Emma (24 page)

In short, she sat during the first visit looking at Jane Fairfax with twofold complacency, the sense of pleasure and the sense of rendering justice, and was determining that she would dislike her no longer. When she took in her history, indeed her situation, as well as her beauty, when she considered what all this elegance was destined to, what she was going to sink from, how she was going to live, it seemed impossible to feel anything but compassion and respect. Especially if to every well-known particular entitling her to interest were added the highly probable circumstance of an attachment to Mr Dixon, which she had so naturally started to herself. In that case, nothing could be more pitiable or more honourable than the sacrifices she had resolved on.

Emma was very willing now to acquit her of having seduced Mr Dixon’s actions from his wife, or of anything mischievous which her imagination had suggested at first. If it were love, it might be simple, single, successless love on her side alone. She might have been unconsciously sucking in the sad poison, while a sharer of his conversation with her friend, and from the best, the purest of motives, might now be denying herself this visit to Ireland, and resolving to divide herself effectually from him and his connections by soon beginning her career of laborious duty.

Upon the whole, Emma left her with such softened, charitable feelings, as made her look around in walking home and lament that Highbury afforded no young man worthy of giving her independence, nobody that she could wish to scheme about for her.

These were charming feelings—but not lasting. Before she had committed herself by any public profession of eternal friendship for Jane Fairfax, or done more towards a recantation of past prejudices and errors than saying to Mr Knightley, “She certainly is handsome, she is better than handsome!” Jane had spent an evening at Hartfield with her grandmother and aunt, and everything was relapsing much into its usual state.

Former provocations reappeared. The aunt was as tiresome as ever, more tiresome, because anxiety for her health was now added to admiration of her powers, and they had to listen to the description of exactly how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast, and how small a slice of mutton for dinner, as well as to see exhibitions of new caps and new workbags for her mother and herself, and Jane’s offences rose again. They had music, Emma was obliged to play, and the thanks and praise which necessarily followed appeared to her an affectation of candour, an air of greatness, meaning only to show off in higher style her own very superior performance. She was besides, which was the worst of all, so cold, so cautious! There was no getting at her real opinion. Wrapped up in a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined to hazard nothing. She was disgustingly, was suspiciously reserved.

If anything could be more, where all was most, she was more reserved on the subject of Weymouth and the Dixons than anything. She seemed bent on giving no real insight into Mr Dixon’s character, or her own value for his company, or opinion of the suitableness of the match. It was all general approbation and smoothness, nothing delineated or distinguished. It did her no service, however. Her caution was thrown away. Emma saw its artifice, and returned to her first surmises. There probably
was
something more to conceal than her own preference. Mr Dixon perhaps had been very near changing one friend for the other, or been fixed only to Miss Campbell for the sake of the future twelve thousand pounds.

The like reserve prevailed on other topics. She and Mr Frank Churchill had been at Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they were a little acquainted, but not a syllable of real information could Emma procure as to what he truly was.

“Was he handsome?”

She believed he was reckoned a very fine young man.

“Was he agreeable?”

He was generally thought so.

“Did he appear a sensible young man, a young man of information?”

At a watering-place, or in a common London acquaintance, it was difficult to decide on such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged of, under a much longer knowledge than they had yet had of Mr Churchill. She believed everybody found his manners pleasing.

Emma could not forgive her.

Chapter Three

Emma could not forgive her, but as neither provocation nor resentment were discerned by Mr Knightley, who had been of the party and had seen only proper attention and pleasing behaviour on each side, he was expressing the next morning—being at Hartfield again on business with Mr Woodhouse—his approbation of the whole. Not so openly as he might have done had her father been out of the room, but speaking plain enough to be very intelligible to Emma. He had been used to think her unjust to Jane, and had now great pleasure in marking an improvement.

“A very pleasant evening,” he began, as soon as Mr Woodhouse had been talked into what was necessary, told that he understood, and the papers swept away, “particularly pleasant. You and Miss Fairfax gave us some very good music. I do not know a more luxurious state, sir, than sitting at one’s ease to be entertained a whole evening by two such young women, sometimes with music and sometimes with conversation. I am sure Miss Fairfax must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You left nothing undone. I was glad you made her play so much, for having no instrument at her grandmother’s, it must have been a real indulgence.”

“I am happy you approved,” said Emma, smiling as she gritted her teeth, “but I hope I am not often deficient in what is due to guests at Hartfield.”

“No, my dear,” said her father instantly, “
that
I am sure you are not. There is nobody half so attentive and civil as you are. If anything, you are too attentive. The muffin last night—if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough.”

“No,” said Mr Knightley, nearly at the same time, “you are not often deficient, not often deficient either in manner or comprehension. I think you understand me, therefore.”

An arch look expressed ‘I understand you well enough’, but she said only, “Miss Fairfax is reserved.”

“I always told you she was—a little, but you will soon overcome all that part of her reserve which ought to be overcome, all that has its foundation in diffidence. What arises from discretion must be honoured.”

“You think her diffident. I do not see it.” Did he think Jane more handsome than she? Was she meant to compete for his offered attentions now?

“My dear Emma,” said he, moving from his chair into one close by her, “you are not going to tell me, I hope, that you had not a pleasant evening.”

“Oh! No, I was pleased with my own perseverance in asking questions, and amused to think how little information I obtained.”

“I am disappointed,” was his only answer.

“I hope everybody had a pleasant evening,” said Mr Woodhouse, in his quiet way. “I had. Once, I felt the fire rather too much, but then I moved back my chair a little, a very little, and it did not disturb me. Miss Bates was very chatty and good-humoured, as she always is, though she speaks rather too quick. However, she is very agreeable, and Mrs Bates too, in a different way. I like old friends, and Miss Jane Fairfax is a very pretty sort of young lady—a very pretty and a very well-behaved young lady indeed. She must have found the evening agreeable, Mr Knightley, because she had Emma.”

“True, sir, and Emma, because she had Miss Fairfax.” Mr Knightley winked at her out of view of her father, though he seemed rather more curious about what she might say to his recounting.

Emma saw his anxiety, and wishing to appease it, relented her displeasure at least for the present, said, and with a sincerity which no one could question, “She is a sort of elegant creature that one cannot keep one’s eyes from. I am always watching her to admire, and I do pity her from my heart.”

Mr Knightley looked as if he were more gratified than he cared to express, and before he could make any reply, Mr Woodhouse, whose thoughts were on the Bateses, said, “It is a great pity that their circumstances should be so confined! A great pity indeed! And I have often wished—but it is so little one can venture to do—small, trifling presents, of anything uncommon— Now we have killed a porker, and Emma thinks of sending them a loin or a leg, it is very small and delicate—Hartfield pork is not like any other pork—but still it is pork—and my dear Emma, unless one could be sure of their making it into steaks, nicely fried, as ours are fried, without the smallest grease, and not roast it, for no stomach can bear roast pork—I think we had better send the leg—do not you think so, my dear?”

“My dear papa, I sent the whole hindquarter. I knew you would wish it. There will be the leg to be salted, you know, which is so very nice, and the loin to be dressed directly in any manner they like.”

“That’s right, my dear, very right. I had not thought of it before, but that is the best way. They must not over-salt the leg, then, if it is not over-salted, and if it is very thoroughly boiled, just as Serle boils ours, and eaten very moderately of, with a boiled turnip, and a little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unwholesome.”

“Emma,” said Mr Knightley presently, “I have a piece of news for you. You like news—and I heard an article in my way hither that I think will interest you. Will you walk with me to hear it?”

“News! Oh! yes, I always like news. What is it? Why do you smile so? Where did you hear it? At Randalls?”

He had time only to say, “No, not at Randalls, I have not been near Randalls. But walk with me and I’ll tell you all,” before Emma hurried him out of doors.

Mr Woodhouse, already well into his tea, barely noticed when they rose to leave, but Emma kissed his cheek anyway and listened to his entreaties to wear a shawl outside, as the weather was not quite as agreeable as it had been, yet might become less agreeable still. Emma assured him she would take it and Mr Knightley equally promised to see that she did not remove it premature to returning from the garden.

So assuaged, they removed themselves to the privacy of Hartfield’s prized gardens, only now recovering from the rains and frosts.

“Do you have news in truth, or did you merely wish to separate ourselves from Father?” she asked, suspecting her smile to be more sly than was proper.

“I have news,” he began. “It can wait.”

“Wait?” she asked, innocently, she thought.

After they had trespassed through the stone gates and were out of sight, Mr Knightley wrapped his arm about her waist and ushered her to the gazebo, beyond the fountain. The day was chill and it did not seem as though the clouds would stay parted for long. Yet even under the dire promise of bad weather, she could not still the trembling which had begun in every one of her limbs when considering how very alone they would be—and how very accommodating Mr Knightley was towards her ‘lessons’.

“Outside, Mr Knightley? It is a wonder I have never seen other couples behaving thusly, if it is a true reflection of the activities of married couples. Surely they retreat indoors on occasion?”

“Indeed, but married couples have no fear of contending with fathers and house staff, do they?”

“I suppose not,” she replied breathlessly, aware of his hands encircling her waist. “And what lesson is it that you have for me today, sir?”

“Did you like our last effort?” he asked, seeming already to know the answer. And why would he not, given her abundant noise during the interplay in the greenhouse?

“Will you make me say it?” she asked, canting her head to the side with more than a little annoyance.

“No, I will not because it is written plainly in the blush of your cheek,” he said, lifting his hand to brush her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “But what would you have me show you today, Emma?”

“The same as before, perhaps.”

“When there is so much more? No, I think not, but in this air, I dare not remove your clothing.”

Her eyes widened. “Remove my clothing? Definitely not!”

“It will happen, Emma. It must to be fully invested in your scheme. I promise to take you slowly into that eventuality though. Rather, as slowly as I can manage.”

Mr Knightley caught the back of her neck and held her in place as he ravaged her mouth. He clasped her breast and Emma sighed into the familiar sensation of joyful confusion. She was not prepared for the sudden cold air on her naked breast or the instant his hand covered her, palm to skin.

He trailed urgent kisses across her jaw. So passionate was his onslaught that she thought she would surely faint. Mr Knightley had only just begun, she realised. The same breeze touched her calf, then higher. Her cunny, moist from the effects of his skill upon her person, felt the air on her uncovered self more keenly than any time she had ever undressed in the past. Bath-taking never equated to the lust-filled kisses of Mr Knightley and his inquisitive fingers, which even now touched her apex with practised expertise. She had barely time to catch her breath between exposed cunny and stroking fingers tangling in the hair of her cleft when Mr Knightley’s hot mouth closed on her nipple.

Emma sobbed as he drew on her peak. His fingers pierced her nether lips unerringly, finding the same sensual spot she had so vigorously rubbed against him the time before. Now with fingers to her eager centre, he rubbed her and suckled at her until once again her mind stole away and a scream spilled from her lips. He made quick to cover her lips with his own, leaving her wetted nipple to sting in the crisp air.

Oh! The unabating pleasure he could give her. His nimble fingers slowed, petted her. Emma wept softly.

“Are you hurt?” he asked sharply.

“No.”

“Then that, dear Emma, was called a chuff. And this,” he said, rubbing her kitty, “is your
pussy
. If we are to do this properly, we should use the proper terms.”

Emma’s eyes widened. Saying such vulgar words would test her mettle, yet she desperately wanted her instruction to continue, and so she nodded mutely.

“There is more, if you’re prepared.”

Her lower body clenched eagerly. “Yes. What is it?”