Death Comes to Hartfield

by PrettyPet

Setting: Sometime following Miss Taylor's marriage to Mr. Weston.

It begins with a sad event, but I promise it will not be sad the entirety of the story and we get to see Mr. Knightley in a comforting, protective role as the story goes.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1

A Dark Day

It was one of the coldest days of the year when the most dreadful thing Emma could ever have imagined happened. Truly, unlike her sister and her dear Papa, Emma never would have imagined it—she was always too focused on the moment, fixated with a happy optimism which prevented such thoughts from ever being entertained.

Her father, however, would have seen it coming by the same strategy as one who gambled often—if enough predictions were made, there was some certainty of being correct at some point, eventually. It was volume, ratios and statistics. Her dear Papa had considered at length every sickness known to man, and was convince he had contracted most of them at one time or another. A gambling man might say the odds were in his favour.

In the days leading up to the calamity, Mr. Woodhouse had made slight complaint about stomach pain, but nothing above his normal fare. He still took supper with Mr. Knightley. Although he shared about his indigestion freely, there was no extra volume, intensity or length to his mention the abdominal pain than was given to any other issue, real or imagined, that he had experienced in the last 20 years.

Thus Emma was shocked when to her absolute horror she found her dear Papa cold and grey in the early hours of the morning. The maids found her shrieking hysterically; making demands that they fetch Mr. Perry and call Doctor Hughes. She then sailed from the house into the frigid morning air in her nightgown and wrapper. It was cold, but there had been hardly any snow, which made her slippers, while unsuitable and impractical, not completely useless.

She took her childhood foot path that stretched and curved the distance between Donwell and her home. Hot tears against the sharp cold air marred her vision and she was immediately glad she knew the way by heart. Her mind and blurred sight were of little use.

She pounded roughly at Donwell's door, panting heavily as her lungs took respite. Mrs. Hodges opened the door and seeing before her the sobbing, shaking young woman whisked her inside and then she called directly for Mr. Knightley—the master of the house would know what to do.

"Emma you are shaking, what has happened?" his voice broke her into a fresh wave of tears and she could hardly draw breath, let alone speak.

Her body was wracked with crushing sobs. He moved closer to her in an effort to comfort her from whatever pain she was facing—his hand coming to her back in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. He had not had much experience consoling women.

"Papa—"she gasped out, anxiety and fear taking a toll on her voice and pressing at her chest. She took in shaky breaths.

In her panic, she felt almost outside of herself. She could hear a pair of maids talking in the far hall, "It must be something serious," said one, "Indeed. I have never seen Miss. Woodhouse distraught" replied the other.

They would be thinking her weak, and for once in her life she truly did not care.

She raised her bleary eyes to Mr. Knightley's own. "He has died," Emma offered barely above a whisper—barely able to choke out the words, the words themselves felt so terrible on her lips.

"Oh, Emma," Mr. Knightley cried out, "I am so sorry," his emotions playing with the pitch and tone of this voice.

She drew breath quickly, "We must go back to Hartfield!" She exclaimed suddenly, as if coming back to her senses with a jolt. "I will have worried the household; I must inform them that I am alright," she told him, drawing together once more, as shock was setting in.

"Oh Emma, don't worry about that. I sent a horse and rider the minute Mrs. Hodges called for me and informed me of your demeanor," he told her. "Here, let's get you warm before we set out anywhere," he recommended, taking a long coat from a cabinet near the doorway.

It was made for him and dwarfed her, but it was warm and smelled like the apple trees of Donwell orchard and a richer mossy scent she couldn't place. She hadn't ever considered that Mr. Knightley had a scent, but it was clear as she pulled the coat tighter that he did; and it was comforting and safe.

He guided her into the parlor and sat next to her on the chaise lounge in front of the fresh fire. It was in a full blaze and the maids must have put an enormity of logs on after seeing her soggy, trembling form. Her father would have admired the prudence and efficiency of a fire such as this one, Emma thought, almost without realizing the reality of the thought. He would have, but he wasn't here and she would never hear his words again.

She broke into sobs once more. Trying to muffle them and attempting to turn away from Mr. Knightley to hide her face. He shifted with her, moving so that she was still tucked against him. She realized Mr. Knightley had not let her go since she had spoken of her father's passing.

His hand rubbed her back gently, "It seems as if the world is crashing in and it is. Much has been lost but you will get through this Emma, we will get through this," he offered, placing his kerchief in her hand.

She nodded, pressing the kerchief he had given her to her nose to stop it from running horribly.

"I have lost both of my parents as well, and I know the immensity of the pain. Try to believe me, when I tell you that it will get easier. But until it does, promise me you won't hide your pain. I can vouch that it does no good to fight it—give yourself the freedom to grieve Emma, the freedom to not have everything in control," he offer softly.

She nodded her agreement.

"Have you sent word to John and Isabella?" He asked softly, not intending to distress her but needing to ask, despite his desire to allow her every comfort.

Emma's heart sank and her eyes grew big, brimming with tears of mortification. In all her panic and terror, she had forgotten completely about sending a messenger for her sister and brother in law—it had probably caused an hour or more delay.

"No—I— I have been so selfish, so foolish, so unfeeling, how could I have forgotten about my sister!" Emma sobbed frantically. She was feeling flushed all over and was attempting to stand. She would need to leave right away to get back to Hartfield.

Mr. Knightley placed a firm hand to her shoulder to prevent her from standing, or worse yet bolting. He may not have understood women fully or how to console them, but Emma he treated as he did a panicking horse, firm and calm. Saying in the mildest of tones, "Do not worry yourself Emma, it is not your fault, you have received the greatest of shocks. I will send word to Brunswick Square directly."

"Emma?" Isabella called out cautiously upon entering her sister's room. Things had been tense since she had all but forbade Emma from attending the funeral procession, and Emma true to her nature, had head-strongly refused to listen.

"I am exhausted Isabella, please let us not talk about this now," Emma sighed out from the shelter of her covers. She was trying to drown out the events of the week, to forget the sound of crunching gravel as she walked next to the Knightley brothers in the procession, to forget the feeling of heart own heartbeat pounding in her ears as they laid her father to rest. Maybe Isabella had been right, perhaps funeral processions were no place for the feeble and fragile. She wanted to deny her fragility, she was not weak, not really, just terribly sad and feeling horribly empty.

"Dislike it as we might, we need to make arrangements; your things will need to be brought to London, and we must decide on travel dates," Isabella informed her.

"I am not in a mood to visit London at this time Isabella, I need to be here at home," Emma explained, pulling the covers away from her face slightly so that her sister could see her face. See how weak and pale she looked—surly then her sister would recognize that she needed her space to recoup. Then she would know that the busy household at Brunswick Square would not fit the bill for recovering.

"Emma, John and I fully expect that London will be your new home," Isabella told her, with as much good cheer as she could offer.

Expect. Emma was shocked, it sounded as if other options had been entirely ruled out. How dare they!

"Well, then you are mistaken," Emma stated firmly, some of the chill from earlier in day from their fight over attending the funeral was seeping into her words. She continued, "I plan to remain at Hartfield until it belongs to Henry," Emma told her, feeling miserable and betrayed by the fact that her only surviving family was making plans for her behind her back and without the slightest thought of how their plans might affect her. But Emma had been thinking of options as well, and if Isabella had voiced her own idea, it was only right that Emma shared her ideas as well, "I must admit, I have been secretly hoping that your family will all live here at Hartfield," Emma told her.

"That isn't a solution Emma!" Isabella retorted.

"It is one of many options, do not pretend it isn't "

"It isn't, and you would know it if you understood the situation fully!" Isabella defended.

"Do not belittle me Isabella! My father has died too! And I understand perfectly, and I hold that it is one of many options!"

"John is a lawyer Emma, he needs to make an income to pay for our London house and there is nothing for him in Highbury, we could not live at Hartfield without incurring debts,"

"Surly the money from leasing the land and proprieties would help cover—"

"Papa was not a business man Emma, many of his fields were without tenants this season and last, many are fallow, overrun with weeds and it will be tremendous work to restore them to what they once were,"

"Mr. Knightley could help me, Papa may not have been ambitious in business but Mr. Knightley has an excellent mind for—"Emma was cut off harshly by her sister.

"I will not live at Hartfield on the expense of my son's inheritance!" Isabella told with finality, "John made it very clear that a decision to live at Hartfield without alternative income would require land to be entailed over time, depreciating Henry's inheritance before he ever received it. I wouldn't think of it, and neither would you Emma, if you were thinking clearly,"

Emma broke into sobs, how dare Isabella twist things to skew what Emma was saying.

It did not matter and Emma was not given a chance to speak again. Isabella rushed out of the room to seek out John. They would lay it all out for Emma rationally and methodically, as if in a court and then she would be made to understand.

A.N: For anyone who thinks Isabella is out of character, I say maybe. Granted we don't see much of her in the book and Emma has always outshone her—there could be layers of animosity that have never been aired. Also, at times tragedy will stir up the worst in people. No matter what, eldest sisters always tend to think they know best, and that it is their job to save everyone. In this, her idea of best will directly challenge Emma's strong will, and we've got ourselves a powder keg!

Please review! I would love to hear your thoughts! Ask me anything!

PrettyPet