John was fretful, but the children lifted him out of his ill-humour. Isabella was pleased to be still at Hartfield, and Mr. Woodhouse went so far as to say that he hoped it might snow again tomorrow, so that he would have the pleasure of his family for a few days longer.

Emma was glad of her sister’s company, and I was glad for her.

"It is not easy for you, having no one of your own age to talk to," I said, as I sat down beside her and watched her doing some embroidery.

"I have Harriet. I am lucky to have found her. She is the best friend I could wish for. She is good-humoured, and I have the added enjoyment of feeling I am doing her good."

"She is not the right companion for you," I said. I could see she was about to argue, so I added: "She is three years younger than you."

"She is not my only friend," said Emma. "I have you."

I was gratified, but I said: "I am so much older than you."

"Yet for all your superiority, I have yet to see you embroider a handkerchief," she said archly, and held out her work for me to examine.

"Perhaps I should learn!"

"What? And neglect your work at the Abbey? William Larkins would never forgive me. He looks at me darkly as it is, when I pass him in Highbury. I am sure he thinks you spend far too much time here."

"Do you think so?" I asked her.

"You can never spend enough time here for Papa and me."

For some reason, the answer did not satisfy me as it should have done. I am becoming as uneven-tempered as my brother!


Wednesday 30 December

John and Isabella were at last able to leave for London. They left with many good wishes, wrapped around with blankets, and with hot bricks at their feet. Mr. Woodhouse insisted they take a hamper, in case they were delayed on the road, and he had his housekeeper pack it with so many good things that they will have enough to eat for three days!

At last they set off. Emma and I walked to the edge of the estate, cutting off a loop of road, so that we could wave to the coach as it passed us again. The children returned our waves, their faces aglow.

"And so they are gone," said Emma. "The time went so quickly, it does not seem two minutes since they arrived."

I was as disappointed as she, and I found myself already wishing for their return.

"I will try and persuade John to visit us again at Easter."

"You are luckier than I, for you see them all when you visit London," she said.

"I do, but it is not the same as having them here in Surrey."

We watched the carriage until it had shrunk from view, and then we returned to the house. Emma fell behind me, and when I looked round, I saw her walking in my footprints! It reminded me of her antics as a little girl. But she is a little girl no longer. She is turning into a beautiful young woman.

She joined me, and together we walked back to the house.

"Poor Isabella!" sighed Mr. Woodhouse. "I wish she had not had to go back to London. It is so much better for her here."

Emma set about soothing him.

"She will visit us again before long," Emma said.

By and by, he accepted their departure, and after playing a game of backgammon with him, I set out back to the Abbey. It was looking very pretty, with the snow still lingering on the branches of the trees. If only it had a mistress, it would be complete. But I have found no one who pleases me, and have no desire to marry for the sake of it.


Thursday 31 December

I walked to Hartfield to see how Emma and her father were bearing the loss of their guests.

"Ah, Mr. Knightley, we feel it sadly," said Mr. Woodhouse. "Everyone is leaving us."

"Papa, tell Mr. Knightley what Perry said of the children," said Emma. "He said he had never seen them looking better, did he not?"

"That is because they have been staying at Hartfield, my dear," he said. "They should not have left us. And Mr. Elton, too, is leaving us, and going to Bath. Young people are always running about."

"Mr. Elton?" I asked.

"He sent me a letter. A very pretty letter, very long and civil, was it not, Emma?" he asked.

Emma agreed, although without much conviction, and when Mr. Woodhouse showed me the letter, I could see why. Elton, though effusive in his compliments to Mr. Woodhouse, had not mentioned Emma once. I guessed there must have been some unpleasantness, though Emma had not mentioned it, because, if not, his letter would have conveyed his compliments to her. Even so, his neglect to mention her was the kind of bad manners I would not have expected of Elton.

Poor Emma! As I looked up from the letter and found her eyes on me, I did not know whether to be more exasperated by her folly, or more sorry for her at its outcome.

"Emma is talking of walking over to Mrs. Goddard’s and seeing her friend, Harriet," said Mr. Woodhouse. "She has not been able to enquire after her because of the snow, and she does not wish to be remiss."

I could guess why Emma was so eager to visit her friend. Although, eager is not the right word. Say rather, I could guess why she felt it her duty to pay an early call on Harriet: she had to break the news of Mr. Elton’s true feelings, and admit that his attentions had been for herself and not her friend. And she had to reveal that he had left the neighbourhood. I did not envy her the task, but I hardened my heart, for I sincerely hoped it would prevent her from creating havoc in the lives of those around her in the future.

"Tell her she must not go, Mr. Knightley," said Mr. Woodhouse. "The weather is not fit. She will slip, and take cold, or lose her way."

"Nonsense," I said cheerfully. "The exercise will do her good. She is looking pale from spending too much time indoors. A brisk walk, in this winter sunshine, will put some colour in her cheeks. Perry himself recommends walking, you know, and I am sure he would consider the exercise beneficial."

I offered to sit with Mr. Woodhouse whilst she was gone, and he accepted my offer. I set out the backgammon board, and as Emma left the house, her father and I settled down to a game. He played well, but I managed to beat him. I then offered to help him with some letters of business, and remained with him until Emma returned.

She did not look happy. But her unpleasant task was behind her, and she had the new year to look forward to.

I returned to the Abbey and began to plan in earnest for the spring.

January

Friday 1 January

It is the New Year!

I was not surprised to find that Emma had drawn up a list of resolutions. They were written in a fine hand, and exquisitely illustrated. If only she could put as much earnestness into keeping them as she does into making them!

My New Year’s resolution is to take a wife, if I can find anyone to suit.


Saturday 2 January

The thaw has left a number of problems in its wake at the Abbey. The stream has flooded, and as the thaw progresses there will be worse to come. I made provision for attending to matters once the water subsides.

I called on Graham this morning to wish him the compliments of the season. He returned the greeting. I soon learnt that he, too, had received a letter from Mr. Elton.

"I should not wonder if his visit to Bath was prompted by all this talk of weddings and families," said Mrs. Lovage. "First with Miss Taylor getting married, then with your brother and his family visiting, then with talk of Mr. Frank Churchill paying a visit to Highbury. Mr. Elton is at a time of life when he might well be thinking of marriage, and there are one or two families in Bath who would not be sorry to see him there."

I would not be at all surprised if he returned with a bride. It would soothe his pride, and put an end to the kind of scenes he has recently been a part of. Besides, who is there for him in Highbury? He cannot marry Emma, for Emma will not have him. No other woman is high enough in his estimation, I fear. I had thought, at one time, he might marry Jane Fairfax, and provide her with a respectable home. But now that he has shown his true worth, I would not inflict such a man on Miss Fairfax. She deserves a better man than he.

I wonder…I have always liked Jane Fairfax. It remains to be seen if I can like her enough to think of her as a wife.


Monday 4 January

Emma and I have had an argument, and about the most ridiculous thing: Frank Churchill. It began when she told me that he would not be coming to Highbury after all.

"I cannot say it surprises me," I remarked. "He has grown proud, luxurious and selfish through living with the Churchills."

"What nonsense!" said Emma, laughing at me.

"Why else would he keep putting off his visit? If he had wanted to see his father, he would have contrived it between September and January," I said.

"You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Knightley, of the difficulties of dependence," she said.

It is true I have never been dependent. But even so, I am sure I should never have been slow in doing my duty, and so I told her.

"Besides, we are for ever hearing of him at Weymouth, or some other such place," I went on. "This proves that he can leave the Churchills."

She allowed the point, but maintained that his time was only his own when his aunt allowed it.

"We shall never agree about him," she said. "But that is nothing extraordinary. I have not the least idea of his being a weak young man: I feel sure that he is not; but I think he is very likely to have a more yielding, complying, mild disposition than would suit your notions of man’s perfection."