“She is…” I began. “We are good friends, as you see…”
“That is very admirable,” the baronet enthused, tapping two fingertips on one palm in tiny applause.
“Is my attendance here obligated?” Harriet asked me with such resounding presence that silence fell and the smirks vanished. “If not, I prefer the afternoon entertainment in Lambton.”
“You do not need my permission—” I started, but she turned on herheel and marched from the room. Behind her back, the courtiers traded ostentatiously shocked looks.
The uncertainty in my chest had exploded to burning guilt. That had not turned out as I intended.
“Miss Woodhouse,” Mr. Knightley said. “May I show you the view from the terrace?” I followed him, very relieved.
The terrace was high and breezy, stripping the residual warmth of the room. I gave Mr. Knightley a thankful smile. “That was well timed.”
He did not return my smile. “How could you be so unfeeling to Miss Smith?”
A startled, hot blush rose in my cheeks, but I laughed his words off. “I was only trying to help.”
“She did not ask for your help. She did not require it.”
The guilt in my heart surged, but I said, “There is nothing wrong with help.”
“Your help demeaned her. Emma, all the time I have known you, you have pressed her to pursue a life she does not want—a life she can achieve only by being dependent on your goodwill. Now, you degrade her accomplishments because they do not align with your goal.”
“I only wish to protect her,” I protested. “To help her accomplish more.”
“Why more? Is it more, or simply different? She is your friend. I know you care for her, and she cares for you. When you are absent, you have no surer defender than Miss Smith. But her entire life has been one of indebtedness. Her boarding school—the nearest she had to a family—was hired by the cast-off coin of a father who rejected her. Then you, her wealthy friend, coddled her. Always, the message has been: My trifling effort has caused your success. But Harriet Smith stands on her own. Have you even watched her in a classroom? The independence you crave for yourself is within her grasp. Yet you celebrate her achievement by belittling it.”
I folded my arms to conceal my trembling shoulders. She had asked me to come see her teach. All I had felt was irritation.
“I care greatly for her,” I said. “You are breaking my heart by speaking this way.”
“I am your friend. It is my privilege to speak plainly, even if that plainness must be endured rather than welcomed. I cannot bear to see you hurt a woman whom I know you care for.” I must have looked distraught, because he finished more gently, “I see how much you regret it.”
I turned to the rolling hills as they blurred with tears. Harriet had left, betrayed by me. And still, I had not admitted the truth.
“You do not know half the wrong I committed,” I whispered. “Harriet Smith is more than a friend. That cast-off coin was paid by my own papa. When he died, I learned that we are sisters. I tried to stand with her in front of those fools, and I blundered terribly. What can she possibly think other than I am ashamed of her?”
The wind shifted and turned before Mr. Knightley spoke, his tone serious. “Areyou ashamed of her?”
The wretchedness of that scene repeated in my mind, as abhorrent as it would appear to Harriet, a woman who treasured her school memories as a child, a student, and a teacher. I was ashamed of myself. But of Harriet?
“I am frightened of what people will think of Papa,” I said. “I am a little frightened of what they will think of me. But I could never be ashamed of her. There is not a better creature in the world. She is a better person than I.”
“She is certainly less vexing,” Mr. Knightley agreed, rather promptly. But it was true. I gave a big sniff and nodded, and he said, “Thank you for confiding in me. I understand your anger when a sister faces prejudice of class and race. But you cannot save her from those unfair trials. Let her choose her path and her battles. If she needs to unburden her heart, she will find you. Offer respect, not rescue, and she will triumph.”
Keeping my gaze on the distant hills, I drew off my gloves and folded them, then felt in my reticule for a handkerchief to dab my eyes. “I am afraid I will lose her if she becomes a teacher. It would be so much nicer if she were a lady with a country house I could visit.”
“Nicer for you,” Mr. Knightley said. He made it a simple statement, not a rebuke, which was considerate.
“That is not just my selfishness,” I said, feeling encouraged. “She has never been alone. Is a marriage not a wonderful thing to wish for? To have a companion for life, full of friendship and love, who helps one, or even”—I gave him a watery smile—“corrects one from time to time?”
“Emma, you cannot presume what is best for her. What Miss Smith desires in life is not what Miss Woodhouse would choose.”
He held out his hand, palm up and ungloved. Before, when he lifted my gloved hand to his heart, I had been surprised. Now, a little awkwardly, I reached out and rested my bare fingers on his. Mine were chilled by the winter air, and they looked drained as snow, the nails blue as river ice. His fingers werewarm and long and strong, with firm calluses at the fingertips, and skin the color of spring earth ready to burst with life.
“What do you see when our hands meet?” he said.
No image of Mr. Elton arose, shouting accusations. No panic flooded my heart.
