She saw Mr. Knightley standing across the room, talking animatedly with someone she did not know. Watching him, she suddenly felt sheepish and more than a little ashamed. She had been purposefully avoiding him since their conversation in the garden three days earlier. The worst of it was, she was fairly certain he knew it too. She didn't really feel she had a choice in avoiding him; to be near him was to entertain a high degree of risk. She knew this to be true from the moment he had told her in the garden that he was more than happy to speak with her about anything; it had taken everything in her power not to tell him all straight away.

She had needed to bite down hard on her cheek to prevent the words from spilling freely, words that once spoken could never be undone. Fortunately, her famed stubborn will was able to prevent those words from spilling out. She had told him she felt Isabella may have been correct and that she was not feeling altogether herself. And then she made a point to prevent the same near disaster from taking place again.

She had even gone so far as to take dinner with the Gordon's middle daughter, to avoid sitting across the table from him last evening. It was foolish, and she knew her plan of evasion was not far-sighted; but she needed to believe she would not share all with him in a poorly chosen occasion. She would need her every resource, skill and bit of tact, after all tact was essential matters of the heart. These matters were fickle and required even more thought that other matters and as such it was paramount that it not be left to be blurted out without care or digression. Emma was convinced the proper moment would present itself and it would be a grave error to speak up until then.

If the confirmation from him that he was not in love with Harriet reduced her anxiety, then watching him as he spoke to a young man and three young ladies did the opposite. The sudden thought was that each of those ladies must have some form of interest in him.

The thought struck. Perhaps they love him the way that I do.

But it was challenged swiftly. No, no one could love him the way that I do, perhaps in some other way but not in the same way. If anyone else loved him it could not be with the same ardor, for she was certain she had loved him all her life, in different forms of the word. Like a river steam, shallow at points, deeper at others, fast moving and swift or childlike and bubbling or slow and lulling in other places. Yes, she had loved him is a myriad of ways since her earliest memories and others would not have this form of longevity or experience.

But the inner voice did nothing to help discern his feelings. If he was not in love with Harriet Smith, then it was still entirely possible that he was in love with someone else. Why else might he quit to London with such permanence?

It was on these thoughts that Isabella came over to her. Her sister looked livelier than she had seen her in many seasons, likely due to the fact that a nanny was home with the children and her dear sister was not indisposed with some illness or other and therefore free for the evening.

"Emma, you must meet the Harris', the eldest Gordon daughter and the Coleridge's" Isabella insisted. It was so unlike Emma to have been outside of the social centre and so unlike Isabella to be to connection maker in a social circle, Emma almost couldn't reconcile the notion.

Emma nodded her agreement. It would be best for her to have some occupation apart from thinking of Mr. Knightley.

It was no sooner that she had entertained the thought than she was guided to stand next to Mr. Knightley and the group surrounding him. Isabella whispered something the Mr. Knightley who nodded as she stepped away. Isabella presumably was off to find John, perhaps to persuade him to dance with her.

"May I introduce Emma Woodhouse—Emma you have before you the Harris' twins, Thea and Edwin, Edwin is married to Mary nee Coleridge—this is Hyacinth Gordon—you have met her sister Cressida already, and to her left you will see Elizabeth Coleridge,"

"The sister, it is so lovely to make the acquaintance!" Elizabeth Coleridge exclaimed.

Emma smiled; Isabella must have told them something about her.

"Miss Emma Woodhouse it is so delightful to meet you. We have been told so much about you by your brother Mr. Knightley and your own dear sister; it is so wonderful to finally have a face to go along side it!" Hyacinth Gordon added matching the zealous tone of her friend.

Emma felt suddenly the desire to make the correction. Mr. Knightley was not her brother. She desperately wanted to challenge the idea, to protest 'I'm not Mr. Knightley's sister!'

But she felt it impossible to do so. And yet it was annoying and startled up a whole sundry of thoughts.

'He doesn't think of me as his sister, surly?' she asked herself.

'Maybe as a friend-only, but surly not a sister' she thought.

'I had not ever considered to be reduced so far as to that of a sister—could there be a worse title considering the object of my designs!'

'He mustn't think of me as his sister, surly he does not, does he? Is it remotely possible? He cannot, we have never acted in the way of siblings.'

'We have acted in the way of close friends. I had never figured the adversity in the form of a title—who would have guessed a single word could cast such doubt! For surly I could stand and work within the role of friend to win Mr. Knightley's true affection, but never within the title of sister. The word sister, there is no hope,"

She realized then that the party was still talking, around her—and she had hoped that she might have nodded at the correct places and offered the right words despite the distraction of her mind.

"I am pleased to meet you all," Emma smiled, putting as much charm in the action as she was able. "Mr. Knightley might you dance with me? You'll remember this is my favourite song at present,"

"You wish to join midway through the song?" he asked her, not critical but instead with a hint of mirth.

"Well, only if you will also agree to dance the following song, even if it is a waltz—as I know you do not like waltzing but I do and everyone knows that half a dance is hardly sufficient even if it is to one's favorite song. And as I love dancing I certainly do not wish to be short changed—do you agree to the terms Mr. Knightley?"

"Have you been studying law from John's books Emma? You certainly make a strong argument, shall we?" he asked offering his arm.

She nodded, and they parted ways from the group.

It was quiet initially between them save the music playing.

"I would think you are simply enjoying the music, except for the way you are biting slightly at your lower lip." Mr. Knightley commented.

Emma pursed her lips and then tried to think of the words.

"There is something you wish to say and you aren't sure how to say it—see clearly I know you too well," he remarked, turning swiftly as the dance directed and Emma stepped awkwardly—seemingly not knowing the steps despite having danced them a hundred times.

"Too well, Mr. Knightley?" she asked her eyes wide.

"Yes, but unfortunately not well enough to read your mind, until then it means you will have to tell me what is on your mind," he offered.

"Mr. Knightley is it true? Do you think of me as a sister?" She asked him suddenly, finding no subtle or better way to ask it. Anxiety built up and she felt the urge to keep talking then as if to prolong his answer. "I have not thought of you as a brother, maybe as a friend –of—of course as a friend but never as a sibling. Is it true that you think of me as that?" she asked.

"Emma? What is with your question?" he asked with a sharper tone—she was not expecting it—his voice rarely took on a sharp edge with her.

"Well, the Coleridge girl addressed me as the sister and at first I thought she was talking about my relation to Isabella but then I realized they were talking about me and my relation to you. The Gordon girl specifically referred to you as my brother! But you are not my brother Mr. Knightley and I have never thought of you as my brother. In fact, I have never been one to think of myself as sibling to anyone but Isabella."

"I did not think you would take it harshly Emma," he replied, "and if you have taken offense from their words, I am sure they did not mean it that way," he offered.

"I'm not sure," Emma stated and then with a deep sigh added, "You must know Mr. Knightley, I do feel keenly jealous."

"Jealous?" he asked.

"More than just that, keenly jealous of anyone who is in your company and I fear that they will someday own you. That while we are now friends, in time it will do me no good to be your friend—in time you will have a wife that wants you near her. She will have a monopoly on your time and rightly so. And jealousy does not become me, Mr. Knightley—it makes my mind do silly things. I could not bear to have you not my friend and I think that when they refer to you as my brother and to me as your sister, I think it reinforced the idea that surly they must have designs on you. As it would be in their best interest to think of me as a sister and not a good friend, because a sister will always be a sister but a friend may grow to be something more. Nobody wants competition. Nobody wants a pretty, young, heiress to be best friends with their bachelor prospect. And for their piece of mind they will say to themselves and to others that I am your sister—it must be of some comfort and perhaps if we are told enough we will also come to think of it their way. This allows them not to think of you as a match for me. Mr. Knightley why is that so absurd? Am I to never be a match for anyone? Many have said it and you would own it yourself that you are the closest match for me in all of Highbury. And you would have thought that too, the only match maybe, until Frank Churchill arrived—then you may have thought differently—even if the thought was a begrudging one. Now you must think as I do that you are truly the only one. But Mr. Knightley I am afraid it goes beyond that. I am afraid that I feel for you more than I should as a friend. "

"Emma" his voice was impossibly soft, but she did not want his comfort yet. She needed to place the whole picture before him for her own sake.

"Do not try to dissuade me from speaking the truth. I shall very likely need comfort later but it may be best if it is not from you. For first I must own Mr. Knightley that I have found myself to be in love with you and I came to London with the express purpose of trying to convince you—through actions rather than words but I fear I have failed. I have arrived at the conclusion that I must just say it and at very least gain the freedom afforded by honesty. And it you are angry, if you think it is silly, if you have thought of me all this time as a sister" a shutter role through involuntarily "then— well, then—I am sure in time my heart will recover. As you said yourself, time heals all wounds. If these things are true then I merely ask that you would not chastise me for it, and where it is possible that you would not bring others in front of me, knowing what you now know about my feelings."

"It is impossible that I could love you—is that really what you believe Emma? For that is what your tone and words betray, gone is the stubborn creature so tenacious that the word 'no' would not be taken as a complete answer. From your words I gather that you wish to unburden your heart and mind but see no future before you, save a lighten state of mind," Mr. Knightley commented.

"Mr. Knightley, I have expressed my entire heart and soul before you—I cannot tolerate to be teased about it,"

"Emma, I regret it." He began but he shook his head when her eyes widened. He should have known she might be ready to jump to all sorts of conclusions. Her eyes looked that of a horse about to bolt. His grip came to her upper arm to hold her gently in place, "hear me out, you'll not regret it," he promised the hand at her back began to rub a soothing circular pattern. "I told Mrs. Weston once that I should have liked to see you vexed and doubtful of love's return. I even said it would be good for you. Dearest Emma, how I have come to regret those words—I certainly did not consider what the effect might be, for my heart can hardly bare to see you so broken and unsure of yourself. And in all the years I loved you but had not recognized the sentiment and even since becoming aware of my feelings, I never entertained it would be me to render the disquiet this feeling has brought you. I never speculated that my love I would be unrecognizable to you. Oh, the deal of pain this might have save us both if for knowing each other so well, we would have been able to know ourselves but a little and see love as it appeared before us in the eye of the one we held dearest! Dearest Emma, I love you and I have been waiting for longer than I can ever remember to have you love me back."

She wiped back tears she hadn't known had appeared until her vision blurred slightly. "Oh, you see I think that was just the problem, having known each other so well, and loved for so long it wasn't all together obvious when the form of love had changed. It is exactly like a river, but I will explain the idea to you later, for now we must dance to my new favourite song," Emma pronounced happily, no, happy did not even come close to describing it. She would need to dream up a new word to describe this moment but for now they would dance.

A/N: There you have it! It has been ages, I have had the ending written for at least a year, all but on paper (don't worry I wasn't holding out on you!)

I was focused on my Emma other story and then with the lack of reader interest I decided I needed a break and shifted to this one with the intention of finishing it. I added a Gone with the Wind piece as well, for anyone that likes that pairing. I might look at writing more for Death Comes to Hartfield but likely not this week.

Cheers!