I Could Write a Book: A Modern Variation of Jane Austen's Emma

by Karen M Cox

  For a while, I wandered aimlessly, through the Hartfield Estates, looking at the Tudor-style mini-mansions, the mountains of earth where split-levels would grow, the empty lots where Maude ran free, chasing after moles and squirrels, and Lord knows what else.

  Okay, first things first. I rubbed my pounding temples. Well, as unlikely as it seems, the Earth has just tilted on its axis, and I’m in love with George Knightley. When and how did this happen? And how did it happen without me even realizing it?

  I had entertained the thought of dating Frank back in the winter, when he first reappeared in Highbury. And he used me to make Jane jealous—the horse’s ass—but I wouldn’t think about that right now. It was too embarrassing. I remembered all the subtle comparisons I’d made between George and Frank, some voiced and some only in my head. So, it seemed, perhaps, that Frank Weston had been the catalyst, the key that turned the lock on my heart. It was Frank’s many foibles and impulsive, immature qualities that made me begin to discern what I wanted in a man—and what I didn’t. In holding Frank up against George, I’d unintentionally made my choice. I just never saw him as my choice before, for a lot of reasons. His brother was married to my sister. For years, he had that Woman of the Month club. Then there was Julianne Ryman, whom I liked, even though I envied her. I thought it was her ambition, her drive I envied, but now, of course, I knew it for what it really was: base jealousy. I envied her because, for a time, she had George.

  By every quality I could think of, George Bryan Knightley was the gold standard of men. In my mind’s eye, I saw his sky-blue eyes crinkling when he smiled, felt the warmth of him holding me as we danced. Oh, that was heavenly! I heard his honey smooth voice singing to baby Taylor as she cried. Etched in my memory was the way he stood at the door of Donwell to greet me: confident, elegant, powerful, but also kind and gentle as he helped me with my father’s wheelchair. A dreamy sigh escaped me, and in spite of my torment, I giggled at myself. How many times had I heard that same George-inspired sigh float out of some girl’s mouth in my younger years?

  In fact, I’d heard it only today—from silly, stupid Mary Jo Smith!

  No, that isn’t fair. Poor Mary Jo—her heart will be broken if he doesn’t care for her that way, as she says. But, could he care for her that way? She has that open temper he says he likes, sure, and she’s pretty, I guess, but Lord! So much inequality of mind! They have nothing—nothing—in common! His intellect runs circles around her. They’d never be able to have a decent conversation. And she has no knowledge of what it takes to manage Donwell Farms. She’d be no help to him at all.

  But honestly, would that matter? George could find sparkling conversation with his friends. He could hire someone to help him manage the farms and the other properties. He could hire any damn thing he wanted—he was George Knightley after all. Men in his circumstances fell in love with their secretaries all the time—so many times—it was a laughable cliché. Was it possible he just plain loved Mary Jo?

  This is my fault, all of it! Through my arrogance, my hard-headedness, I have done a terrible thing! And if he loves her, I have no one but myself to blame. I am responsible for the demise of my own happiness. What I did was worse than doing nothing, because in trying to help, I’ve done harm instead. If I had left Mary Jo to her own devices, she’d probably be dating Robert Martin right now and feeling happy as a clam about it. But no, I had to shove her into my society, put her with people that made her uncomfortable, all for my own vanity—so everyone could see my precious charity case. Befriending her wasn’t wrong in and of itself, if we had had any real hobbies or interests in common. But I tried to make her someone she’s not, and now look what has happened! I’ve let this awful, unequal affection bloom right under my nose. Mary Jo in love with George! Or worse, George in love with Mary Jo! Little, chestnut-headed, simple-minded half-Knightleys running Donwell Farms into the next generation? And probably running it in the ground! What will become of it? What about Henry and Taylor?

  The tears came in a flood as I kept walking and turned down the state road. Sweat poured off me now, and my head hurt from squinting in the sun. Why didn’t I think to grab my sunglasses?

  I knew I was dear to George. How could I not be? Our histories had intertwined again and again since childhood: Daddy and Mr. Knightley starting the law practice, the marriage of Jack and Isabel, the children who were so precious to both of us. I had grown accustomed to a close friendship with George, one where he stopped in at my house or Nina’s—just to say hello. We shared this small Highbury community, and he was one of the few people anywhere who understood my world. He had gone away and seen what was “out there,” lived in another state, traveled many places—and yet, he had come back. He had returned to Highbury, to Knightley and Woodhouse, to Donwell, his legacy. He had returned to his roots, but they were only roots—there was so much more to him—and George’s roots were as big as my whole world.

  What did I think would happen? Did I think George would never marry? Never have children? He himself had recently hinted that it was time to settle down. Could he ever settle down with me? And even if he wanted me, could I ever settle into any marriage? The new Mrs. Knightley would have so much to do, just being Mrs. Knightley. As long as my father lived, which hopefully would be for many years yet, he would need my care. I couldn’t leave him—he was my charge, as I had been his. My father might have married again, had a whole new family, but he had devoted himself to Izzy and me, and to his work. How could I now leave him for a husband, children, and replace him as my main priority?

  Okay, so I probably couldn’t marry George anyway. But why can we not all go on, just as we are? Maybe he doesn’t love Mary Jo, and it’s only wishful thinking on her part. When he comes back—and goodness, he’s been gone a long time—but when he comes back, I’ll go into the office on Doughnut Friday, and I’ll watch the two of them and see how it is. With objective eyes. I can do that.

  Images of George and Mary Jo smiling at each other over doughnuts and coffee grabbed my attention with psychedelic surreal clarity. The tears started again, and I realized I had walked through Highbury clear to the other side of town, and stood at the entry to Randalls’. Maude ran up the driveway, barking as if to announce us, and Nina appeared on the porch, waving.

  “Hi, honey!” she called. “What are you doing over here on foot? Did you walk all this way?”

  I broke into a run, my tears blurring my vision. There were times when a girl just needed her mother, and this was one of those times. My mother was gone, but Nina had loved me as unconditionally as a mother would, and Nina would love me still, even after I confessed all my faults and mistakes.

  “Emma?”

  I sobbed as I clung to her.

  “My sweet darling, what’s the matter? Is your father okay?”

  I nodded, still not able to speak.

  “Then what has upset you so?” She stroked a hand down my hair. “Come in. I can’t believe you walked here in this heat. Let’s get you some ice water and you can tell me what happened. What happened, Emma, honey?”

  “It—it’s my heart.”

  “Your heart?”

  “Nina, my—my h—heart is bro—” I hiccupped. “My heart is broken!”

  The water, followed by tea and cookies and a nap in Nina’s guest room, restored me somewhat. As did pouring out my heart and soul. Nina listened, that patient act of love that raising two nieces had taught her.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight: you thought you might have liked Frank when he first came back to town, but that went by the wayside pretty quickly—which was fortunate, as it turned out. After Tim told you he’d never be interested in Mary Jo and gave up on you for himself, he started dating Edie. You thought Mary Jo was interested in Frank, and you encouraged her, but you never said who you meant, because—”

  “Because I didn’t want to influence her again. It was such a disaster the first time.”

  “Right. So, today you asked her over to break the
news about Frank and Jane, only to discover that it wasn’t Frank that Mary Jo liked, it was—”

  “George. And when I thought about George with Mary Jo, it almost made me ill, because—”

  “You think you’re in love with George.”

  “I am, Nina. There’s no ‘I think’ to it, and it’s more than some adolescent crush. I love George Knightley. I’ve probably loved him for years. Why are you smiling?”

  “I’m smiling because I’m happy, Emma. I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear you say that you loved someone.” Her eyes shone with a hint of tears. “My darling, my tough little bird, you saw too much, way too soon, of the sorrow loving someone could bring and not enough of the joy it gives. It was similar for me when Barbara was ill. I was young, about your age, when she had her aneurysm, so it was similar—but still, it was not the same. I loved her so much, but she wasn’t my mama, and for you I know it’s been so much harder. Love is a risk, and it took me years to finally take that risk myself, after all that had happened. I wasn’t sure you’d ever take the chance.”

  “I didn’t take the chance, Nina. It hit me like a branch in the face.”

  Nina’s soft laugh drifted out. “Sometimes, that’s the way it happens.” She tucked my hair behind my ear. “And now, not only do you have a chance for love, but the man you love is someone good and kind, a man who is worthy of you. It’s wonderful.”

  “It’s a train wreck.”

  “Hmm.” Nina reached down and stroked my hair in a gesture of comfort. “Let me tell you what I hear. I hear that Mary Jo is enamored of George—and who wouldn’t be?”

  I scowled at her. “You’re not helping.”

  “So, we know her feelings, but—and this is an important but—we don’t know his. When he comes back from Florida, watch and listen, and let his actions be your guide on what to do next.”

  “That’s exactly what I told Mary Jo—before I knew she had her sights set on George.”

  “And it was the right advice. Trust your judgment. You’re smart enough to know what you’re seeing.”

  “You overestimate my ability to read people.”

  “I don’t think I do. You’re quite good at reading people, once you let go of your own agenda and look with your eyes open.”

  “Oh Nina! I’ve made such a mess of things!”

  “That’s your youth talking, honey, not the facts. By the way, you’re certainly not alone in that feeling. I talked to the newest Mrs. Weston today.”

  “Jane?”

  “Yes. I thought we should wait to call them, at least until they got back from their honeymoon, but Bob wanted to extend an olive branch, let them know we didn’t hold any of this elopement business against them, and welcome her to our family. My half sister-in-law’s niece is now my step daughter-in-law. How weird is that? Had you even thought about it?”

  “It so confusing, it makes my head hurt.”

  “Only in Highbury.” Nina shrugged.

  “So, how is Jane?”

  “Happy, I think. She’s so private, it’s hard to tell. Unlike Frank, who shouts his happiness from the mountain tops and sings Jane’s praises all day long. He could give Helen a run for her money in that department.”

  “Did Jane say anything about what happened?”

  “She doesn’t mention Mike specifically, although she did say she wishes things had begun differently between her and Frank. She wished she hadn’t felt as if she should keep their affection for each other such a secret. I do think it’s been a very trying time for her, deciding if she should stay with Mike or follow her heart.”

  “She must love him then.”

  “I think she does.”

  “When I think on how I acted when Jane, Frank, and I were in the same room, I’m mortified. My actions must have hurt her so much.”

  “Oh Emma, how were you to know? You had no idea what had happened, nor what was happening between them after he arrived. You didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  “Nevertheless, I think she must hate me.”

  “On the contrary, she asked after you in particular.”

  “Really?”

  “She asked me to thank you for your kindness that day at Donwell. She said you’d know what that meant. And for offering to help her pack when she moved back to New York. She says she has no excuse for not answering you when you called. She was just not herself right then.”

  “If I’d made those sorts of gestures earlier, worked on developing a friendship with Jane the way I ought, I might have seen that she was struggling with a decision. She might have even told me, and I could have been a real help to her, instead of a menace. Not fix it for her but been a good listener, a friend.”

  “It’s not too late.”

  “Oh, I think maybe it is—at least for a close friendship. Some things you just can’t take back. Anyway, there won’t be much opportunity for it. I’m assuming she and Frank will be settling far from Highbury.”

  “New York, most likely. He’s going to look for a job there.”

  I sat up. “I’d better get home. Daddy will start to fret.”

  “I called him and said you were here and assured him I’d drive you home.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I certainly do. So, round up that animal of yours, if you’re ready.”

  “I love you, Nina.”

  “And I love you. Don’t worry, honey. Life is too short for worry. Have faith that what’s meant to be will happen.”

  “You’re going to be a wonderful mama.”

  “Thank you.” She gave me a squeeze. “I had the best girls to practice on.”

  Daddy was pacing the room by the time I got home. The weatherman on TV was talking about a tornado watch into the evening. After settling him down, I distracted him with a game of checkers while I wondered what the future would bring. The excitement of the past year was fading, and now days stretched out before me. Frank, who had at least kept things stirred up around Highbury, was gone. Jane, who might have been a good friend, was gone. Tim and Edie would marry in a few months, but I didn’t like being with them anyway. Spending time with Mary Jo wasn’t the least bit appealing now. Nina’s baby would be a welcome addition to the family but would also supersede anything else as the focus of Nina’s and Bob’s lives, which was as it should be.

  I longed for George’s company—to sit and talk with him, be with him. But he was gone, and I didn’t know when he was to return.

  Thirty-Eight

  George walked barefoot by the shore at Jack and Izzy’s vacation house on the Gulf. The sun had set while he was out, and the evening stars began to shimmer into a deepening violet sky. Waves washed up the sand and back to the ocean in a soothing rhythm that calmed his mind. The salty breeze, ever a constant at the beach, ruffled his hair, turning his barely tamed waves into curls that went whichever way they wanted. Much like his thoughts were these days.

  He had finished last week in Ocala, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back home yet. To watch Emma’s deepening infatuation with that man-child, Frank Weston. And see Nina and Bob’s indulgent, happy smiles every time Frank paid Emma the slightest bit of attention? Revolting.

  So, he’d come to spend July Fourth with his brother’s family. Play golf with his parents. Build sandcastles with the children. Soak up the sun. But…

  He climbed the wooden steps to the back deck of the house. Maybe he’d stay another week after the family left for Kentucky. Take himself on vacation. No one would miss him anyway. The staff attorneys and paralegals could handle whatever came in the office. He needed to start interviewing for the Donwell Farms manager position, but he had until September, after all. It wasn’t that urgent. He plopped into a deck chair and leaned back, closing his eyes and listening to the ocean come close and recede, come close and recede—the analogy between that ancient push and pull and his story with Emma Woodhouse didn’t escape him. They were children whose fathers worked and played together, and Emma followed him around the yard as h
e scampered about with his friends. He went to college; she grew up while he was gone. She left for college; he finished law school and began practicing law and learning his role as steward of the Donwell legacy. She returned to take care of her father; he was dating…who was he dating then? He couldn’t remember. While she finished college, busy with her studies and John Woodhouse, he tried to force a serious relationship with Julianne Ryman. Then Julianne was gone. He looked around, and there was his Emma Kate: beautiful, elegant, sharp (if sometimes misguided), and more than anyone else, she understood him. He’d always neatly managed the women in his life, but there was no manipulating Emma Woodhouse—and wasn’t that fascinating? She steered her own ship. And yet, in part because of their shared history, his soul was at home with hers, simple as that. No pretenses, no expectations. At the end of the day, if he dropped in to say hi, it was just the two of them, talking, bantering, laughing. They thought enough alike to get along and were different enough to challenge each other and keep things interesting. Friends with sparks.

  Of all the things he admired about Emma, at the top of the list was her enormous capacity for love. Nina had that pegged, all right. Was there ever a daughter who loved her family as deeply? What she’s done for John is priceless. Isabel is his daughter too, but she didn’t take on responsibility for an invalid while she tried to finish college. And Emma did it all with a cheerful nonchalance, as if to say “Of course, I did it. Why wouldn’t I?”

  A light flashed on in the kitchen, and Izzy picked up the telephone. George watched her sit at the counter, laughing with whoever was on the other end of the line. She and Emma shared that smile, but to that surface charm, Emma added a depth of understanding. The loss of their parents: one to death, the other to debilitation, had shaped Izzy into a kind but dependent woman. Emma, however, had fought to build her strength and independence, and her steadfast loyalty shone through it all. If you were lucky enough to be one of her people, she’d overlook your foibles and love you with a warrior-like fierceness.