CHAPTER1
Hartfield
January 1816
Emma Knightley had encountered her share of vexing moments in life. Stumbling across the body of a murder victim last year was certainly one of them. But nothing could have prepared her for this moment. For a few seconds, she wondered if she’d misheard her father’s shocking statement.
Her family had been enjoying a cup of tea, ensconced in Hartfield’s drawing room for their final evening together before the holiday season ended. George had been chatting with John, his brother, while Isabella, Emma’s older sister as well as John’s wife, had been expressing regret that they must return to London after such a charming visit to Highbury with their children. Naturally, their home in London beckoned, as did John’s work at the Inns of Court.
At that point, Father had abruptly made his announcement, one that landed with the force of a cannonball crashing into the drawing room.
Emma finally gathered her wits. “I beg your pardon, Father. I don’t think I heard you—”
“What the devil do you mean you’re going to marry Miss Bates?” John blustered. “Surely you cannot be serious. The woman’s a—”
Emma ruthlessly interrupted her brother-in-law. “What John means, Father, is that perhaps we misunderstood you. You cannot mean that you truly wish to …” She found the words almost too hideous to utter. “You know.”
Father graced her with a beatific smile. “To take that dear lady as my wife? Yes, I certainly do. Miss Bates and I have discussed the matter at great length. Given the nature of our friendship, we feel that marriage is the proper course of action.”
Since Emma found herself unwilling to contemplate what her father meant bythe natureof their friendship, she cast a pleading gaze at her husband. George, however, was still regarding his father-in-law with his jaw agape.
Emma cleared her throat to catch his attention before tapping a finger under her jaw. George blinked, and then snapped his mouth shut.
“But, Father,” Isabella plaintively said. “You always maintained that you never wished to marry again. You said no one could ever replace Mama in your heart.”
“No one will ever replace you blessed mother’s memory, my dear girl,” Father gently said. “Indeed, I had quite the job persuading Miss Bates to accept my hand, because she feared she could never measure up to such a fine woman’s legacy.”
“I should think not,” exclaimed John. “Miss Bates is a kind woman, but she’s a blasted chatterbox, not to mention—ouch!”
He glared at George, who was sitting next to him on the sofa. Most likely George had just forcefully jabbed his brother in the leg.
Emma refocused her attention. “Father, I know you and Miss Bates have been a great comfort to each other through difficult times, but is this decision not a trifle … well, impetuous? After all, you know how much you hate change.” She got a flash of inspiration. “And what of Mrs. Bates? Surely Miss Bates would not wish to leave her mother.”
Mrs. Bates was the widow of one of Highbury’s former vicars, and well advanced in years. She and her daughter had lived in a small set of apartments in the village ever since the death of Mr. Bates.
Father nodded. “It’s kind of you to be worried about Mrs. Bates, but such anxieties are unnecessary. She will be moving to Hartfield with Miss Bates.”
Emma swallowed a whimper, while George pressed a finger to his lips. He seemed to have recovered from his shock and was now looking rather amused. She supposed she couldn’t blame him, since the idea of her father marrying Miss Bates was absurd. From a certain point of view, one might even call it comical. But that point of view didn’t happen to be hers.
Then another thought struck with terrible force. Miss Bates would not only become her father’s wife, she would become Emma’s stepmother.
Heaven help me.
Isabella rose and went to their father, taking his hand. “Are you sure, Father? Such a drastic change might greatly affect your health. You and I are not robust, and I cannot fathom what I would do without John to look after me, providing me with everything necessary to my comfort. We go on so quietly in Brunswick Square, with nothing changing from one day to the next—just as you do with Emma and George.”
Although John did take excellent care of his wife, Isabella’s life was hardly quiet. Not as the mother of five young children.
“I understand, my dear,” Father replied. “But Miss Bates and I will take care of each other.”
Emma blinked, rather stung by that statement. “I take care of you, Father. George and I both do so, gladly.”
“You do indeed, my dear. Still, I am such a burden, with all my little oddities. It does weigh on me, on occasion.”
“Nonsense, sir,” said George in a bracing tone. “You are never a burden. Emma loves you, as do I.”
“And why cannot you and Miss Bates simply go on as you have, as the best of friends and companions?” Emma was now a trifle desperate. “She visits almost every day as it is.”
“But that’s just it,” her father replied in a gentle but unyielding tone. “As one gets older, one wishes for companionship with someone of like mind. Miss Bates and I take great comfort in each other’s company, and that is nothing to be sneezed at when one reaches my years.”
