Chapter 23 Cellars and Covenants #2
Mr. Knightley returned with a small crowd: Mr. Weston and Anne, who was carrying their young child; Augusta Elton, who gave me an unsettled look but was standing on her own two feet; and the Otways, wide-eyed in the dim cellar.
Augusta’s face and hair were tidied, although her gown was still garish.
I suppose I could not blame the slavers for that.
The required introductions proceeded, complicated by Mr. Collins’s silly flourishes and repetitions. Anne finally stepped in to introduce Mr. Knightley and me to the Collinses. I had already met them, so I was preparing a clever comment when she proudly named us “Mr. and Mrs. Knightley.”
I had forgotten that. Again.
Charlotte, calmly, offered her hand for a second time, but she cocked an intrigued eyebrow—I had introduced myself as Miss Woodhouse five minutes before. Mr. Knightley cast me a questioning look while Mr. Collins’s hand fluttered, ignored, in mid-air.
I suppose we could not just continue pretending to be married. Eventually, it would be ridiculous.
“In fact, we are not married,” I announced brightly, as if it had all been a tremendous lark. Anne uttered a long, understanding Ohh; she had witnessed the threats from the Overseer. But she looked disappointed, so I hastened to add, “We are…”
Then, I could not imagine how to finish the sentence. Friends? That choice wrenched something within me. I looked questioningly at Mr. Knightley, as if trying to invent a new fanciful story together, and found he had a very serious expression.
“Pardon us,” he said, and offered his arm. As the only option for privacy were the brick columns, we took a few steps and stood behind one of those. There was not much room, so we huddled close.
I was still trying to express what we were to each other.
“I never thought I would enjoy being married, but I… it felt nice to pretend, did it not?” His face tightened, and the air thudded from my lungs.
I had blundered. I bit my lip until I could speak.
“Your pardon. I forgot my situation is changed.” Gentlemen did not marry penniless ladies.
He took my forearms in his hands. “You mean your lost fortune?”
“I understand perfectly,” I said bravely. My fingers stroked the buttons on his sleeve, so neatly sewn. “You need to buy your beautiful coats…”
“Your fortune means nothing to me,” he said dismissively.
His tone stirred my pride, but pride belonged to lost, rich Miss Woodhouse. Nothing was a very accurate word. “I really do understand.”
“You are not even listening,” he exclaimed. “Emma, you do not need a fortune for me to wish to marry you.”
With our arms intertwined, we were so close I could have shifted one toe and leaned against him. That closeness had grown on our trip, flourishing in the stories we shared and our quiet walks while resting the horses.
“Well, then why do we…” I started again. “We seem to be endlessly dancing around each other.”
With some emphasis, he said, “Because you said you did not wish to marry!”
“I only said that because you asked me to marry you,” I pointed out. “Or you almost did.” That was not a very reasonable response, so I tried a different one. “You have not truly asked me, you know. Not properly.”
He drew a deep breath and, in a plain, gentlemanlike manner, said, “Miss Woodhouse, you are the most extraordinary, beautiful, and wonderful woman I have ever met. Would you do me the great honor of becoming my wyfe?”
My heart stuttered, and then I said, “I would.” The words felt outlandishly joyful, and they raced around my body until I was feather-light.
Our linked hands tangled inexpertly until we both laughed.
We let go and held each other. I wrapped an arm around the small of his back and the other behind his neck, burrowing fingers into his hair.
My cheek pressed his shoulder. His solidity felt wonderful, and our embrace lasted until, self-consciously, we sorted ourselves out and walked back around the column.
The entire group was watching with tremendous interest.
“We are engaged,” I explained to Anne.
She clapped her hands. “Engaged! Oh, you were so clever with those horrible soldiers!”
There was a round of congratulations and good wishes, which was generous as most of these people had already congratulated us once. When the happy babble diminished a little, I said to Mr. Knightley, “We should marry swiftly. The wyverns keep pestering me.”
He was shaking Mr. Weston’s hand. He gave me a smiling nod, then a more serious one. “How swiftly?”
“Very,” I said.
The other widowed wyves had been coming and going this whole time, bringing young, unbound ladies. The cellar was a haven for those pursued by the slavers. Another returned now with a pair of ladies at greater risk because of their dark skin.
I squinted uncertainly in the dim light and said, “Harriet?”
She spun and cried, “Oh, you are safe!”
We ran into an embrace. I hugged her tight, blinking away tears, then pushed her to arms’ length to get a proper look at my sister. “I cannot believe you are here!”
“I heard that you were!” she said, grinning. “I did not expect to find you so easily, though.”
We said a few sisterly things, and she greeted the others swarming around us, then we settled in for better explanations.
“Oh, the trip has been nonstop terror,” Harriet said, beaming, “but also so exciting! When I arrived, I called at Hartfield to trade news with Teresa, and your horrid brother-in-law marched out, all stiff and mean. So I said ‘Why are you here?’ and he said some nonsense, and I told him that you would throw him out! That was before I knew what he had done…” For the first time, her smile faltered.
“I was so worried when I heard you had come. Have you been to Hartfield?”
“Briefly,” I said. “Enough to know that John has done something evil with crawlers.”
Miss Bates, who had narrated our reunion with irrelevant anecdotes and clucks and nods, shifted to her more serious persona. “They are using Hartfield to bind crawlers to young ladies. And, we think, to grow those oversize monsters. He and Mr. Elton have some treasonous alliance with the enemy.”
At that, Augusta burst into sobs. Miss Bates sent a few clucks in her direction and offered a lacy handkerchief.
“But why are you in Surrey?” I asked Harriet.
“Oh,” she said shyly. “I did not wish to write to you until I was sure. I am, now.”
She squeezed my hands and led me a few steps to the other new arrival, a lady of around forty years dressed in yellow linen. She had beautiful dark eyes and wore a stylish bonnet with a long, yellow feather. Her skin was an even deeper shade than Harriet’s, as if dusted with fine coal.
“Mrs. Prince,” Harriet said, “this is Miss Emma Woodhouse, whom I have told you so much about. Emma, this is my mother.”
“Miss Woodhouse,” she said with a delicate curtsy.
I returned it, my mind spinning. Harriet’s mother. That was incredible. But that meant…
“You knew my father,” I said. The words fell harsh and flat from my lips.
There was a silence.
“I did,” she acknowledged.
Unbidden, my brain ticked through dates. I was four years older than Harriet, give or take. My mother died soon after my fourth birthday. So, had Papa… had he known this woman before or after my mother’s death? My reeling brain could not solve it.
“Mr. Woodhouse was extremely proud of you,” Mrs. Prince said. “He was a good man.”
I swallowed and pushed away my mental calendar. “Not good to you, I am afraid.”
Papa told me he had sent her away. I did not even know how. Bribed her? Threatened her? A pregnant, unmarried woman was an easy target. Whatever his strategy, he regretted it later.
At my answer, she had gone tense and still, unreadable, but her eyes were bright with emotion. I drew a deep breath and continued, “I am very thankful for your daughter. For my sister. Harriet is a true lady and a dear friend. Papa was proud of her as well.”
“That pleases me,” she said. “I am also, very much.”
“Goodness!” Harriet exclaimed. “The two of you sound completely foolish. We are family.”
“We are,” I said. I managed another settling breath and stepped in for what became a messy, three-person hug. It was sincere, but short. Mrs. Prince and I had much to think through.
“You have not heard the other news,” Anne said to Harriet with a mischievous smile and a tilt of her head toward Mr. Knightley.
“Are you finally engaged?” Harriet asked matter-of-factly.
“Oh, you are lucky we are sisters!” I declared. “I would not forgive that from anyone else. But you arrived just in time. We plan a… brief engagement.” Mr. Knightley, looking handsome in a satisfied way, was watching, and I asked him, “If you are willing?”
“Haste is important?” he confirmed.
“Very much so,” I said, remembering the wyvern’s words.
“Then we should proceed apace. Tomorrow?” I bit my lip, waiting, and he tried, “or… today?” and I nodded.
That peculiar man, Mr. Collins, unexpectedly joined the discussion.
“Nothing delights more than bearing witness to the impetuosity of love! And I am honored to provide my humble services”—reluctantly, I realized that Lady Catherine’s clergyman was the only choice to officiate—“however, the Church requires preparatory steps. I must counsel the gentleman on… proper husbandly conduct. And the banns must be called for three Sundays—”
“Heaven and earth!” Lady Catherine interrupted. “The Church continually grants exemptions from the calling of banns. It is simply a matter of giving the Church money, which I have done in abundance.”
Mr. Collins stopped, lips pursed and eyes wide. He hemmed several times and resumed, “Exemptions may occur in necessary circumstances, but the bishop must first pray for guidance on worthiness—”
She gave a stentorian snort. “Worthiness is money. I have attended a dozen expedited weddings. The common factors are wealth and a firstborn who follows at breakneck speed. Rest assured, the bishop will concur.” She squinted at me. “You are not, are you?”
“With child?” I said, so amazed by their conversation that I simply finished, “No.”
“Then you are more worthy than most.” She scowled at the clergyman. “Mr. Collins. Do you intend to argue with me?”
He hauled his rotund profile into a marginally taller oval. “Never, your ladyship.”
“Very wise.” Her steel-blue gaze returned to me.
“I trust this speed is not frivolity. You do not strike me as the sort of woman who would choose marriage in a cellar without good reason.” Her gaze drifted to her wyvern, a few feet away.
“It seems a time when wyves must show independence and strength. The widowed wyves have always protected a wyfe’s right to bind.
Therefore, you”—her bejeweled finger shot out toward Mr. Collins—“shall provide no counseling. I will educate Mr. Knightley and Miss Woodhouse on the necessary technique.”
“Thank you, your ladyship,” I said. Any respite from Mr. Collins was a relief. Although Mr. Knightley now looked faintly terrified. I had assumed Lady Catherine meant the speaking of vows… had I misunderstood?
Harriet observed all this with a happy smile and a sisterly dash of amusement. Now she spoke up. “I am delighted it will be soon as it is very overdue. But there is no need to marry in a cellar.”