Emma: The Wild and Wanton Edition (15 page)

Mrs. John Knightley was a pretty, elegant little woman, of gentle, quiet manners, and a disposition remarkably amiable and affectionate; wrapt up in her family; a devoted wife, a doating mother, and so tenderly attached to her father and sister that, but for these higher ties, a warmer love might have seemed impossible. She could never see a fault in any of them. She was not a woman of strong understanding or any quickness; and with this resemblance of her father, she inherited also much of his constitution; was delicate in her own health, over-careful of that of her children, had many fears and many nerves, and was as fond of her own Mr. Wingfield in town as her father could be of Mr. Perry. They were alike too, in a general benevolence of temper, and a strong habit of regard for every old acquaintance.

Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man; rising in his profession, domestic, and respectable in his private character; but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humour. He was not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not be increased. The extreme sweetness of her temper must hurt his. He had all the clearness and quickness of mind which she wanted, and he could sometimes act an ungracious, or say a severe thing.

He was not a great favourite with his fair sister-in-law. Nothing wrong in him escaped her. She was quick in feeling the little injuries to Isabella, which Isabella never felt herself. Perhaps she might have passed over more had his manners been flattering to Isabella’s sister, but they were only those of a calmly kind brother and friend, without praise and without blindness; but hardly any degree of personal compliment could have made her regardless of that greatest fault of all in her eyes which he sometimes fell into, the want of respectful forbearance towards her father. There he had not always the patience that could have been wished. Mr. Woodhouse’s peculiarities and fidgetiness were sometimes provoking him to a rational remonstrance or sharp retort equally ill-bestowed. It did not often happen; for Mr. John Knightley had really a great regard for his father-in-law, and generally a strong sense of what was due to him; but it was too often for Emma’s charity, especially as there was all the pain of apprehension frequently to be endured, though the offence came not. The beginning, however, of every visit displayed none but the properest feelings, and this being of necessity so short might be hoped to pass away in unsullied cordiality. They had not been long seated and composed when Mr. Woodhouse, with a melancholy shake of the head and a sigh, called his daughter’s attention to the sad change at Hartfield since she had been there last.

“Ah, my dear,” said he, “poor Miss Taylor — It is a grievous business.”

“Oh yes, sir,” cried she with ready sympathy, “how you must miss her! And dear Emma, too! What a dreadful loss to you both! I have been so grieved for you. I could not imagine how you could possibly do without her. It is a sad change indeed. But I hope she is pretty well, sir.”

“Pretty well, my dear — I hope — pretty well. I do not know but that the place agrees with her tolerably.”

Mr. John Knightley here asked Emma quietly whether there were any doubts of the air of Randalls.

“Oh! no — none in the least. I never saw Mrs. Weston better in my life — never looking so well. Papa is only speaking his own regret.”

“Very much to the honour of both,” was the handsome reply.

“And do you see her, sir, tolerably often?” asked Isabella in the plaintive tone which just suited her father.

Mr. Woodhouse hesitated. “Not near so often, my dear, as I could wish.”

“Oh! papa, we have missed seeing them but one entire day since they married. Either in the morning or evening of every day, excepting one, have we seen either Mr. Weston or Mrs. Weston, and generally both, either at Randalls or here — and as you may suppose, Isabella, most frequently here. They are very, very kind in their visits. Mr. Weston is really as kind as herself. Papa, if you speak in that melancholy way, you will be giving Isabella a false idea of us all. Every body must be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but every body ought also to be assured that Mr. and Mrs. Weston do really prevent our missing her by any means to the extent we ourselves anticipated — which is the exact truth.”

“Just as it should be,” said Mr. John Knightley, “and just as I hoped it was from your letters. Her wish of shewing you attention could not be doubted, and his being a disengaged and social man makes it all easy. I have been always telling you, my love, that I had no idea of the change being so very material to Hartfield as you apprehended; and now you have Emma’s account, I hope you will be satisfied.”

“Why, to be sure,” said Mr. Woodhouse, “yes, certainly — I cannot deny that Mrs. Weston, poor Mrs. Weston, does come and see us pretty often — but then — she is always obliged to go away again.”

“It would be very hard upon Mr. Weston if she did not, papa. You quite forget poor Mr. Weston.”

“I think, indeed,” said John Knightley pleasantly, “that Mr. Weston has some little claim. You and I, Emma, will venture to take the part of the poor husband. I, being a husband, and you not being a wife, the claims of the man may very likely strike us with equal force. As for Isabella, she has been married long enough to see the convenience of putting all the Mr. Westons aside as much as she can.”

“Me, my love,” cried his wife, hearing and understanding only in part.

“Are you talking about me? I am sure nobody ought to be, or can be, a greater advocate for matrimony than I am; and if it had not been for the misery of her leaving Hartfield, I should never have thought of Miss Taylor but as the most fortunate woman in the world; and as to slighting Mr. Weston, that excellent Mr. Weston, I think there is nothing he does not deserve. I believe he is one of the very best-tempered men that ever existed. Excepting yourself and your brother, I do not know his equal for temper. I shall never forget his flying Henry’s kite for him that very windy day last Easter — and ever since his particular kindness last September twelvemonth in writing that note, at twelve o’clock at night, on purpose to assure me that there was no scarlet fever at Cobham, I have been convinced there could not be a more feeling heart nor a better man in existence. If any body can deserve him, it must be Miss Taylor.”

“Where is the young man?” said John Knightley. “Has he been here on this occasion — or has he not?”

“He has not been here yet,” replied Emma. “There was a strong expectation of his coming soon after the marriage, but it ended in nothing; and I have not heard him mentioned lately.”

“But you should tell them of the letter, my dear,” said her father.

“He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Weston, to congratulate her, and a very proper, handsome letter it was. She shewed it to me. I thought it very well done of him indeed. Whether it was his own idea you know, one cannot tell. He is but young, and his uncle, perhaps — ”

“My dear papa, he is three-and-twenty. You forget how time passes.”

“Three-and-twenty! is he indeed? Well, I could not have thought it — and he was but two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well, time does fly indeed! and my memory is very bad. However, it was an exceeding good, pretty letter, and gave Mr. and Mrs. Weston a great deal of pleasure. I remember it was written from Weymouth, and dated Sept. 28th — and began, ‘My dear Madam,’ but I forget how it went on; and it was signed ‘F. C. Weston Churchill.’ — I remember that perfectly.”

“How very pleasing and proper of him!” cried the good-hearted Mrs. John Knightley. “I have no doubt of his being a most amiable young man. But how sad it is that he should not live at home with his father! There is something so shocking in a child’s being taken away from his parents and natural home! I never could comprehend how Mr. Weston could part with him. To give up one’s child! I really never could think well of any body who proposed such a thing to any body else.”

“Nobody ever did think well of the Churchills, I fancy,” observed Mr. John Knightley coolly. “But you need not imagine Mr. Weston to have felt what you would feel in giving up Henry or John. Mr. Weston is rather an easy, cheerful-tempered man, than a man of strong feelings; he takes things as he finds them, and makes enjoyment of them somehow or other, depending, I suspect, much more upon what is called society for his comforts, that is, upon the power of eating and drinking, and playing whist with his neighbours five times a week, than upon family affection, or any thing that home affords.”

Emma could not like what bordered on a reflection on Mr. Weston, and had half a mind to take it up; but she struggled, and let it pass. She would keep the peace if possible; and there was something honourable and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the all-sufficiency of home to himself, whence resulted her brother’s disposition to look down on the common rate of social intercourse, and those to whom it was important. It had a high claim to forbearance.

Mr. Knightley was to dine with them — rather against the inclination of Mr. Woodhouse, who did not like that any one should share with him in Isabella’s first day. Emma’s sense of right however had decided it; and besides the consideration of what was due to each brother, she had particular pleasure, from the circumstance of the late disagreement between Mr. Knightley and herself, in procuring him the proper invitation.

Indeed, the disagreement had been hounding her thoughts. They had become so impassioned in their disagreement that they had actually laid hands upon one another! She could not shake the sensation of his fingers on her skin. Of her breasts against his chest. She had also not shaken the fantasy she had had of him in the midst of her parlour. The fantasy in which he had kissed her. She had thought of it over and over — her blood heating each time — until she had quite convinced herself that she was going mad. One did not imagine their dearest friend kissing them in the midst of an argument. Lately, though, she had wondered why she had imagined such a thing at all. And with that thought had come relief. Of course, Harriet’s story of Mr. Martin’s kiss had still been fresh in Emma’s mind when she had met with Mr. Knightley. The only explanation that was acceptable was that Harriet’s story had influenced Emma’s imagination. Emma was more than ready to prove to herself that she was capable of being in the same room with Mr. Knightley and maintaining her lady-like composure. There had been just one problem to the testing of her theory: Mr. Knightley was still cross with her and as such, avoided her. She hoped they might now become friends again. She thought it was time to make up. Making-up indeed would not do.
She
certainly had not been in the wrong, and
he
would never own that he had. Concession must be out of the question; but it was time to appear to forget that they had ever quarrelled; and she hoped it might rather assist the restoration of friendship, that when he came into the room she had one of the children with her — the youngest, a nice little girl about eight months old, who was now making her first visit to Hartfield, and very happy to be danced about in her aunt’s arms. It did assist; for though he began with grave looks and short questions, he was soon led on to talk of them all in the usual way, and to take the child out of her arms with all the unceremoniousness of perfect amity. Emma felt they were friends again, and here in the midst of all of their family, the embarrassing fantasy of Mr. Knightley’s kiss had not returned; Emma had been right that it had been a fluke and the conviction giving her at first great satisfaction and relief, and then a little sauciness, she could not help saying, as he was admiring the baby,

“What a comfort it is, that we think alike about our nephews and nieces. As to men and women, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard to these children, I observe we never disagree.”

“If you were as much guided by nature in your estimate of men and women, and as little under the power of fancy and whim in your dealings with them, as you are where these children are concerned, we might always think alike.”

“To be sure — our discordancies must always arise from my being in the wrong.”

“Yes,” said he, smiling — “and reason good. I was sixteen years old when you were born.”

“A material difference then,” she replied, “and no doubt you were much my superior in judgment at that period of our lives; but does not the lapse of one-and-twenty years bring our understandings a good deal nearer?”

“Yes — a good deal
nearer
.”

“But still, not near enough to give me a chance of being right, if we think differently.”

“I have still the advantage of you by sixteen years’ experience, and by not being a pretty young woman and a spoiled child.”

Emma huffed at this indignantly. She noticed as she did so that Mr. Knightley’s gaze dropped briefly to her décolletage. Her breath stalled in her lungs as his gaze thoroughly ran across her bosom before returning to her eyes. And just like that, the phantom kiss returned to her mind. All of her breath left her in a whoosh. Goosebumps rose on her skin. She was of a sudden extremely grateful that they were among family. Who knows what she would have done had they been alone as they had been the last time she had taken complete leave of her senses.

Good lord. Suddenly, she knew exactly what she would have done had they been alone. She would have walked up to him, following his seemingly magnetic pull. He would place the child in her bassinet and take Emma into his arms. She could
feel
the strength in them as, in her imagination, they encircled her waist and pulled her flush against him. With no pretence, he lowered his head and placed his lips firmly against hers, rolling them back and forth. His hand pressed in the small of her back and drew her into his body. The memory of what it felt like to have her breasts pressed against him flew to the front of her mind and tinted the fantasy with a bit of reality. Emma’s entire body came alive. While her mind was occupied with this fancy, Emma felt her body grow heavy. Her breasts tingled; the apex of her thighs moistened. Mr. Knightley’s hand skimmed up her ribs and — Good heavens, what would he do next? Emma cursed her inexperience as her fantasy stalled out. She could not help feeling she would
love
to have his hands on her aching breasts. She gasped — both in her fantasy and in real life — and the image of Mr. Knightley lowering his head to sweep his lips across her shoulder was replaced by the actual Mr. Knightley, who was still standing across from her holding their niece. He looked decidedly more uncomfortable than he had before Emma’s mind had slipped her hold, and she wondered with embarrassment if what she had been thinking had been broadcast for everyone to see and hear.