A/N: Hope you like this one – would love to hear your thoughts, as always!

Roses in December

"Memory is a way of holding on to the things you love, the things you are, and the things you never want to lose."

- Kevin Arnold

October, 1814

When George Knightley woke up that morning, for a moment he simply lay there smiling, eyes closed. He could not remember being so wildly gloriously happy in his life before; it was like a dream. He was here in a room with a view, overlooking the ocean, and his dearest Emma was snuggled up close to his side. He had had a week to get used to hers being the last face he saw at night and the first face he saw in the morning, but somehow he didn't think it would ever cease to amaze him.

He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose, and she smiled, her eyes slowly opening to look at him with the same wonder mirrored in her eyes.

They had had a week devoted simply to each others' company and it had been sublime. The hours went lazily by as they spent their time sea-bathing, walking along the shore, visiting the various attractions of the resort in which they stayed, returning to their rooms for a private dinner and quiet talk before they retired to the sweet and sultry darkness of their bedchamber. It had been a magical time.

'Only one more week of having you all to myself,' he said softly, regretfully, as he reached out a hand to lovingly caress her face, 'and then I will have to share you with Highbury once more.'

For a moment he thought he saw a flash of pain flit through her eyes, but then she got out of the bed and went into her dressing-room before he could verify it. He sat up, following her worriedly with his eyes, and then he suddenly started as he realised he did not recognise the room in which they had been sleeping.

He could not remember having had any quarrel or disagreement with Emma, and yet somehow he could not shake the strange feeling that all was not right between them. It was rather ridiculous, considering how loving she had been the night before, and when he remembered how they had lain afterwards, limbs entangled, holding each other close as if to let go would be to lose each other, he could not see how it was possible.

And yet more than once he thought he had seen the brightness of unshed tears in her eyes. He could not let it go.

When they quit the unfamiliar room – it must be their room at the inn; perhaps it simply looked different when viewed in the light of day? – he took her hand before she could slip past him. He looked intently into her face, tilting her chin up so that she was forced to meet his eyes. He was in no doubt now – those beautiful hazel eyes were swimming with tears. 'My dearest Emma,' he said anxiously, 'please, you must tell me what the matter is – are you unhappy?'

The tears which had been brimming in her eyes slipped down her face, but the next moment she was hugging him tightly, clutching onto him as if he might disappear if she loosened her grip. 'I love you, George,' she sobbed, and although utterly confused at the force of her emotional display, he brought his arms up to return their embrace.

Over the top of her head, he glanced around the unfamiliar corridor, hoping that none of the other guests would venture out of their rooms at this moment.

He had been under the impression that they were going to venture to the shore for their usual walk before breakfast, so as they descended the stairs he was utterly surprised to find himself not in the foyer of the inn, but rather in the main hall at Hartfield.

When had they returned home? Were the two weeks already over? It couldn't be – he was sure they had only been there for a week; and besides, he had no memory of the return journey. He looked at his wife of one week – for it had been only one week, he knew that – and his eyes pleaded with her to explain.

She squeezed the hand she held within hers in a manner that was reassuring, but she said nothing. He was a little unsettled to note that her eyes were rather red. When had she been crying, and why?

Before he could ask, before he could say anything, however, they were in the dining room at Hartfield. His father-in-law greeted them with an anxious solicitude for whether or not they had slept well and whether they had felt any draughts, which was of a piece with his character, but Mr. Knightley was a little astonished that he asked nothing about how their trip had been, nor whether their return journey had been fraught with any dangers.

It was very unusual for Mr. Woodhouse not to lament over the evils of the seaside when they must undoubtedly be uppermost in his mind on seeing his daughter and son-in-law's return.

He ate without really tasting the food, wondering at this and at the mysterious circumstance which had evidently upset Emma. Whenever he tried to catch her eye, she seemed resolute in concentrating on her food.

Surely she was not regretting their marriage? Suddenly he could feel the dreamlike joy of their time at the seaside slipping through his fingers and the food in his mouth tasted like ash.

October, 1814

When George Knightley woke up that morning, for a moment he simply lay there smiling, eyes closed. With his dearest Emma in his arms, assured of her love and content in the knowledge that he had one week more of uninterrupted bliss, he had never felt so wildly, gloriously happy.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, but though she smiled she did not wake. He was unwilling to disturb her rest, but also unable to return to sleep himself, so he decided to carefully extricate himself from her embrace and get up.

As he took in the room, he frowned slightly. It looked rather different to the one he remembered, and he could have sworn the door to the dressing room had been on the left wall, not the right one. Then he shook his head to dispel the thought; it must just look different in daylight.

In the dressing room, he spied a piece of paper on the mirror, and hurrying forward, he recognised Emma's handwriting on the note.

My dearest Mr. Knightley, (it said)

Please find on your dressing table today's newspaper.

All my love,

Emma

He smiled, running his finger lightly over the lines she had penned. She was looking after him, learning his habits already. Taking the newspaper, he padded softly into the bedroom once more, settling in one of the chairs beside the fireplace in which the embers of last night's fire were still smouldering.

Looking at the headlines and the article on the front page, he suddenly frowned. Last he had heard, Napoleon had only fairly recently been exiled to Elba – what was this about his having returned to France? The writer of the article was making it sound as if the exile had been of considerable duration, and yet how was that possible?

On a sudden whim he folded the paper up again to look at the date, and then he felt as if all the air had suddenly left his lungs.

5th March, 1815.

His heart was beating wildly, his breath coming in gasps and his skin was slick with perspiration – it was as if he was afraid of something, and he did feel afraid – and yet he did not know what of.

He tiptoed quickly over to the bed, and sighed in relief to see Emma sleeping peacefully, her chest rising and falling in a reassuringly steady rhythm. Emma was alive and well; what else could have inspired such fear in him?

He looked around the room for any signs, and saw the newspaper (the newspaper? A newspaper) on the floor. He had not remembered buying one, which caused him to frown slightly as he tried to recollect if it had been there before. However, nothing came to him, and he walked over to pick it up. As he came closer, he saw another piece of paper on the ground – no, a letter.

A letter with his name on the front, in Emma's handwriting. Newspaper forgotten, he picked up the missive and opened it, in his haste not noticing that the seal had been broken before.

My dearest Mr. Knightley, (it said)

Before I say anything else, I must impress upon you the importance of your finishing this letter in the next half hour. Do not, under any circumstances, let anything or anyone interrupt you...

His hands were shaking and he could not feel anything except terror and despair. To think that he would go through life not remembering, not learning, not growing, not even knowing who and where he was, who was around him, what he had experienced–

He padded over to the bed and sat the on edge, looking down at Emma. With each deep, shuddering breath he looked at her sleeping face and reminded himself that she was beside him, that she would always be beside him, as she had promised in the letter. Reaching out a shaking hand, he touched her face, and she slowly opened her eyes.

When she saw the pallor of his face, the pleading in his eyes and the piece of paper he clutched in his hand, her eyes darkened in sorrow. Wordlessly, she sat up and drew him to her, resting his head against her breast, running her fingers softly through his hair in a repetitive motion that was strangely comforting.

So comforting that he was beginning to wonder why he had been so upset in the first place. No! Something in him cried out that he could not forget, that he must hold on to the moment. Accordingly the hold of his arms around Emma tightened.

He hugged her close and then lifting his head, he placed a soft, lingering kiss on her mouth, smiling down at her. She was his own Emma, by hand and word, they were on their honeymoon, and he had never been happier.

His eyes were bright with the joy of having her by his side, and hers were bright too.

Sometime after dinner, they walked upstairs to their room, and she turned to face him, eyes alight with joy. He stared, mesmerised and yet a little confused. Dinner had been good, to be sure, but not that good.

Smiling up at him lovingly, she slowly took his hand in hers and brought it to rest over her abdomen. Breath catching in his throat, he looked down at their hands. 'You mean...?' He didn't dare finish the question.

She nodded, watching him closely for his reaction.

He swept her into his arms and kissed her deeply. 'Oh Emma,' he said finally, resting his forehead against hers, 'I could not ask for more. I am so happy, truly.'

She sighed happily, and then she laughed, sounding a little guilty. 'I am afraid I always enjoy your fresh surprise at the news entirely too much.'

He was about to ask her what she meant by that when another thought suddenly occurred to him. 'How can you be so sure, when it has been only a week at most?'

The smile on her face faded. 'Oh George.' She brought a hand up to caress his face, smiling again, but this time a little sadly. 'It has been a full two months, and I can assure you, I have never been more sure of anything in my life.'

His eyes widened. 'Two months? But before we married we never–' He stopped, colouring deeply.

She took his hand and gently led him over to sit on their bed. 'There is something you must know,' she said.

He was kissing her more insistently now, and she was responding with equal ardour, melting against him, her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

She was his Emma, they were going to have a baby, and she made him wildly, gloriously happy. He refused to let his mind dwell on the feelings of helplessness and terror which her words – which the truth – had evoked in him. He would not spend his time wondering what would happen in the future. He would direct his thoughts to the present moment, to living and loving.

As the candles burned low, he was a little surprised but delighted to find that her shyness from their first few nights together seemed to have evaporated. He smiled against her lips – his Emma had always been a quick learner.

Some time later, he clasped her close, wanting to hold on to the moment forever.

He awoke the next morning to find Emma's side of the bed empty, and a note in her place.

Opening it curiously, he began to read:

My dearest Mr. Knightley,

Do you see the chest to your right? Please find enclosed today's newspaper and some sketches of mine which I wish you to look at. Take no longer than half an hour and do not let anyone interrupt you.

All my love,

Emma

He smiled. What a strange little message; he was quite curious to see these sketches, for he could not recall her ever having had the time to make them.

He padded over to the chest, lifting the latch and carefully opening the lid. He ignored the newspaper and reached instead for the other bunch of papers, the sketches which Emma must have been referring to.

They all had a date written at the top not of the day when the sketch was made, but apparently of the day which the sketch depicted, and they appeared to be in chronological order.

The first, labelled 10th October, 1814 was of the two of them in their wedding clothes, hands clasped together, radiant smiles on their faces. Reaching out a finger, he traced the face of the paper Emma, a small smile on his face. The likeness, the expressions she had caught were really quite remarkable.

Placing it carefully aside, he looked at the next one. 17th October, 1814, yesterday's date – in this picture they were wading, feet bare, Emma holding her skirts above the water, he standing with his trouser legs rolled up. It was a pastime they indulged in every day, taking advantage of the short time they would have near the water.

The third sketch was dated as the 24th October, 1814. He frowned in confusion – that was a week away. Nevertheless, he looked at the sketch, and suddenly a cold shiver went through him as he looked at the picture of a carriage overturned, frightened horses and broken wheels. Why had she drawn this?

Anxiously he turned over the next picture, which was dated at a week later than the previous one. It was of himself lying in a bed, his head bandaged, a fearful-looking Emma with his hand in hers in the chair by his bedside. Slowly he brought his hand up to his head and felt carefully around and over it, but he could feel nothing out of the ordinary.

The next sketch was happier. This one was dated March, 1815 (which was strange, really, considering it was still October), and it showed the two of them, clearly joyful, both their hands resting on Emma's abdomen. His breath caught in his throat – this was one vision of the future which he looked forward to.

The last picture was of Emma, standing in what appeared to be a dressing room, and the thing which struck him immediately about the picture was her swollen belly, which indicated that this sketch clearly followed from the previous one. The date on this picture had been written and crossed out several times, and below the picture, in her writing, were the words come to the dressing room and find me.

And so he did, and when he saw that just as in the picture, she was obviously heavily pregnant, he sank into a chair, somehow surprised and not surprised all at the same time.

When he and Emma walked into the sitting room, he saw her father sitting in his chair before the fire, playing with one of his grandchildren on his lap, a baby of less than a year old.

He looked at Emma, puzzled. 'Are John and Isabella visiting?'

Emma smiled. 'John and Isabella,' she said, as she took the baby from her father, lifting it into her arms, 'live at Donwell, and your son,' she planted a sound kiss on the child's rosy cheek, 'is most insulted that you took him for your niece.'

For a moment his heart stopped. 'My son?' he breathed. 'But how...?' He took the baby as Emma held it out to him, and he noticed a little belatedly that its clothes were blue and the design more masculine with none of the lace frills that his little niece Emma usually wore. He looked into the baby's – his son's – eyes, and he found that he recognised them. Large, hazel eyes – Emma's eyes. And yet the hair on the little boy's head was not like spun gold – it was darker, more like... his own.

He let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding and the child looked up at him curiously for a moment before reaching out one chubby hand to grab at his nose.

He laughed rather shakily, and then, still holding his son close, he looked at Emma significantly. She nodded, and they both sat as she began her explanation.

He looked up from the papers he had been studying to see John sitting beside him. He started, and then looked at his brother in astonishment. 'John, what are you doing here?' John was supposed to be at Hartfield for the two weeks he and Emma were away. Then a sudden fear gripped him. 'Is it Isabella, or the children? Mr. Woodhouse?'

His brother sighed. 'No, George, nothing like that – we were looking over the accounts of the Donwell farms.' He spoke slowly, and without really knowing why, Mr. Knightley felt irritated at his manner. 'You remember, you told Emma you wanted to be involved?'

Now his brother was speaking loudly as well as slowly, as if he were deaf, or stupid. He looked around the room and ascertained that they were in his own study at Donwell Abbey, and the papers were indeed the accounts he was used to looking over at the close of each month. 'Why on earth would I not be involved in the running of my own estate?'

John sighed again, this time sadly, and then he placed a hand on his older brother's shoulder. 'Emma asked me to give you this, if it happened,' he said quietly, placing a letter in Mr. Knightley's hands.

Opening it, he began to read.

My dearest Mr. Knightley,

Before I say anything else, I must impress upon you the importance of your finishing this letter in the next half hour. Do not let anything or anyone interrupt you...

He sank onto the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. 'You mean to say,' he said hoarsely, 'that this has been happening every day for five years?'

Emma sat next to him, and guiding his head to rest on her breast, she slipped her arms around his waist. 'Yes,' she said quietly, 'but it does not change us. I love you, and so do our children, and I know that whatever else you may forget, you have not forgotten that you love us too.'

'I am a burden to you,' he said softly, the words choking themselves in his throat. 'I don't know anything, can't do anything useful; it would be better for you if I were not here–'

Emma hushed him, and her arms tightened their hold around him. 'Never say that,' she said firmly. 'I am thankful every day that your injury did not take you from me. You are still my Mr. Knightley, whom I have loved all my life, and I cannot imagine my life without you.'

For some minutes they sat like that until his breathing had quieted and steadied. Then slowly, they lay down, still in each other's arms, watching the pattern the flickering candle made on the ceiling, listening to each other's breathing.

As he clasped her in his arms, assured of her love and with the promise of another blissful week in her company with no others to disturb them, he was wildly, gloriously happy. She was his own Emma, by hand and word, here with him, always by his side, and in that moment he knew that whatever the trials and the tribulations the future would hold, their union would be one of perfect happiness – and at the moment, that was the only thing that mattered.

"God gave us memories that we might have roses in December."

- J.M. Barrie

END

A/N: The condition Mr. Knightley suffers from in this story is called anterograde amnesia, and it's a real condition in which the sufferer is basically unable to form new long-term memories. They will perfectly recollect their lives prior to the head trauma which caused the condition, and they have fully functional cognitive abilities and short-term memory, but no ability to save new information. This means that every half an hour or so, it will be as if they had not experienced the events that took place in that time.

In a case like Mr. Knightley's, which is caused by traumatic brain injury rather than drugs, it is unfortunately likely to be permanent, although depending on the severity of the damage, he may get better at remembering things over time.