said, his eyes beseeching her to understand him, 'you know I can't make speeches.'

She raised a playful eyebrow. 'Evidently not.' Then she took pity on him, and smiled softly as she stepped forward to slowly bring her hands up to cradle his face. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding and closed his eyes. 'My answer, my lovely, silly, troublesome Edmund,' she said, 'is yes, of course I will marry you.'

There were two ways to react to that: Edmund could take offence at the fact that two out of three of the adjectives she had used to describe himself could be argued to be negative, or he could do what he had been wanting to do from the moment she had entered the Hartfield grounds and kiss the living daylights out of her.

For almost the first time in his life, Edmund made the sensible decision.