The Other Woodhouse Girl

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'Mr. John Knightley was a tall, gentleman-like, and very clever man, rising in his profession; domestic, and respectable in his private character: but with reserved manners which prevented his being generally pleasing; and capable of being sometimes out of humor. He was not an ill-tempered man, not so often unreasonably cross as to deserve such a reproach; but his temper was not his great perfection; and, indeed, with such a worshipping wife, it was hardly possible that any natural defects in it should not be increased...'

-Emma

It was a chilly night, just before the onset of winter, and the grand clock in the centre of Hardwicke Square was about to chime midnight.

John Knightley had returned from a particularly pressing and arduous day of work in which he endured an inordinate number of dullards, half-wits and braggarts. His temper was frayed like one of his old coats, and he felt as if he was a haggard man, a mere empty vassal plodding through life.

The plump Knightley housekeeper, Mrs. Devon, was on hand to escort him inside, and John curtly enquired as to current status of his wife and offspring. She coolly informed him that his family were long in bed.

Oddly, John was deflated to learn Isabella did not stay up for him. Ever since the early days of their marriage, Isabella never retired to bed unless he was beside her. She always listened intently to his accounts of his daily travails, and instantly took his part in any rows from work that he related to her. Her unendingly affectionate and tender manner towards him was always a soothing balm to his irritated and turbulent spirit.

He wearily trod up the stairs to his room, loosening his cravat and unbuttoning the first few shirt buttons. He paused at the threshold of his bedchamber, wondering why a faint candle glow seeped under the crack of the door and into the dark hallway if Isabella was supposed be asleep.

He carefully opened the door and a warm smile seeped over his strained face at the sight of Isabella—still clothed in her day dress of midnight blue—fast asleep on the divan. A book lay discarded at her feet and the candle on the ornamental table was close to guttering out. It was obvious that she had attempted to stay up for him by reading but unintentionally drifted off into the sweet realm of dreams.

John knelt by his wife and silently admired Isabella's beauty. Her silky copper hair had fallen loose from her chignon and fell over the divan like a wave. He lightly wound strands of her hair around his fingers, marvelling that after twelve years of marriage, her hair was still like burnished copper. In their more intimate moments together, John always enjoyed fanning it out around her head and absorbing the stark contrast between her milk-white skin and copper hair. In response, she would breathlessly giggle and breathe out 'John' in such a manner that would immediately rekindle his ardour for her.

John considered himself lucky that he married Isabella instead of her younger, more opinionated sister, Emma. It was not that he disliked Emma or found her displeasing, for she was an accomplished young woman. He looked upon her as an older brother and he was pleased at the devotion she displayed to his brother and her husband of three years, George. Indeed, after a recent visit to Hartfield, John observed that Emma had grown immensely under the loving eye of George, and was no longer the frivolous and thoughtless matchmaker of her younger days. It was just that John did not think his own dry, sardonic, acerbic and often caustic wit could ever have harmoniously melded with Emma in marital communion.

His dear Isabella was a soothing, restorative and comforting influence upon him. Whenever he returned to his residence after a trying day of dealings with vain, empty or boastful individuals, Isabella and his children rejuvenated him. In truth, John liked nothing better than the society of his own immediate family and that of his brother and sister-in-law at Donwell and Hartfield. There, he felt secure and did not have to fraternise with people who ceaselessly irked him.

At his ministrations, Isabella stirred and her eyes fluttered open. "John?"

"I did not mean to wake you, my love," he murmured.

"What time is it?"

John caressed her cheek. "Just after midnight."

"Henry thought you might have been abducted by brigands and forced into hard labour on a pirate ship."

John's lips quirked. "Nothing that exciting happened, Isabella. Only piles of paper to sift through and difficult clients kept me back, not arm-to-arm combat against nefarious villains."

A soft, drowsy smile appeared on Isabella's face. "What a shame."

John lingeringly kissed her. "Indeed."

When they broke apart, Isabella tenderly stroked his face. "You seem careworn, darling."

"Not anymore—you're a remarkably rejuvenating medicinal concoction for me, Bella."

"Better than anything papa's dear Doctor Perry can conjure?" she playfully asked.

"Far, far, and away."

A smiling Isabella struggled to sit up. "You seem uncomfortable kneeling on the floor, John. Sit here beside me."

Happy to comply, John stretched out on the divan and Isabella snuggled against him, pillowing her head on his chest. She closed her eyes as John absentmindedly stroked her hair. "You are far more comfortable than any feather-down pillow," she drowsily murmured.

John kissed her forehead. "I should hope so."

They lay in silence for sometime and John thought Isabella had gone to sleep until she quietly said: "Emma wrote to me, and invited us to join her, papa and George next week."

"As long as I do not have to spend more than a couple of moments with that insufferable Elton, then I wholeheartedly accept Emma's invitation. That man is so inflated with his own self-worth that I'm surprised he can fit his head through the vestry door…I wonder how my brother can endure his company with calm grace—if I were in George's position, by now I would have pricked a great hole in Elton's monstrous sense of self-importance and brought him back down to the level of us lowly mortals."

"So true, my love."

"However, I enjoy the Westons' society. He is an amiable fellow, always eager to accommodate—though perhaps he allows his good humour to be taken of advantage of by less scrupulous people more often than he should—and there is no finer woman of distinction and sound judgement than his wife."

"I hope you mean other than your own wife?"

John feigned deep thought and shrugged. "I suppose so."

But before Isabella could retaliate in mock hurt, he subdued her with a long, and deeply sustained kiss that left her breathless.

"John."

An unidentifiable emotion ricocheted through him at the intense need in her voice and her undisguised adoration of him. He loved and cherished his wife, but being the reserved man he was, he rarely expressed his love for Isabella in words, fearing to fall into empty and trite sentiments that he loathed to use.

He sensed at times Emma believed he viewed Isabella as a pampered cat that he occasionally had to coddle and feed to keep her affectionate and obedient. Yet, what Emma failed to understand was that her sister was a lot more aware than Emma gave her credit for.

Isabella understood him and accepted him for who he was; he never had to worry about her comparing him to George and find him lacking. He did not have to consistently prove his worth to her. She was a placid, secure woman who knew she was paramount in his affections and who he would never treat like she was an irritating hindrance he barely tolerated.

"My dearest Bella," he murmured, tipping her head up to him for a kiss that pulsed with longing and affection.

And just what did Isabella do in response? Just what a loving wife ought, of course.

A lady always does.

The End.

Please review and let me know your thoughts about this piece. After re-reading Emma and re-watching the latest adaptation of it, I was intrigued by the Isabella/John dynamic and just wanted to have a go at what their private time together might be like.