Mr. Knightley’s Diary

I cannot stay silent any longer. Emma, I am in love with you….

I shook my head. None of those openings satisfied me, and I decided I would have to trust to the genius of the moment. I opened the door…and found that Churchill had arrived.

There he was, the one person in the world to whom I did not wish to offer any hospitality, sitting in my house and talking to my Emma.

I was so displeased that I excused myself as soon as I could, for fear of saying something rude. I found Harriet once more alone, and went over to her, meaning to press Robert Martin’s suit, but instead I found myself talking about Churchill.

"What right has he to come so late, and then to inform no one of his arrival?" I said, finding in Harriet a willing listener.

"None," she said, with a shake of the head.

"He did not even tell the Westons, and poor Mrs. Weston has been worrying about him all morning. And then to sit with Emma! What business has he doing that, instead of making himself known to his host?"

"None at all," she said.

"And Emma sees nothing wrong in it." I was about to say that I feared his influence on her would not be a good one, when I recollected myself and remembered that I was talking to her friend.

"But tell me, what have you been doing? Have you been enjoying the Abbey grounds?" I asked her, all thoughts of Robert Martin having been driven out of my mind by my own concerns.

As she spoke to me about her delight in the gardens, I found my thoughts returning to Emma, and I knew that I must be careful to guard my tongue. If I said anything more about Frank Churchill, it would look like jealousy - not surprisingly, for it is jealousy. I wish he had never been born.

The party at last broke up. Miss Fairfax had left earlier in the day, in case her grandmother wanted her, and Emma and her father kindly took Miss Bates home in their carriage. Harriet went with them, the Westons soon following. The Eltons stayed as long as possible, with Mrs. Elton congratulating me on the fish-ponds, the strawberry-beds, the lime-walk, indeed anything that would allow her to remain a minute longer. At last she had exhausted every possible topic of conversation and was obliged to leave, saying she was looking forward to the morrow.

The morrow! I do not know whether I am looking forward to it or not. It might give me a chance to speak to Emma, but my hopes are dwindling. She seemed very thick with Churchill today. I wish I knew what her feelings were.

I have no wish to see Churchill paying court to her tomorrow, but it will hurt me more if I should stay away, for then I will not see her at all.

But I will not lose heart. The black mare might go lame, or Mrs. Churchill might detain him, and then Frank Churchill will not join us at all.

Friday 25 June

I was up at daybreak, and oversaw the start of the clover-cutting before getting ready to go to Box Hill. The day was fine, and we had a good journey. Whether we were tired from yesterday’s enjoyments or languid because of the heat I do not know, but there was a lack of spirit in the party.

I myself was in despair. Churchill spent most of the day with Emma, and I had no chance to speak to her alone. I spent my time with Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax. I was, at least, able to be of assistance in helping Miss Fairfax repel Mrs. Elton’s overtures.

We strolled about until it was time for our picnic. Then, indeed, there was more liveliness in the party, though I liked it less than I had liked the insipidity of the morning, for Churchill made Emma the object of his attentions. His double-dealing continued when he directed sly glances at Miss Fairfax, however, and I could not think what he was about. Whatever it was, he did not behave like a gentleman.

Emma did not seem to notice anything amiss, and flirted with him in the most painful way; painful to me, as I am in love with her more every day. For, despite her follies and freaks, from which no one of us is immune, she is the only woman for me.

Her flirting grew worse. It was beyond anything I had seen, and I dreaded where Frank Churchill’s influence would take her.

He became more and more extravagant in his speech, and if I had not spent the morning with him, and known he had not touched any wine, I should have suspected that he was drunk.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse (who, wherever she is, presides) to say, that she desires to know what you are all thinking of."

Emma smiled at this mixture of flattery and silliness, instead of looking disgusted, as she should have done, and I replied curtly: "Is Miss Woodhouse sure that she would like to hear what we are all thinking of?"

I looked at her intently, knowing she would not like my thoughts.