Chapter Forty-Eight

"Emma," Mr Knightley arose behind his writing desk when Emma came into the library, "I have been wondering your whereabouts!"

Two days ago, the gentleman had promised his young friend that he would personally escort Wobble and her to Hartfield on Christmas Eve for the momentous occasion of sending her, as well as his, beloved pet to his rightful home. Today, three quarters of an hour ago, he had finished looking over the accounts, replying his letters, and handing out Christmas presents and good wishes to his Donwell staffs and dismissing them for the holiday. He had been reading his agricultural journal in the library while waiting for Emma to emerge. When he did not see her at the appointed hour, he had wondered where she was, if he should go look for her in the drawing room, the Donwell gardens, the many nooks and crannies in the Abbey, or, if she felt the necessity to remind him of where he had first met Wobble – his Donwell stable!

Delighted that he needed not go searching for her as he did the day when she brought her spaniel to his house, he came to her immediately, greeting her with a welcoming smile and bending to rub the back of Wobble's neck with affection.

"I am sorry to keep you waiting, Mr Knightley," meekly, said the fifteen-year-old.

"It does not signify, Emma, I am glad you have come," assured the gentleman, still smiling. "Has John arrived when you left Hartfield?"

"No, John had not arrived when I left, but I imagine… he must have while I am here…" she replied, distractedly.

"Are you and Wobble ready for Hartfield?" asked Mr Knightley, with an eagerness to see to her and Wobble's happiness.

Instead of giving Mr Knightley the answer he was expecting, Emma looked up at him wistfully, opening her mouth seemingly wishing to speak but did not.

Mr Knightley had thought Emma looked rather subdued when she first came in, particularly when he had been expecting a cheery, bubbly, and smiling young person. And now, he found her pensiveness very odd under such eagerly awaited occasion.

Wondering what was on her mind, he watched a crease locked between her brows, waited patiently for a few moments, and when she would not reply,

"Emma?" he prompted.

In the few silent moments, thoughts thronged the fifteen-year-old's mind. In copious joy she had come to fetch Wobble to Hartfield, could not even bear a minute delay to induct her beloved spaniel into her family. But one unfortunate stumbling into Mr Knightley's bailiff's sad state, her exultant world was overturned onto the wrong side of the road.

How she wished to tell Mr Knightley that she and Wobble were ready for Hartfield! Tried as she might, she could not banish from her mind the heartrending scene she unwittingly witnessed several minutes ago, and the harder she tried, the sorrier she felt for the old man, and the more she wished to know the truth of his circumstance.

But when the struggle within her turned intolerable, she took a deep breath, gulping the whole of her struggle down her throat. Her mind finally made up, "Mr Knightley," she spoke, "is Mr Larkins' son not to come to Donwell this Christmas?"

None of Mr Knightley's concerns for Emma had prepared him for the inquiry. From the way his other servants had spoken of his bailiff before they were dismissed for the holiday, he was certain that aside from him William Larkins had kept the intelligence to himself.

"How did you know, Emma?" he felt the need to ask.

"I overheard Mr Larkins speaking to Wobble of it!" replied she.

"Wobble?" The gentleman was surprised by her answer.

"Yes, Wobble!" the young lady said a little impatiently. Anxious to know the answer to her question, she succeeded quickly, "But is Mr Larkins' son not to come this Christmas?"

"No, Larkins' son is not to come," confirmed Mr Knightley.

If there were an inkling of hope in Emma that she had misheard William Larkins or that Mrs Hodges was right, now that hope had been completely vanquished. Nevertheless, while her heart sank further for the bailiff, her desire to understand his circumstance afloat.

"Where is he?" she implored, "Why is he not with his father?"

Coming from the one whose love for her father was as certain as the sun rising from the east, it was undoubtedly a natural question, but Emma's motive behind the question was a mystery to Mr Knightley.

"Why do you ask, Emma?" returned the gentleman.

Rather than answering Mr Knightley, "Have I ever met him?" Emma added.

"Perhaps," he said, recalling the past, "Larkins had often come to the Abbey with his son, but it was a long time ago, you could not have been more than couple years old."

Little wonder – the fifteen-year-old reckoned – that she had no recollection of the bailiff's son.

"Why is Richard…" she succeeded, but felt strange calling the bailiff's son by his Christian name, yet the tenderness in the way Mr Larkins called his son had impressed upon her. "I mean – Why is Mr Larkins' son not with him?"

"There are many sons who do not live with their fathers, Emma," said the gentleman, cautiously.

"But he is Mr Larkins' only son, is he not?" she questioned, though already knew her answer.

Mindfully, Mr Knightley assented.

"Then, he is all that Mr Larkins has!" concluded the fifteen-year-old.

It would have been different had William Larkins had brothers and sisters or kinsmen in Donwell or nearby. But the Larkins were a small family, William Larkins was the only son of his father, and he only had one son. The gentleman really could not argue with the young lady.

With regrets, Mr Knightley nodded, surmising where this conversation might be going.

"Where is he, Mr Knightley?" Emma returning to her previous inquiries, "Why is he not with his father?"

"As far as I know, Richard and his family live in Manchester," supplied the gentleman. "As for the reason, Emma – it is between Larkins and him."

"But would not it be the duty of us – those who are sons and daughters, to look after our parents – the persons who give us life?" she asked firmly.

Emma might be spoiled by those near her since her birth, but many virtues innate in her were untouched by her circumstance. Mr Knightley had always the deepest admiration for her devotion to her family, particularly the unfailing love she had for her father.

Realising that perhaps her young age, her sheltered life, her lack of experience with the world had not made it easy for her to comprehend certain situations, "Human beings are complex, Emma," he explained. "Sometimes, even the most natural and desirables could not prevent a person from being steered onto a different path by his nature, and sometimes what is natural to one is the utter opposite to another."

Emma mulled over Mr Knightley's words. Her understanding had easily convinced her that the truth of what he said was clearly written in everywhere and everyone, even herself was no exception – How often she had banished her desire to obey Miss Taylor to study and practice the pianoforte, to go wandering about the woods looking for amusements because of her lively disposition, and how often her impatience and annoyance had allowed her to find Miss Bates' chatters insipid and let her own imagination drown over the woman's voice!

Yet – her nature, having always her father's happiness in the forefront of her heart, had made it difficult for her to understand what sort of human nature could cause the separation between a father and his son.

Was it poverty? Families were often broken apart when they had no means to sustain in where they live… Or was it because of the death of Mr Larkins' wife that his son was taken away to live with a distant aunt or relative like so many motherless or orphaned children?

Emma could not perceive such possibilities, for the Larkins' livelihood had always been secured with the Knightley family, and Mr Larkins' son, from what she had heard, did not remove until some ten years ago when he was all grown.

Besides – poverty and being motherless had little to do with human natures…

She was unable to comprehend Mr Larkins' circumstance, and it troubled her soul more so than it intrigued her mind.

"Mr Knightley," she looked up at him intently, "would you tell me what made Mr Larkins' son left Mr Larkins? It seemed heartless of him to leave his father!"

"What made you think that William Larkins' son was heartless, Emma?"

"Of course he was heartless!" exclaimed the fifteen-year-old. "He left his father when he was all that he had!"

Mr Knightley considered Emma's remarks carefully, as what he should tell her concerned the privacy of the two men.

Emma must have read his mind…

"Pray, Mr Knightley, I do not wish to tittle-tattle, only to understand," pleaded she. "It is unimaginable to me for a son to leave his father – I could never imagine leaving Papa! What human natures could be so profound that should compel a son to leave his father behind?"

The imploring light in Emma's eyes, the sincerity in her supplication, and the urgency of her request had made it impossible for Mr Knightley to withhold what she sought to understand. He regarded her inquiry again, and with the view to improve her understanding,

"I know you have often perceived William Larkins as a stern man, Emma," he relented, "but he is as good and honourable as he is austere. He is a man who holds himself with pride and honour and regards his duty as seriously as life itself. My grandfather had once told my father, who had told me that from when William Larkins was in his cradle, he was looked upon by his family as the one to carry the Larkins' legacy, which was the steward office of the Donwell estate. Those who know William Larkins since he was a young boy would tell you that he had inherited the undying loyalty to the Knightley family from his forefathers, and the good man has invested his lifetime to prove it."

Like many who did not know his bailiff intimately, Emma had had her share of misunderstandings against William Larkins for a long time. Mr Knightley was encouraged to see not only that she had no rebuff against his account on William Larkins' virtues, her nods while listening told him that she agreed with him.

But now, a challenge was laid before him, he must find a way to tell her about Larkins' son, on whom she seemed to be fast forming an unfavourable opinion.

"If you had met Richard, Emma," he embarked, "and were old enough to remember him, you would have noticed how different he is from his father."

Head tilted, Emma was listening with intense interest.

"Unlike his father, who is reserved and predisposed to adhere to all things orderly and predictable and unchanged, Richard was outspoken, lively, inquisitive, and was born with the spirit of an explorer."

Already intrigued, Emma, the enthralled audience, found it interesting that Mr Larkins should sound quite like her father, whereas she would share some similarities with his son.

"As you might have surmised," said Mr Knightley, "that it was William Larkins' ardent desire to have Richard inherit his family's legacy in the same way that he had inherited his."

"Is not it what all fathers wish of their sons?" the young lady asked.

Mr Knightley nodded to agree.

"Richard and I are about the same age," he went on, "I could recall Larkins taking him to the Abbey to see my father when he had learnt his alphabets, which was when William Larkins began teaching him all things farming, and only a few years later that his apprenticeship with his father began."

The picture of William Larkins and his young son together conjured up an endearing image in Emma's mind, but as she quickly did the arithmetic in her head – Richard was Mr Knightley's age, he was sixteen years her senior, and he had left his father ten years ago, which was when he was at the age of twenty or one and twenty… but he had already stopped coming to the Abbey at least four years before he left his father, because, as Mr Knightley said, she could not be more than couple years old when he used to come with Mr Larkins…

When the fifteen-year-old finished the arithmetic, "Things must have gone awry between them long before Richard left Mr Larkins!" she blurted.

"Perhaps," regarding her remarks, "things had not gone as much awry as it was different," he imparted.

"Did Richard dislike being a steward apprentice of his father?" she asked.

"You have guessed half of it," said the gentleman. "Being his father's apprentice did not trouble him. What he disliked was being a farmer or steward apprentice."

"He disliked farming?" Emma asked.

"Richard was disinterested in all things farming," supplied Mr Knightley, noting the surprised look on her. "I know it must come as a surprise to you. The three Larkins generations before Richard, all of them had a passion for farming and the management of the Donwell estate. But it is not a natural law for any son to take up the callings of his forebears, and Richard, for his liveliness and exploring nature, could not succumb to what seemed natural to his fathers and others, yet utterly unnatural to him."

"Did he stop apprenticing with Mr Larkins then?" inquired the curious young lady.

"He did not – not for as long as he could help it," replied Mr Knightley. "While repressing his growing desire to see what was beyond Highbury and Donwell, Richard had tried his best to do his duties by his father. Then, the year when he was sixteen Larkins took him to visit his uncle in Manchester. Richard's uncle had a friend who was a foreman of a cotton mill. His uncle's friend took Larkins and Richard on a visit to the cotton mill, while Larkins perceived the machines as threats to the English husbandry and the livelihoods of labourers, Richard was captivated by the power of the machines. Steam engines were all he could talk and think of after his return from Manchester."

"He must have found it difficult to abide by his duty as a steward apprentice!" surmised Emma.

"Richard did endeavour to do his duties. He continued to follow his father's orders and did what he was bidden to do," recounted Mr Knightley. "But if he had disliked farming before he went to Manchester, he positively loathed it after seeing the steam engines."

"How do you know, Mr Knightley?" interposed Emma, looking suspicious. "Did he have the audacity to display his contempt so openly?"

"No, Emma," Mr Knightley succeeded quickly, unwilling for Emma to leap into conclusion. "Richard went on about his duties the way he had been, I had no notion of his disinterest in farming until four years later when he told me of it before he left Donwell!"

"So he had hidden his intention to leave his father all this time!" declared the fifteen-year-old, ardently. "It must have been shocking for you to see Richard leaving Mr Larkins!"

"Emma, I know it sounded like the faults were all on Richard's side, but you must hear the whole of it before making a judgement," the gentleman implored.

Not that the fifteen-year-old needed to learn more to make her judgement, but Mr Knightley had made his plea so earnestly, and she was keen on finding out Mr Larkins' situation, with a dubious pout, Emma nodded to obey Mr Knightley's entreaty.

After the gentleman thanked the young lady for obliging him, he continued, "I know I should have been taken by surprise when Richard left, but, I think, in the back of my mind I had known it was coming."

"There had been signs?" perked Emma.

"For a while after their return from Manchester, nothing seemed to be amiss between Larkins and Richard, at least not to my youthful ignorance. However, my father told me that he did notice Larkins seemed out of sorts, a gloominess hanging about him nearly constantly, and servants and labourers had complained to him that his bailiff, who, though very serious in appearance, was always just, had become sterner than before."

"Do you think Mr Larkins was out of sorts because Richard had begun going against his wishes?" she asked.

Mr Knightley was thoughtful. "I do not believe Richard was deliberately going against his father's wishes, if that is what you meant. But there were discords between the father and son."

"Yet, the discords had not led them to the point of separation?"

"Not yet," he said. "It took four years for their relationship to fall apart. From what Richard told me, and from what I had observed, over the four years, there had been many arguments between Larkins and Richard. Although Richard continued to do his duties, he was feeling discontent with where he was. As a person born with the spirit of an explorer, he dreamed of the world beyond Donwell, farming, and stewardship. He believed machines were the future of England, and he longed to be part of that future."

Albeit Emma had never seen a steam engine in person, she had certainly heard of its power. She could not help but wonder if the bailiff's son was right.

"Do you agree with Richard, Mr Knightley?" she asked, "That machines are the future of our country?"

Mr Knightley smiled at her, "I did not disagree with him then, Emma, and I would not disagree with him now. We live in an age of progressions; inventions have improved human's lives through the ages. Though I would not agree that machines could ever replace the humans who invent them, I do think that, when used wisely, machines could become the way of the future."

With this, the young lady's curiosity heightened, "Have you ever thought of leaving Donwell in pursuit of the future, Mr Knightley?"

Without a second thought, Mr Knightley shook his head. "I would never walk away from my duty, Emma, if that is what you are curious about."

The young lady felt a flood of relief – Of course Mr Knightley would never banish his duty! He was too honourable to forsake what was given to him by birth!

Assured, Emma felt safe returning her attention to the matter. "What happened then in those four years?"

"You had said that Richard had hidden his intention to leave his father during all that time?" he saw her nod. "Richard might not have spoken to me about his intention until he decided to leave, but he had been speaking to his father of his aspirations. Do you know why he came to the Abbey before he left Donwell?"

"To bid you good-bye, of course," said the fifteen-year-old a–matter-of-factly. "That was the least he should do!"

Mr Knightley shook his head. "He came to beg my forgiveness for having to let me down, Emma!"

"He did?" exclaimed wide-eyed Emma.

"Richard told me that soon after their return from Manchester he began to express his wishes of working in a cotton mill with steam engines and to seek vocation in engineering to Larkins."

Feeling indignant for Mr Larkins, Emma ejaculated, "Which were completely against his father's hopes and wishes!"

"That is true," Mr Knightley acknowledged that much. Then he looked her in the eyes unwaveringly, "But Richard is entitled to his own hopes and wishes, is he not?"

Unwillingly, Emma went silent.

"Apparently," Mr Knightley went on, "the arguments between Larkins and Richard during those four years were not so much about Larkins' unwillingness to let Richard pursue his aspiration – They were mostly about how unforgivable it would be for any Larkins to be disloyal to the Knightleys. In William Larkins' heart, their family is indebted to my family, and it would be a betrayal to us if his son walked away from what he was always expected to become. From the first time Richard had expressed his wish to seek life outside of Donwell, William Larkins had chastised him severely for being ungrateful to our family, he ordered Richard to cease all thoughts of pursuing a future with the monstrous machines, and demanded him to devote himself to his duty as three generations of Larkins had done prior."

It was not often that Emma felt compel to agree with Mr Knightley's bailiff, but this time, "Mr Larkins was right!" she proclaimed. "Richard was being ungrateful to your family for wishing to banish his duty!"

"Do you really think so, Emma?" Mr Knightley challenged. "Do you think that the Larkins are truly indebted to my family?"

"Your family has been kind to them for three generations, Mr Knightley!" was Emma's answer, "Of course they are indebted to you!"

"But the Larkins had earned every bit of our kindness, Emma," returned the gentleman. "They have been faithful and industrious; there have been no better servants than the Larkins that we Knightleys have ever found."

"So do you mean that Richard should pursue whatever he fancied, Mr Knightley?" retorted the young lady.

"Richard owes Donwell nothing, Emma," declared the gentleman.

"But he owes his father everything!" returned the fifteen-year-old.

Mr Knightley let out a helpless sigh.

"Over that four year period, many things happened," he pressed on. "Most of Richard's previous responsibilities at the home farm were slowly removed from him, William Larkins no longer wished him to come to the Abbey with him, which I could tell even with my own eyes. Whenever I saw Richard in the fields he could barely raise his eyes at me, Larkins had become a man of even fewer words and stonier expressions. And then near the end of the four years, my father fell ill and passed away…"

The memory of losing his father still pained Mr Knightley, but he brushed it aside and focused on the Larkins.

"According to Richard, he had on countless occasions tried to apply to his father to let him work in a cotton mill for a time to see if he could make something of himself, but each time he was met with fierce objection. Over time, Larkins became more and more furious with him, and as Richard was unwilling to give up his natural desire, his persistence only led to more quarrels between him and his father, exasperating both of them.

"Richard's discontentment with where he was and William Larkins' disappointment in him eventually reached the point of no return – In their one last fierce argument, William Larkins ordered Richard to leave Donwell and never return. He told Richard that he was ashamed of him and no longer wished him to be his son, to be one of the Larkins!"

Emma gasped at the intelligence.

With regrets, Mr Knightley added, "And Richard, discontented, distraught, and heart-hardened, took his father's words and decided it was time to leave Donwell."

"And... Richard came to see you before he left?" conjectured fifteen-year-old.

She received a rueful nod from Mr Knightley.

The story of the Larkins saddened Emma. To a young person, who, though motherless at a tender age, had enjoyed a loving home with her father, sister, and governess, she had had occasional discontentment of her own, but they were quickly forgotten as soon as she was reminded of how much her family loved her and how deeply she loved them. Even though she had known the outcome of the Larkins family tale before Mr Knightley's recount, it was still heart-breaking to hear the father and his son had reached the point of going their separate ways.

She tried to imagine the fierce quarrels between Mr Larkins and Richard, the emotions and fervours mounted during those burning moments, she was beginning to see why things had turned out as they did between the two men. She could picture the severity in the father and the resistance of the son fuelling the anger in them, and, ultimately, led to the demise of the relationship.

She could now see why Mr Knightley seemed to take the side of neither the father nor the son. Yet, because of her love for her father and her deep sense of duty to him, Emma's heart, naturally, went out to Mr Larkins, the father in this tale.

"Mr Knightley," she spoke out of her reflection, "as Richard had spoken to you before he left Donwell, did Mr Larkins speak with you regarding what had happened between him and Richard?"

"The day after Richard left Donwell, Larkins came to see me," supplied the gentleman.

"He must come to tell you how heart-broken he was!" Emma said with certainty.

Looking at her apologetically, "No, Emma," revealed Mr Knightley. "Just like Richard, Larkins came to beg my forgiveness."

"W-what…" the young lady looked confused. "Was he not heart-broken over what had happened between him and Richard?"

"I am sure he was, Emma," said he, "but at the time he looked more ashamed than disconsolate."

"You mean…" still disbelieving, "you mean Mr Larkins had no regrets on casting off his own son?" she asked.

"After he apologised for Richard's – in Larkins' own word – betrayal, he has been refusing any mention of Richard ever since…"

Mr Knightley felt Emma's disappointment. "The year after he left," he felt he must give her the entire account, "Richard had written to me inquiring after William Larkins. According to Richard, he had written to his father on multiple occasions, but all his letters were returned. He became worried and wrote to me instead. Unfortunately, even when I tried speaking to Larkins about Richard's letters he refused to speak further."

Confusions and disappointments continued to spurt inside Emma.

"But, Mr Larkins must love Richard! All fathers love their children!" she said ardently. "Why would he be unwilling to receive Richard's letters?"

"Emma," Mr Knightley looked deeply into her eyes, "I could assure you that Larkins loves Richard very much. But as an honourable man with an immense sense of duty, and pride – His pride, at times, could cause him to lose sight of what truly matters."

Emma regarded the wisdom in what Mr Knightley said, she was beginning to fathom the contrast between the stern facade of William Larkins that chilled her since she was a child and the emotional outburst she stumbled upon that shocked her today.

Perhaps – she finally came to realise – he used his stern exterior to hide his injured pride…

Such revelation had planted an ache in her heart for the old man.

A moment later, "Had Richard ever came back after he left?" she asked.

Mr Knightly shook his head. "Two years after," he said, "Richard wrote to tell me that he had married to the daughter of the cotton mill foreman and decided to settle in Manchester for good."

"Poor Mr Larkins!" murmured Emma, to herself, with a long sigh.

"But things must have gotten better between them!" she looked up at Mr Knightley with hope, "Richard was meaning to visit this Christmas, was not he? He must be meaning to make amends with Mr Larkins!"

"Yes, Emma," said Mr Knightley, "I believe there have been signs of improvement in their relationship. Although Larkins avoided any discussions over matters concerning Richard, I have heard that – by gossips amongst his housekeeper and the Donwell staffs that reached my ears – the father and son have started corresponding recently."

"Then Mr Larkins must look forward to see Richard very much!" exclaimed the fifteen-year-old.

Mr Knightley nodded.

"And this Christmas would have been the first time Mr Larkins would see Richard in ten… long… years…" she trailed off, feeling the disappointment that Mr Larkins must be feeling.

Emma saw Mr Knightley's helpless nod, her heart sank further for the old man.

For a long moment, she and Mr Knightley stood there silently. They had reached a point of helplessness for William Larkins; all they could do was feeling sorry for him.

Then the clock in the corridor began to chime, the time they must leave for Hartfield had come.

It was difficult for Emma to leave. In her head, she knew she should be rejoicing for the jubilant hours in front of her spending in the warmth and loving company of her family, particularly when Wobble was to begin his new life with her. But in her heart, she felt disconcerted to be the one to receive such blessings when there was an old father surrounded by loneliness because of an unfortunate mistake made ten years ago.

"We had better go, Emma, your father might get anxious at waiting."

Emma heard Mr Knightley reminding her gently.

Slowly, the fifteen-year-old bent to gather Wobble, who had been skipping up and down when they came into the library to greet Mr Knightley, was now settled expectantly at her feet.

As Emma gathering up Wobble, she paused, suddenly.

"Mr Knightley," she looked up at him urgently, "would you take us to Mr Larkins?"

"Why, Emma?" asked the gentleman, surprised by her request. "What about your father and Isabella, and the children? And John? They are all waiting for us."

"Pray, Mr Knightley!" she begged earnestly. "It would not take long, I promise you. Would you take us to Mr Larkins?"

Having never been on a carriage, Wobble was thrilled by the experience. While his adored mistress had tucked herself at a corner, the rumbustious spaniel began sniffing at every object once he hopped onto the vehicle. The plush cushions, the leather seats, the iron door-handle, the tassels on the edge of the velvet curtains – everything in the small interior were novelty to him. As soon as James set the horses in motion, the inquisitive canine suddenly grew timid, but his loving mistress reassured him by sitting him on her knee, gently stroking the back of his neck to sooth his nerves. Soon the fur ball bounced back up and continued his exploration. Emma must have known Wobble would enjoy the wind blowing at him in the moving vehicle, in spite of the December chill, she opened the carriage window and Wobble immediately went to taste the fresh, cold wind.

While Wobble bustled in the carriage, Mr Knightley, situated in the seat from across, had kept his eyes on his young friend. He could tell she was happy for Wobble to be riding on a moving carriage for the first time – Emma was always as thrilled as her dog when he had learnt a new skill or gained a new experience. Her eyes had fondly followed the spaniel to wherever his nose brought him, and a very tender smile curled up her lips when Wobble placed his head outside the window to taste the wind.

Although she was playful with Wobble, Emma remained wordless through the journey. When Wobble was done, at last, breathing in the cold wind that swept his ears, he settled himself contently on his mistress's knee. As they came near the Larkins' cottage, James began to slow down the horses, Mr Knightley noticed Emma's fingers, that had been holding the wrinkled cravat, tightening the grip on the cloth, and her other hand, which had been caressing Wobble, clasped him even closer to her.

With all his observations, his astuteness, his knowledge of his young friend, Mr Knightley could not discern what was on her mind. He had his speculation, but he did not believe it would come to fruition. Even as he handed her out of the carriage, he was still at a loss for the reason she wanted to come to his bailiff's house.

They were standing at the door of William Larkins' cottage; Mr Knightley had raised his hand for the knocker, when he lifted the ring he turned his eyes to Emma, who was clutching Wobble closely to her, he asked, "Are you sure, Emma?"

Emma looked up at him and nodded.

The gentleman struck the ring on the cast iron plate.

A long moment had passed, no one answered. He turned to Emma and saw her eyes beckoning at him.

He struck the ring against the plate again and waited. He could tell she was anxious for someone to come to the door.

Another long moment had passed, but when they thought no one was at the Larkins' home, they heard the latch on the door rattle, someone was opening the door.

"Mr Knightley!" gasped a very different looking William Larkins.

The usually dignified Donwell bailiff was without his coat, his neck-cloth was discarded, hair unkempt, his shoulders drooping, eyes bleak, and his austere exterior decomposed – the Donwell bailiff looked thoroughly distraught.

Surprised by the unexpected presence of his master, "I… I am… so sorry, sir!" William Larkins was embarrassed. "I sent Mrs Barton home for the holiday… I… I did not hear you knock!"

Mr Knightley smiled graciously, "It does not signify, Larkins," he reassured. "I hope we are not intruding."

"We?" repeated the bailiff. It was then that he noticed the young mistress next to his master with her dog.

"M-Miss Woodhouse!" he had barely recovered from his shock when he bowed.

Emma curtsied sincerely and said, "I am sorry for intruding on you, Mr Larkins!"

"Oh, no… no, Miss Woodhouse, Mr Knightley," said the old man, "you are not intruding… I was doing…" he turned to look inside the lonely house, realising, "…nothing…" he faltered, disheartened.

Wishing to make his presence known, Wobble let out a warm bark, which had brought some sense back to William Larkins.

"I beg your pardon!" he said hurriedly to his guests, "Please come in!"

Unsure of Emma's intention, Mr Knightley hesitated at the invitation, but he remained silent, willing to follow her lead.

"Mr Larkins," Emma took a step forward, "please forgive us for not coming in," she begged. "Mr Knightley and I are already late for meeting my family at Hartfield, but we are here for an important reason…"

At the young mistress's words, the old bailiff looked even more lost.

The moment she stepped out of the carriage, the fifteen-year-old had made up her mind. She took a silent deep breath to gather her courage and plunged in, "I am here to ask of you a favour!"

"A favour?" Surprised, William Larkins was taken aback, and so was Mr Knightley.

Emma nodded with conviction.

"You see, Mr Larkins" she proceeded to explain, "my sister and brother and nephews have all come to Hartfield to celebrate Christmas with us. But unfortunately," moving her gaze to her beloved spaniel, "my father would not approve a dog inside his house, which means I am not to bring Wobble to Hartfield with me!"

As Emma looked up from Wobble to William Larkins, her eyes caught Mr Knightley looking steadily at her. She knew she was not fooling him with her falsehood, and she could only secretly pray that he would not betray her. Though her already pounding heart pounded even heavier, she was determined not to flinch.

"You see, Mr Larkins," the fifteen-year-old continued her deliberation, "it is Christmas, no one should be alone at his house. As I am not allowed to take Wobble to Hartfield, and the Abbey shall be quite empty with nearly all of Mr Knightley's staffs on holidays, Wobble shall be very lonely! I am hoping that if you, Mr Larkins, would be so kind to take Wobble in for the holiday, to keep him company so that he would not be alone…"

With his hand still on the door-handle, William Larkins stood at the threshold looking veritably shocked.

Emma waited anxiously for him to speak, but after some time when he still would not utter a word, "Would you do me this favour, Mr Larkins?" she supplicated again.

Eventually, when William Larkins found his voice, "You… you wish me to look after Wobble… during the holiday?" he asked, as if he could not trust his own ears.

With certainty Emma nodded.

"Would you be so kind, Mr Larkins?" she entreated once more.

As she continued to wait for an answer, Emma held the bailiff's disbelieving eyes with her own pleading eyes.

Ere long, the old man's gloomy countenance was dispelling, his distraught features began to alleviate, and tiny sparkles were brightening his dim eyes.

Gradually, his face broke into a smile that was genuine and unreserved. And when he spoke again, part of his famed dignity resurfaced, his voice no longer unsure, "It would be my pleasure, Miss Woodhouse!" it was laced with unspoken gratitude and agog with anticipation.

"Thank you, Mr Larkins!" said the young mistress, with her own grateful smile.

Before Emma handed Wobble to William Larkins, clasping her beloved spaniel closer to her, "Be good to Mr Larkins, my love!" she spoke lovingly into his long ear.

As if understanding perfectly his mistress's heart and his own duty, Wobble nuzzled his flat black nose against Emma's cheek, whimpered affectionately into her ear, and licked her face devotedly before twisting to the direction of William Larkins.

And before relinquishing her beloved Wobble, Emma pressed a deep, tender kiss on him, whispering, "I shall miss you very much!"

William Larkins received Wobble in his arms with affections that had never been witnessed by Mr Knightley. The Donwell Master had been standing there listening steadfastly to the exchange between his young friend and bailiff. When he knocked on his bailiff's door, he was still mulling over Emma's intention, but now – it was clear to him that his young friend could be as discerning as she was spoiled!

He thought her way of helping William Larkins very wise – anything more, such as inviting Larkins to Hartfield for Christmas, which at one point in their carriage ride to Larkins' cottage was what he had thought she might do, would have been a blatant charity that he was certain that the proud man would refuse to accept, and anything less would not be able to keep the old father from feeling lonely.

After many 'Thank you' and 'Happy Christmas', curtsies and bows had been duly exchanged by each of them, it was time to depart, but Emma seemed unwilling to remove.

Something of great import was edging at her lips, yet she seemed struggling to withhold it.

But when she could no longer help it,

"Mr Larkins… you… er… I… er…" the young mistress muttered incoherently, blushing crimson and white.

"Yes, Miss Woodhouse?" replied the bailiff, eager to be of her service.

Emma chided herself for being tongue-tied.

With scarlet colour arising from throat to cheeks, "Mr Larkins," she endeavoured to speak, "if… er… if you do not wish your house to… smell… er… indelicate…"

"In-de-li-cate?" repeated William Larkins, bewilderedly.

"Yes, Mr Larkins!" affirmed the young mistress, gulping down a sheepish breath. "If you do not wish your house to smell… er… indelicate – you might consider cooking the turnip tops before feeding them to Wobble!" she finished as quickly as she could.

"Happy Christmas, Mr Larkins!"

As soon as the fifteen-year-old muttered the well wishes, she turned and practically ran for the carriage, leaving the nonplussed William Larkins pondering over her cryptic words, and Mr Knightley, with an endearing smile spread across his face, hastening behind her.

The journey to Hartfield was quiet, neither Emma nor Mr Knightley spoke. Emma had tucked herself back into the same corner – only now without Wobble, but with Wobble's cravat still in her hands – and Mr Knightley respected her wishes and kept his silence.

When they reached Hartfield they were greeted enthusiastically, if not with great relief, by their family. Mr Woodhouse was assuaged that they had finally arrived. After waiting for quite some time, the anxious father was worried that their carriage had been overturned or fallen into a ditch! Fortunately there were many distractions from Isabella and the children, and John, who had arrived about an hour ago, was instrumental in aiding Isabella to allay her father's agitation with grand larceny cases that he had tried recently. When the footman came in with the news that the Hartfield carriage was approaching the gate, Isabella, the children, and John all came outside to receive them.

Handshakes and warm brotherly greetings were exchanged between the Knightley brothers, while Isabella, with baby John and anxiety in tow, poured solicitudes over Emma, ensuring that accidents or unfortunate events had not befallen on them.

Emma was calming Isabella with reassurances when she felt someone tugging at her gown.

"Aunt Emma…" She looked down and found Henry's small hands on her dress.

Kneeling down to speak to her nephew, "Yes, Henry?" she smiled affectionately into his eyes.

"Where is Wobble?" asked the little boy.

Mr Knightley was speaking with John when he overheard Henry's inquiry; he immediately turned to see Emma's reaction.

Emma continued to smile kindly at their nephew, she was looking at him with tenderness that bespoke of a loving aunt, but the shine in her hazel eyes when she spotted Isabella, the children and John running out to greet them had faded.

"I am sorry, Henry," she spoke gently to the child, "Wobble cannot come."

"Why cannot he come?" crestfallen, little Henry asked.

"Oh, Emma, why cannot Wobble come?" interjected Isabella. She had also noticed that Wobble was nowhere in sight. While her son was concerned about the spaniel, Isabella's concern was mostly for her younger sister.

Emma turned to Isabella. Though it pained her to lay blame on her beloved dog, she began to recite what her mind had rehearsed in the carriage, "Wobble has gotten into a scrape, he played outside and got himself muddy after he was bathed…" then turning back to little Henry, "There was not enough time to bathe him again before we had to leave the Abbey."

"But, my dear Emma, you have been looking forward to bringing him to Hartfield so very much!" exclaimed Isabella. "I am so sorry that Wobble cannot come!"

"It might just as well!"

The voice of her father suddenly cutting into the air shocked the fifteen-year-old.

As soon as the announcement came from the footman, everyone had left the house to come outside. Mr Woodhouse, who seldom left his armchair venturing out of door to greet anyone, was so anxious to see his younger daughter that he decided to follow the others. But as he moved at a much slower pace, he had only just made it to the outside when he heard Emma speaking to Isabella.

"Dogs shall always be dogs, Emma my dear," said Mr Woodhouse, feeling himself very wise. "It is the nature of animals to love mud and dirt. Even our Hartfield pigs which are reared so genteelly cannot be happy without rolling in dirt at least once a day – that was what Serle told me! Your dog… er… Wobble, that is his name, is not it? – You have said that he was clean and well groomed. But no matter how well groomed he is, he shall always get himself into scrapes, because that is his animal nature, there is no denying it. It might just as well to let him stay where he is in case he would bring fleas to the children, or to our house, Emma my dear!"

Her face drained of colour, Emma had risen to stand next to her father, but her eyes remained lowered, staring at her hands, which were presently twisting the cravat that she had been holding since she was at the Abbey.

Very quietly, "You are… right... Papa… Wobble should… always stay at Donwell Abbey… he shall… never… come home with me…" she consented, without meeting her father's eyes.

As the family returned into the house, Mr Knightley was following behind. He saw Emma's back curved into dejection, and he realised what a heavy price she had paid in keeping his bailiff from loneliness this Christmas!

That night, after the festive feast, everyone had repaired to the drawing room to take pleasure of the family felicities. While listening to his brother regaling more grand larceny cases to Mr Woodhouse, Mr Knightley continued to observe Emma from afar.

Although attentive, she had been quiet throughout dinner. He could tell that her spirit was crushed along with the hope of bringing Wobble home with her, and she was struggling with regrets and disappointment inside of her. And now, after the many begging and entreaties from Henry, she was playing horses with them, bouncing the boys one at a time on her knee until they burst into giggles. He was relieved to see her smiles, though strained – she was endeavouring to keep her spirit from sinking to the deep.

But the gentleman's heart skipped a beat when he heard little Henry calling out Wobble's name when Emma was making the sound of horse's neighs. He watched the smile on her dropped and her imaginary horse came to a sudden halt.

For several moments, Henry kept calling out Wobble's name, and Emma's helpless gaze was frozen in a distance. That instant, Mr Knightley was certain that he felt the pang in her heart in his own. And when little Henry insisted on exalting the name of the spaniel, the gentleman drew a long silent sigh and decided that it was time to remove the child from his aunt.

Yet – as he rose to leave his seat, he was surprised to see that Emma had struck up her horse again. Her gaze was no longer fixed helplessly in a distance – she was transforming in front of his very eyes!

As if a brand new day was dawning from inside of her, the dejection that had been casting over her no longer possessed her, her lips had arched into a determined smile, her eyes shone like a sea of crystals greeting the sun, and she looked at Henry with twinkling eyes and let out a spirited horse's neigh.

"Wobble! Wobble!" cried little Henry with exuberance.

"Henry," returned his fifteen-year-old aunt, "I am not Wobble!" she was smiling playfully, if not a little mischievously, at him.

"I am a horse!" she cried.

Then the young lady sat up taller, straighter, and stronger. "Call me Pegasus," she said with ebullience, proclaiming, "and watch me soar!"

As Mr Knightley watched Emma soared over hills and mountains with little Henry, he witnessed the unequalled brilliance in her eyes, as if declaring, unwaveringly, to the Longing and Regret within her that she shall reign and could not be defeated!

It was at that moment that the gentleman said to his young friend, silently, in his heart,

"Well done, Emma! Well done, indeed!"

A/N: In chapter 51 of the book, when Mr Knightley suggested to Emma that he would move to Hartfield after they married in order to preserve her father's happiness, Emma's immediate response was, "I am sure William Larkins will not like it. You must get his consent before you ask mine."

Her response had me pondered for a long time. Why would Mr Knightley's bailiff pop into her head in such important moment? And why would William Larkins' opinion matter so much in where Mr Knightley should live after they marry?

Needless to say, these questions led to the inspiration for this plot.

In addition to exploring the special bond between Emma and William Larkins, I really wanted to bring out the true natures (flawed yet full of goodness) of my beloved heroine in this plot, and to highlight the amazing effect dogs have on us human. :-)

To Woland666 – thank you for your honest review for chapter 47! :-) And to those who feel that there's been too much William Larkins or Wobble – as I noted, it was intentional, but you will definitely see less of them in the remaining two plots of this story.

Now, to those who were saddened by what happened to Mr Larkins in this plot, please know that the story of the Larkins has a happy ending – The following Christmas Richard and his family did come to Donwell to visit William Larkins, the father and son relationship was then fully mended. Even though Richard and his family continued to live away, they would visit his father every other year during Christmas, and likewise, William Larkins would take extended holidays to visit his son, daughter in law, and grandchildren. :-)

And at last, I am very sorry that it took me so long to post the conclusion of this plot. But THANK YOU all for your patience and kindness, and for enduring this very long chapter! :D RL has been so crazy that I don't know when I'll be able to write the remaining two plots, so until we meet again, I wish you happiness and good health! :-)