“I am Miss Emma Woodhouse,” I said and offered my hand. When he did not move, I added, “Mr. Knightley, you have already carried me”—I looked over the banister—“twoflights of stairs! I think we may shake hands.”
His bare, dark fingers lifted mine in their white satin. After sensing the strange binding of the Darcys, I half expected something peculiar would occur. But it was merely a handshake. A firm one.
“That is better,” I said. “I feel we have known each other our entire lives.”
“You honor me.” He smiled at last, an unreserved smile that crinkled his eyes.
“Oh, it is just a feeling. But I am decided about such things.” The frightening events of the day skittered through my memory. But buttons did not wrench my gaze. No miasma lurked in the corners. I floated on relief. “This is a handsome stairway. Were we going somewhere interesting?”
Georgiana answered. “Mrs. Reynolds is showing us to the afternoon sitting room.” She nodded to an older woman in black watching from the top of the stairs. The housekeeper.
After further are-you-well’s and yes-I-truly-am’s, we began a winding tour.The house was being reopened, overseen by the severely clad but friendly Mrs. Reynolds. In an aside, she told me Georgiana had not entered the house since she was a girl of eleven “when her dear father and mother passed.”
We saw several rooms partially refurbished, then climbed a stair to an arched entry carved like weeping willow branches. Inside, the furniture and paintings were draped in linen. The curved outer wall held a tremendous window—twenty panes side-by-side. Three or four stories below, the sweep of the Thames caught remnants of chilly silver light, shining wide and cold.
Georgiana had stopped on the room’s threshold. “I remember this,” she said in a little voice. “I called it ‘the river window.’?” She thrust out her arm to point, and her childish pose and slender frame could have been that younger girl. Then she ran to a delicate porcelain ornament on a mantle. “This was Mamma’s favorite.” She burst into tears.
Mary was with her in two swift steps, embracing her while Georgiana buried her head and sobbed. Mrs. Reynolds circled them, distraught and proffering handkerchiefs.
Harriet and I exchanged a sympathetic look and slipped into the next room. A drawing room, I thought. It was hard to judge with the furniture hidden.
Mr. Knightley joined us. “I think Miss Bennet is her best comfort now.”
“I am sure you are right,” I said. “They seem very close.”
“Mary has been good for Georgiana.” He strolled to a pianoforte hidden under yellowing linen. His fingertip flicked a fold of cloth. A puff of dust rose.
“What is your connection to the salon?” I asked.
“On occasion, I have the honor of performing with Miss Darcy.”
“Music, you mean?” He nodded. “I have never met a gentleman who performs. Do you sing?”
“I am a violinist.”
Harriet looked over at that. “We have a man who plays violin in Highbury. He plays reels at the assemblies! Oh, I love to dance a reel. Can you play reels?”
“I can,” Mr. Knightley answered with a smile that was friendly but a shade too considerate.
“I believe Mr. Knightley performs serious music,” I said.
He appraised me. He had a thoughtful way of moving, as if the choice of where to place one’s head or hand was significant. “What would serious music be?”
I gave a careless smile. “I always fail to apply myself to one subject for long. So, I am not a sufficiently serious musician to answer.”
He laughed with a flash of strong teeth. He was really quite handsome. And a gentleman. I looked between him and Harriet, considering. But a performing musician did not seem a verysecuresort of gentleman. I had already hurt poor Harriet when I attempted to make a match between her and Mr. Elton, our vicar in Highbury. Who I now knew was a profoundly cruel man.
I would not meddle again. Harriet must choose her own way.
With a brilliant smile, Harriet stepped close to Mr. Knightley. “You were so brave today. Fighting that horrible man!”
It seemed Harriet could meddle on her own behalf. Irritated, I walked to the window, arms crossed and satin fingertips dug into yellow silk.
Across the room, Mr. Knightley replied, “I have encountered my share of horrible men. Fortunately, the others did not hold pistols.” He lifted a corner of the linen, wafting more dust and exposing an octave of keyboard. “I may be able to cheer Miss Darcy after all.”
He played a chord. The notes grated on strings horrendously out of tune. He tapped out a few discordant notes—the melody of a reel—and nodded to Harriet, who clapped her hands with a laugh.
Georgiana, her eyes reddened and cheeks wet, rushed into the room. “What have theydoneto the pianoforte?” Mr. Knightley bowed gravely and stepped aside, but he was smiling as she pulled the linen cover off.
