"This is utterly unacceptable!"

"Dear Mr. Gastoldi, your frustration are understandable and well placed, you must believe me—but I assure you, it won't be long now for Miss Woodhouse to greet you."

"An hour, dear lady! I have been sitting here for the greater part of the hour—and still, the girl is nowhere to be seen!"

Emma flinched as the master of music's harsh tone reverted past even the thick fifteenth century manor walls.

It had been now almost eight minutes since her arrival, and though the two individuals at the other side of the door grew in anxiety at her lack of presence, the young girl had yet endeavored to let herself known.

Sharing a hesitant look with the drawing room hall's footman, she gave an uncertain nod, of which was met in kind.

Emma swallowed thickly, "Well Carter, I suppose it is now or never?"

The old footman bowed, taking a quick moment to glance down at his young mistress, before pushing open the large double doors at long last.

Quietly, as to not arise suspicion, he then gave his response, and despite the conspiring tone of his voice, amusement hinted at his words.

"One must look at the bright side, Miss Woodhouse."

Emma grew wary at the thought, "Is there any to be had…?", she bemoaned.

Carter's nod was discreet, "Perhaps after this day, it might finally be the last we shall see head or tail of this good maestro?"

"Oh!", Emma grinned, agreeing, and her eyes practically twinkled at the thought of it…

Before her excitement quickly turned to dust, when recalling the very last time he was here.

She had purposely played off key just to be rid of him then, only all that had done, after all, was further incite him to stay for three hours more.

"My dear sir," She lamented, "If only the heavens were so gracious."

Carter bowed once more, allowing ample time for the girl to step past him, before closing the doors behind her with a resounding thud.

"Ah! Emma!", Miss Taylor's sigh was as relieved as it was fretful, "finally you are here—come, come greet the maestro—he has been so graciously waiting all this time."

Her charge's smile was as thin as her own, and so the governess tried her best not to hurry her in anymore than necessary.

For her part, the young girl merely observed as the older woman fretted over her anxiously, while her hazel gaze pointedly ignored the red faced instructor standing grumpily to the side.

"You must let him know how much obliged we are to have him honor us so kindly, despite our…our…", Miss Taylor gently gestured with her hand as she struggled with her words, "…careless comportment…"

Under the musician's unpleasant glower, Emma managed to curtsy with the fair air of one whom was not late to an engagement, nor could ever care if she were.

"Good morn."

"Hmm!", The old musician's bow was stiff, and his look very mean indeed, even as he turned to face Miss Taylor shortly after.

"If a student is to at least give half a thought to her playing, as she is to dawdling, one would be more keen as turn a blind eye to…careless comportment… as you say, Madam."

While Emma tried not flinch at the poison in the man's voice, her governess, whom already for the greater part of the hour had been forced upon the pleasure of such lacking delicacy, refrained from letting out the sigh that threatened to spill from lips at the exasperation of it all.

Instead, her smile grew strained, and her already rosy cheeks darkened, "our Emma has been most prompt in her studies, Mr. Gastoldi," she assured, "for that I can vouch."

Emma's eyes widened as they snapped their attention to the older woman, and despite her careful steps, she almost stumbled slightly in shock while making her way across the room.

Miss Taylor ignored the baffled look on her charge's face, and held her head up slightly higher as she spoke, "Why, only just yesterday she spent most of the morning entertaining us with Cramer and Pleyel."

"I…did..?", The blonde mumbled in awe, her brows scrunching up in contemplation.

Hadn't she spent that whole morning yesterday playing cards with…

Miss Taylor pinned her with a stern look.

"Err—that is…y-yes?", at her governess encouraging nod, she grinned and sent her music instructor a look of pure triumph, "Of course I did!"

The musician's bold dark gaze scrutinized his student, and then her governess, before slowly lifting a skeptical brow.

"Her playing has much improved since having the pleasure of your tutelage," Miss Taylor added with a sniff as she shifted to look in the opposite direction, whilst also picking at the invisible lint on her right sleeve, "…I dare say she's quite adept…"

The wide eyed look from before was enhanced with a gaped mouth, as Emma attempted to comprehend what all was actually happening, before slowly, her awe morphed into deep admiration.

For had the responsible, and always honest Anne Taylor, just so easily fibbed?

Warmth grew in Emma's heart, perhaps scorched by the small kindle of constrained fire within her Miss Taylor's own chestnut eyes.

Though where this surprised stemmed from, the girl hadn't the faintest clue, because really, if ever there was one whom would stand up for her, even in times of great unease, it was surely she.

"Well..", Gastoldi finally spoke, turning his own nose away from either of them, thoroughly unimpressed, and not one to be cowed, "that has yet to be seen."

Emma smothered her scoff, choosing instead to allow Miss Taylor to lead her towards the grand pianoforte at the side of the large room.

It was an impressive instrument, great in size, imposing, yet somehow unassuming, much like the rest of Donwell.

Though no matter how handsome the structure, how impressive the quality of materials, or how well it really did compliment the overall look of the space, to her, it was merely the big unsightly hunk of wood used to keep her hostage every Tuesday and Thursday, without respite, for an indefinite amount of time.

In short, Emma despised the ghastly thing.

"Behave, I'm begging of you," her governess muttered pleadingly at her, while bending forward to feign at adjusting her charge's shawl, and together, as if hoping he had somehow puffed away, they chanced a glance at the master of music.

The old man tapped his foot as he read his pocket watch, and upon meeting their gaze, his prominent frown only deepened.

This time, indulging herself, Emma did roll her eyes; speaking of ghastly relics, she despised that one too.

Gastoldi was indeed the very best money could pay for, but his manners could use some refurbishing, and his attitude more than just a little adjustment.

At the very least, he wasn't even pleasant to look at, unlike the fine young pianist a particular Campbell's family had hired, or so a certain overly proud spinster aunt kept going on, and on, and on about.

Worst yet, nothing could please this man.

Even Mr. Knightley himself, was not so strict and unbending!

Seeing her expression, Miss Taylor's lips thinned in reprimand, but despite the clear warning, Emma couldn't help but find no reason in making things easier for the dour man.

After all, it wasn't like he would ever repay her courtesy with any of his own—well—assuming he had any to start with.

"Behave," her governess mouthed, just as the instructor made his way over, "I'll come for you as soon as I can."

"What?", Emma was so outraged she was already making to stand.

However, when Gastoldi's menacing shadow hovered over on her other side, she forced herself to sit back down with a nervous chuckle.

Desperate hazel eyes turned back to Miss Taylor, betrayed.

"You're going to leave me here alone with him?"

Despite Anne's guilty look, and though she made to respond, it was Gastoldi whom answered.

"Oh fret not, Miss Woodhouse," he was practically beaming at the wariness in the other's face, "I'm sure we'll have a delightful time."

Said Woodhouse girl could only gape at him, baffled and tormented.

It really did almost make him simper.

Already he had long been made aware that the governess had some matter or other that required her prompt attention—and Eufrasio Gastoldi would not dare make a liar out of himself—if he denied admitting that he very much enjoyed the prospect of paying back this bratty little student of his, for every precious minute and second wasted away today on whatever insignificant little whim had overran her good sense this time.

"Now let us see…" he prompted, shuffling through the various sheets of music he had toiled with in her long absence—because for her, in honor of the occasion, not just any old piece would do.

"Whom here has of yet been given the absolute pleasure of being butchered by your hands—ah! Yes, this will do nicely, I think…Vivaldi…"

While Emma sent her the deadliest and most hateful of glares, Anne Taylor could only pull the corners of her mouth up at the attempt of a smile, as she quite discreetly backed away, little by little, until the very last bit of her form was completely out of the room.

"Shall I leave the doors open, Miss?", Carter asked, just as she had made it out, unscathed, and with enough of her bearings.

Anne did indeed have a few things that promptly needed to be handled, however none so serious, but much as she adored Emma—truly—even she would rather be anywhere than sit through yet another session or two of her charge's deliberate out of key singing.

"Oh, heavens no," She replied, closing the doors herself, "if the good maestro wants to rid himself of his hearing, he is well within his rights to do so on his own."

The footman chuckled as she passed, "I was under the impression that Miss Woodhouse was quite accomplished?", he replied.

"Yes, well", the governess waved the notion away, without bothering to slow her stride, "I'm afraid it's become the house secret, at this rate."

...

At the other side of the manor, by the west wing, and well away from any unpleasant singing, or any careless note playing, the lord and master of the house had made it to his personal study at last.

Not with the help of his overly attentive house keeper.

"Mrs. Hodges, I assure you, I'm quite alright as I am," George guaranteed, as he stifled his yawn for the countless time that morning, "and I thank you, but I really must see to the correspondence at once."

The room was humid and cold, due to the fire not being started, though he payed it no mind as he quickly made his way towards his work space.

"But, sir", the matronly woman fretted by the door, gesturing madly to the attendants behind her so that they knew to properly accommodate the room, "you've only just arrived what three hours ago, and you were out all night as well. Surely, the mail can wait?"

As the servants worked, Mr. Knightley surveyed the expanse of his writing desk, and at seeing it so neat and tidy, he raised a curious brow.

He could easily recall not being quite so diligent in organizing his paperwork or his old letters, last he was here.

"I'm afraid work waits for no one, " he replied at last, forcing away any small hint of annoyance threatening his tone; for even while battling exhaustion, he could still not begrudge a caring old woman's concern.

He sighed, "I will certainly rest the second I'm done."

"But sir—

"Has anyone been in here since yesterday?"

Mrs. Hodges, well in her way to preparing herself for another round of nagging, stopped short and frowned, looking around the chamber as if actually taking real notice of it for the first time since arriving.

"Er—well…no," she replied, seemingly racking her brains, "not since you were here last, sir—no one is allowed inside when you're away, I make sure of that myself…"

George ran a fingertip over the polished finish of his wooden desk, and curiously observed the very slight bit of dust that accumulated there.

It had not been a lie, it was clear enough that no staff had entered.

"Is something amiss?", his house keeper inquired, now even more wary than before.

Her employer merely shook his head as he lowered himself on his seat, already busying himself with what he had set to do from the very start.

She watched him as he tampered with his drawers, shifting through papers and all personal belongings, before stopping abruptly and frowning as he reached for the pile of letters resting innocently on the side.

George pulled them towards him as his eyes naturally caught sight of the note on top, and his concerned grimace shifted from one of surprise, to the smallest of helpless smiles.

"That will be all, Mrs. Hodges", he muttered, lost in thought as he turned the inconspicuous letter in his hands, "thank you."

"…Very well, sir..?"

The house keeper curtsied, clearly baffled, and gesturing to the rest of the attendants under her, she watched over as they all carefully retired promptly from the room.

Mr. Knightley waved her away, and waited until she too had gone, before letting out a soft chuckle.

So he did have a little intruder after all.

Emma had to be the only person in the whole wide world that could infuriate him to heaven come, to the point of utter madness even, and then so easily turn around and bring him to his knees in her favor at the drop of a hat, with little to no effort at all.

Just how did she do that, and why was it so easy for him to fall for it? He wondered about it as he painstakingly contemplated opening the letter.

There was little doubt of it being her apology, though even he had to admit that he had not expect one after today.

George's fingers twitched and itched to tear the wax seal, but a very slight tingle in his chest stopped him—and it was that little bit of resentment, drowning in hurt and slowly still clawing mercilessly at his insides—what managed to keep him at bay.

You see, George Knightley knew very well what would happen if he were to read the carefully written words hidden inside.

He knew exactly that if Emma explained herself, and he were forced to see things through her prospective, all would inevitably be forgiven.

He did want to forgive Emma—he will forgive her.

He was going to even without the letter, but…

Not yet, not so soon.

He owed himself some respect, after all, and what more, he owed her the same.

In his mind, if he were to pardon her so easily, and if she could not learn for herself the severity of her own actions, then he would fail as a guardian, and only she will come to suffer for it.

Emma was a clever girl, and she was kind, and loving, but she was also spoiled.

He felt he was at fault for that as well.

Perhaps if he could curve a bit of his own desire of keeping her protected, even within the bubble of her own fancies and illusions, and if he could simply just teach her far past a mere slap on the wrist, so to speak, she might yet still grow up to be not so nonsensical.

George nodded, humming to himself as he made his decision, and folding the letter, he placed it within the left breast pocket of his waist coat.

Yes, he will read the letter.

Yes, he will forgive Emma.

Not yet, but in due time.

Then, perhaps someday far after that, he may even come to forgive himself.

This most unworthy Emma…

Though he was plagued by the apprehension of his failed parenting—far as he was to a father figure in anyone's life, much less Emma's, he could not help but grin at the thought of those silly mockingly pitiful words, of which at some point or other had been so carelessly scribbled by the owner of such an obnoxious hand.

George fondly patted the spot over his vest pocket, even as his chuckle turned into a snort.

"Mr. Knightley, sir?"

The hinges of his study's door protested loudly as it was creaked opened, while one of the footmen from earlier that morning stood anxiously before the threshold.

The master of the manor looked up to address him, and taking note of the mail plate secured in the other's hand, he gestured him forward.

"I almost forgot all about it", he admitted, reaching out to take the letter when it was presented to him once more, "thank you, Adams."

The footman bowed, "Good day, sir."

George nodded his dismissal, and whilst his eyes traced the intricate penmanship, his thumb rubbed over the galant coat-of-arms seal holding the letter together.

Just as an unsettling feeling grew in the pit of his stomach, he contemplated how long it had been since his great uncle had written him last. Not that George was foolish enough to not expect any, or at least, some form of correspondence after the events of the night prior.

After all, it was this man, whom at such short notice, had graciously welcomed his former stable boy.

Wasting no more time, he ripped the seal open, and mouthing the first few lines to himself, his unsettled concern promptly shifted into bafflement.

"Dearest cousin,

"Winter and spring have come and gone, ten times to be exact, since your last visit. Of how I have mourned our once carefree days…"

Mr. Knightley frowned, and after double checking the words again, his frown deepened.

"…H-Hortense?"

If he had not heard from his father's uncle in so long, there was even less to be said about the man's grandchild.

The last time he had seen her—well—he couldn't quite fathom…

He quickly re-read her first sentence, of which by her accounts, declared ten long years, and contemplated to himself as to why exactly she would care address Donewell now, and to write him, of all people?

Vaguely, if he forced himself enough, he could recall very dark hair, blue eyes, and the unfortunate remnants of what one might attribute to a sickly pallor.

In fact, if George dared call to mind even longer lost memories, he might also recollect the juvenile feel of his racing heart as his once short legs hastened in running away any time their mothers teased him of a promising future together.

He chortled.

As the only daughter of the late heir of a prominent Lordship, surely she would have been married off by now.

Reaching for the tea one of the maids had graciously served him earlier, Mr. Knightly took a thoughtful sip as he lazily scanned the rest of the letter.

"…Even mama whom thinks of you as a great favorite of hers, has been low in her spirits at the thought that you must be so busy as to not humor her invite to any of our seasons in…"

"…imagine my absolute delight when my grandfather spoke of your arrival this morning, it was over shadowed only by the disappointment of when I was informed of your departure so soon after…"

"…At the very least, you must know we expect your presence at…"

George winced as hot liquid scorched his tongue, forcing him drop the folded quarto paper as if that was what burned him.

Cautiously, he lowered the teacup, and with a wary look, slowly leaned over to re-read the very last bit once more.

Two unexpected words stood out alarmingly, almost on par—yet somehow even more frightening—to that of a burning house in the middle of the night.

Always yours

George blinked, several times.

Even as distant cousins, she had ended the letter in a much too warm of a regard.

Once again the ghost of his late mother's teasing echoed in his ears, making him, now a grown man, shudder no less than he did as a child.

It had only ever been a joke at his expense, all those years ago, after all he was just seven then, and she a newborn, surely no one could have possibly taken it to heart.

Could they?

He shook his head, chuckling nervously at the silliness of it all.

'Of course not…'

And even if these distant relatives of his had indeed taken great pains to request a visit from him, going as far as entreating poor Hortense to administer the invitation, it was only for the pleasure of formally meeting again after so many years of disassociation.

'Yes' , he nodded to himself, quickly swiping at the curious bit of perspiration suddenly coating his temples, 'that had to be it!'

An overpoweringly floral scent penetrated the air about his head then, and as he lowered his hand he couldn't help but inspect his long fingers while doing so, going as far as bringing them up to his nose for a quick sniff.

"What in the world..?"

George could not recall the last time he had received a scented letter—if at all—so strange to him was the very prospect of one.

With the heavy feel of alarm bells ringing over his heart once more, the gentleman proceeded to pick up his pen from the ink pot, and using it's handsome feather as an appendage, he purposely pushed aside Hortense's opened letter, as far away from his person as it could possibly go.

"John—John should be expecting a response…" he muttered, suddenly much too aware of his lack of work ethic, and fumbling through the old pile of mail previously left abandoned on the opposite end of the desk, he finally came across the thick missive his younger brother had sent him so many days ago.

"Must write him first!"

….

"Tempo—tempo, Miss Woodhouse, and with a little more emotion if you please…!"

As Gastoldi hummed the piece, his foot loudly tapped on each beat pointedly, "like so", he ordered, gesturing sharply at his pupil to continue.

'…How is this for emotion…' Emma silently grumbled, slamming her fingers over each key with only slightly less force than a trampling elephant might, '…you un-glad little deaf man…'

With the music much too loud, and her playing sporadic for the greater part of two hours now, it was only expected that she'd be made to practice until her fingers grew sore, and her voice was left exhausted.

So naturally, what little enjoyment could possibly be had, came in the way of showcasing not only an excessive willingness to not learn, but also the evasion of any manner of improvement.

"I do not hear your voice."

The blonde's self satisfied smirk shifted to a miserable frown. Hadn't either of them quite enough of her singing for the day—indeed, for the whole week?

Clearing her throat, she winced at the discomfort, and wondered miserably how much longer her vocal cords could possibly last.

"Some time today would be grand, Miss Woodhouse—starting from the top!"

Left with no other options before her, Emma closed her eyes, and whilst sending a small prayer up to the heavens, inhaled…

"sAd WAs tHE pLIGHT of ThE wanDERINg STRanGEr, hUNgRY AND pALE wAs THE iNFAnt ShE BOre—

"NOT THAT ONE", Gastoldi snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose, not for the first time today, "start again—Silent Worship, in C major. I beseech you."

Emma huffed, letting her hands drop unceremoniously to her lap in protest, "I am already tired of singing it", she whined.

Her master of music scoffed.

"I must ask that you refrain from sullying the name of such graceful art, Miss Woodhouse, with the screeching hell-fire you have much too daringly called singing."

The younger of the two rolled her eyes, pressing down absentmindedly on one of the minor keys with a single thin finger.

"Mr Knightley says my voice is perfectly adequate", she informed.

Gastoldi laughed dryly, and ignoring the cold look Emma sent him, he leaned down to turn the sheets of her music book himself.

"Clearly the poor man has succumb to madness", he reasoned, eye's scanning for the right score, "no doubt from the effects of your performances."

Unfazed, Emma feigned interest in the gloss of her bracelet, "It is no fault of the pupil, if a teacher fails in their duty to teach."

Averting the very strong desire to go for his beating stick, sitting on its lonesome on the sofa across the room, the old master of music bit his tongue to the count of five, in an effort to properly reminded himself of where he stood, and exactly who's ward he was instructing.

Nevertheless, his eye twitched.

To conceive that at one point in his life he had actually conducted in large music halls—garnering praise everywhere he went, mind—only to now find himself as the miserable subject of great mockery for such an ungrateful and overindulged child…

Well, much as he must abstain, the very thought of it surely was enough incentive to garner a thorough punishment or two on his behalf.

Gastoldi shook his head, forcing away the small fantasy of a well-deserved lashing gallivanting through his mind, and thought instead of the attractive and hefty sum of money that awaited him by the end of the session.

"You may proceed with Silent Worship", he spoke at last, calmly, and letting out a much too patient breath, "once you are ready."

Emma, whom for her part had been able to do nothing more than observe her music master's face as it shifted from a myriad of magnificent shades of puce, could only nod in obedience for once.

Reluctantly, she wiggled her tired fingers, and began playing the wretched song again.

"…DID yOU NoT hEAr MY lADy…Go DOwN the GArDEN sINGing…"

Though the girl had been caught off guard, due her instructor's severe lack of exploding rage, she still managed to glare at him as he made a turn about the pianoforte.

"Ah, Mr, Knightley!", she heard him call, somewhere by the other side of the room, once she had lost sight of him, "Do come in!"

"…BlACk BI~rd and thrush were silent, to hear the alleys ringing…", with her heart in her throat, the blonde made a hasty effort to improve upon not just her performance, but her posture as well, and in painstaking effort, attempted to look over her shoulder discreetly, "Oh, saw you not my lady—

Her busy fingers fumble, tripping over the keys unflatteringly, as her gaze swept across the empty room, and she jumped with a start when she turned back around only to find Gastoldi leaning against the fireplace next to her, with a smug look on his infuriating face.

Stopping all together, she observed him cautiously, and despite herself, her cheeks warmed at the thought that Mr. Knightley might be watching.

"What are you…"

Her instructor grinned with so much contentment, it could have been called eerie.

"I have been presiding over your musical lessons since you were ten years old, you know", he reminded her, taking great amusement in how she forced herself—with much difficulty—from stealing a look behind her.

"Yes and?"

"Do not you think it curious indeed, that for so many years, I would so willingly turn a blind eye to your ridiculous attempts at reverting any form of improvement?", he reasoned, waving away the notion as if it insulted him.

"If you truly did not learn, Miss Woodhouse, I would not be here now."

Wide eyed, the blonde did chance a look behind her then, and her pink dusted cheeks turned crimson, when she found the room completely devoid of her guardian.

"You sly old man!", Emma gaped, outraged, "How dare you trick me!"

"Emma!"

Miss Taylor's appalled cry chastised her from the doorway, and this time the girl did visibly flinch as she turns to face her governess.

Hazel met brown, and the youngest of the two gulped.

"My word, Miss Woodhouse", Anne was not amused, "to think I thought you old enough to be left to your own devices. How is it that now I must ask you to apologize—and yet you still have not!"

"But—but Miss Taylor!"

"I do not wish to hear it, my dear", the governess warned, sending her pupil a very sharp gaze, "unless, of course, it is your repentance for such unheard and crass behavior."

The particular look Miss Taylor gave her, served as a reminder to Emma, that now was certainly not the time to fan the ever growing fires of her less than pleasing conduct.

Having no other choice but to admit defeat, the blonde acquiesced with a sour pout, and turned to face her most detested music master.

"I am fatigued and have been rude, sir", she enunciated each word as if they left a terrible taste in her mouth, "allow me to go and rest so that I may reflect on my lack of decorum."

Gastoldi's grin was as wicked as the one he'd used while tricking her before, though he granted her wish without any qualms.

"By all means", he replied with a bow.

His student's scowl was like a piercing dagger, even as she curtsied politely in return.

Miss Taylor, for her part, waited until her charge scurried out of the room, before she too turned to the music teacher with an embarrassed grimace.

"You must pardon us", she spoke, wringing her fingers anxiously, "our dear Emma is under the weather today—I-I beg you not mind it, for she means no harm."

The old musician shook his head, dismissing the idea with a nonchalant shrug.

"I cannot hold any ill will towards an orphan child", he confessed, and then purposely gestured at his surroundings, "no matter how elegant her situation."

Miss Taylor's timid smile was grateful, "were it not for age, she would already be mistress of her own house", she lamented, "precious few would spare her sentiments beyond rancor and envy."

Somewhat irked, Gastoldi lifted a curious brow, as if contemplating the hidden meaning in her words.

Precious few would spare her?

"No matter how bleak the world, madam, sad children do not inspire contempt", he assured, voice tight at the implication in what he felt were nonsense words, "it is only sad adults whom breed every manner of disesteem."

Miss Taylor quickly opened her mouth in retort, but suddenly grew taken aback, and as his implication settled, she instead lowered herself into the nearest seat.

"Emma is not sad, Mr. Gastoldi", her amused laugh sounded artificial even to her own ears, "she is merely bored."

"Bored?", the instructor echoed, thoroughly unconvinced, "I see nothing deprived of her—

A gentle, pale arm extended in the air, cutting him off, as if the owner was begging for mercy.

"Nor does her guardian wish it", the governess insisted, the pretty pretense of a pleasant smile on her lips doing nothing to hide the now uncomfortable air about the room, "…at least…not musically, I hope?"

The man before her could only gawk, but forcibly digressed nonetheless.

Gastoldi is old, he has lived many years now, and taught for most of them. How many homes did he not see? How many children did he not meet?

In truth, as a mere master of music, there was far too much he has beheld in households such as this one, and he had long learned the serious consequences of getting involved in such delicate and troublesome matters.

Even this woman now, she was clearly partial to her own blindness by choice, so who was he to begrudge her a change in topic?

It was not his place, after all, nor should he ever want it to be.

With a determined nod, the aging musician accepted his resolution—let them call on a doctor, if one day the lady so wishes to see that which was right before her very eyes, though even he knew she'd never bear to—as for him, it was completely out of his hands.

He, Eufrasio Gastoldi, was a teacher, his profession music, and music he shall teach.

Ignoring the governess's expectant gaze, the former maestro ambulated towards the direction of the beautiful pianoforte—the one his much too privileged pupil was seemingly determined to batter until broken—and ran his hand over the rich woodwork appreciatively.

What he would have given to practice on—not mention posses—such a magnificent instrument in his own youth?

Gastoldi sighed.

"The girl's playing is quite good, and she is able to learn any manner of song desired, were she not lazy and uninspired", he spoke at last, moving to organize the songbook long left abandoned on the music desk, "perhaps a change in instrument will do her well—a harp, I might be so bold to suggest—to bring forth those attributes in which she truly excels."

Miss Taylor, now much recovered, blinked in surprise, "a harp, you say?"

The musician nodded as he made his way back to her, smiling coldly as he handed her Emma's music book, "A most delicate instrument indeed, and a great favorite amongst the young ladies of today", he replied.

Anne averted her gaze as he stepped past, cradling the book to her her breast thoughtfully, as if hugging the owner itself.

"Yes, I've heard it very well praised", she agreed, garnering enough grace about her to attempt at another grin, "but won't it interfere with her usual lessons?"

Gastoldi snorted, barely making a show of considering the question, whilst he paused to retrieve his belongings—beating stick and all.

"Oh not to worry, madam", he assured, his acerbic tone almost derisive, "scarcely will it have need to be played well at all, as long as the owner is pleasing enough to look at."

….

Emma bit her lip in both apprehension and indignation, and even though it hurt, she continued to do so all the way towards the servant's quarters.

How she despised that Gastoldi—how she despised her own short temper that much more!

Hadn't she learned by now to control herself? Wasn't she meant to be above embittered music masters and—and overly foolish stable boys?

Now that Mr. Knightley wouldn't spare half a glance her way, was it an aspiration of her bad humor that her beloved Miss Taylor should follow suit?

Despite her slow steps, the gasping breath in her throat grew strained and uncomfortably shallow, and her limbs shook as if they'd been pricked with sharp little pins and needles at the thought of them—all of them. Every last one!

Could not anyone understand her for once?

As she walked, the headache threatening to split her skull in half grew tenfold, just as the taste of blood hit her tongue, and by now even the bow tied to her long golden mane inexplicably made her want to pull all her hair out in one go.

The very idea made her want to laugh, and then shriek, until the last of her voice was all gone.

Stopping to take a deep breath, Emma swiped her tongue over the injured part of her lip, and then reach up to gently pat the ribbon Sophie had kindly replaced for her after her ridiculous escapade to the barns.

The blonde's eyes fluttered closed, letting out a faint sigh, just as her fingers came across the soft, luxurious satin, and any sudden urge she had felt in ripping it away from her, subsided slightly.

For no matter what, despite all exasperation and disappointment, she knew such thoughts could never ever be acted upon.

She was Emma Woodhouse, she reminded herself, allowing the feel of the rich material to sooth the sore tips of her tired digits for a moment longer, before letting her hands drop back to her sides again.

Not just any Woodhouse either, but in name, the very last in all of Highbury—no other soul in the whole wide world, she reasoned, could dare claim the honor.

As she resumed her walk, Emma ignored the sleepy halls about her, and lifting her head higher, she allowed her posture to grow straight and rigid.

From this moment on, she pledged, however unbecoming she may act, and whatever thoughts tormented her mind, they should and would only ever be known to none but her.

Her anger too, was her own, and she granted no rights for any onlookers to be privy of it outside herself.

Indeed, she deeply craved nothing more than to fling and throw the first things in her sight, and then just as fervently watch in satisfaction how they all shattered into a useless pile on the floor.

Or even to yell and sob, loud and impassioned enough, until all would be forced to hear it.

There was much she wished she could do…

But any price was worth being Emma Woodhouse.

Who would dare not pay it?

Forcing away any further contemplative thoughts for now, she paused to observe the row of crudely displayed tallow candles lining a nearby entryway, and frowned.

It was the first time Emma had ventured anywhere near the staff rooms, but still she never imagined they would be so dim and dreary.

Using the stone archway as an aid, she peered into the dark adjacent hallway ahead, recalling how Sophie had once mentioned something about a staircase.

For the life of her now, however, the blonde hadn't even the faintest clue as to where it could possibly be located.

Also, was it always so…frightening down here?

"You there!", She called, after taking a moment to scout about the area for a helping hand, only to come across one lone girl, young in face, hastening to avoid her, "Come here!"

Taking everything within her power to do so, Emma refrained from rolling her eyes as the servant girl awkwardly stumbled towards her.

"Good afternoon, Miss Woodhouse", she spoke gingerly, lowering her gaze as she curtsied.

"You are?"

The girl curtsied again, "Mary, from the kitchens."

"If you work in the kitchen, why are you covered in soot?", Emma couldn't help but ask, as she took in the worn, rough material of her dark stained clothes.

"It is coal from the fires, Miss Woodhouse."

Her brows knitting in concern, and used to the ancient wooden fireplaces of upstairs, the blonde took half a step back, and looked over the girl's head as if expecting the same smoke to engulf her at any moment.

"I am looking for a room, where my personal attendant Sophie, keeps", she explained, trying her best not to cover her nose, "please tell me you know of her?"

The little kitchen maid shook her head, keeping her eyes averted, "personal attendants are housed upstairs", she replied, lifting a jittery finger towards the two large doors down the hall.

Emma followed the gesture, and nodded, sending the girl a grateful look, "Then you will come with me", she ordered, "I refuse to be on my own, here in this ghastly place."

Mary, whom with much anxiety knew to be expected at her post, could only do as she was told.

This was how she found herself, climbing after the master of the house's ward, up the two sets of stairs that not just the head cook, but Mrs. Hodge herself, expressly forbade of her and the rest of the downstairs staff.

The young mistress spoke amiably as she lead the way, pretending to not take any note of the cracks and dust, laden across every fourth step, and half the expanse of the walls, but the maid heard none of it. Much too mesmerized, was she, with the back of the pristine white morning gown the other wore, and its beautiful pink and gold trimmings.

How elegant Miss Woodhouse was, the servant thought with a smile, so put together and lovely, and almost untouchable, much like one of the little muslin and ivory dolls up on the shelves of Ford's.

Never in all her short years of working at the Abbey, had Mary ever thought to see such a sight right before her eyes!

"How shall we know which door is hers?", She heard Miss Woodhouse wonder out loud.

Once she too had made it all the way up, the servant girl took in the large number of rooms before them, and gaped.

If her mistress did not know, how could possibly she?

Though before Mary had time to answer, a resounding set of giggles broke through the echoing silence, just as two plucky chambermaids burst out from one of the side rooms, arms intertwined affectionately whilst chatting among themselves.

Looking back to Miss Woodhouse, whom wordlessly prompted her forward in their direction, the kitchen maid rubbed the worn sleeve on her arm as she sheepishly took a step towards them.

"That's what I heard as well!", one of the two older girls exclaimed, whispering loudly as if oblivious to the world around her.

The other, a gangly brunette with a pinched face, brought a hand to her lips in an effort to hide her titters, "Yes, and he was…"

Her words suddenly trailed off warily, just as she caught sight of Mary, but quickly taking in her appearance, she gestured to her friend with a hint of amusement.

"Well, what is this?", her companion, the taller of the two, mocked, eyeing the little maid as she folded into herself, "I thought all the cindery scullery maids were told to stay in the kitchens."

Evading the taunt, Mary could only smile weakly, gripping her mended apron by it's patch as she curtsied, "M-Miss W—

"How curious!", The same girl added, allowing her voice to carry across the hall, "It can speak, yet how is it that it still fails to understand?"

The brunette's much too amused laugh, of which only served to spur the other maid on, faded to a gasp, and pulling on her friend's skirt in warning, she curtsied low.

"Miss Woodhouse", she muttered, when her partner sent her a puzzled look.

The diversion on the taller girl's face also slackened, and she too curtsied, keeping her head low as she caught sight of the unamused stare on Mr. Knightley's ward, whom had so suddenly just seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

Emma cast the little kitchen maid a severe and unimpressed glare as she pushed her aside, and with the true authority befitting her station, she allowed her intimidating eyes to sweep lazily over them whom had so daringly stalled her from the important task at hand.

As her bored hazel gaze addressed the two cowering chambermaids, she scoffed.

'Why was it always the squealing mice whom fancied themselves roaring lions?'

It was outmost paramount that Sophie were to be found, and what's more, Emma cared very little to play with silly and insignificant pray.

"I fail to see the humor", the heiress declared at last, taking her time in slowly sizing up one girl and then other, finding great pleasure in how for every half step she took forward, they were very mindful to retreat an extra two.

"A pity", she tutted, "for I do so love to laugh."

There was something to be said about the satisfaction one feels when graced with the power to look down on those whom not only coveted above their station, but could not afford lifting their own heads higher than that which their weak necks could hold.

Raising an expectant brow, she offered either of them the opportunity to do so now, and smirked knowingly when both girls kept their noses pointed at their feet.

Emma beamed, extending her soft, pale hand so that it could touch for a second, the plane cream colored maid's cap on the tallest's sensibly styled hair, and gently appreciated how it paired well enough with the flowery pattern of her cotton dress.

"Perhaps you'd like to enlighten me?"

With her own hands clasping together tight enough to make her knuckles go white, the older servant girl kept her head lowered as she shook it.

"I dare not, Miss Woodhouse", she replied, her boisterous pride reduced to a modest whisper.

The young mistress quirked her lips in a show of indifference, and turned to the brunette, whom already had the good sense to trembled without needing to be told.

"And you?"

Wordlessly, she also shook her head.

Their employer's ward nodded, letting out the smallest and most delicate of sighs, as if put out that the weight of the world had dared inconvenience her dainty shoulders for a moment longer than it could ever have the privilege to.

"Well then, if you're all done reacquainting yourselves as servants", she insisted, gracing them with a smile just as frigid as it was dazzling, "might I suggest seeing to your duties—preferably before replacements are in order?"

"Yes, Miss. Woodhouse", they both muttered in unison, curtsying low one last time.

Dismissing them with barely a look of farewell, Emma ignored as they tripped over themselves in an effort to scamper away quick enough, in what she assumed, was their desperate hope to preserve what little dignity still afforded them tails between their legs.

"Ah—wait!…M-Miss Woodhouse…"

The sound of the scullery maid's timid voice, however, brought the chambermaids to a sudden halt, and with identical wincing looks marring their faces, they were forced to turn back around.

Miss Woodhouse huffed, "What is it?"

Mary, whom until mere moments ago had only been able to look on at the happenings with wide apprehensive eyes, pulled nervously at her apron.

"…The room..?"

"Ah, yes!", the blonde exclaimed, deigning her with a rare appreciative glance, before leveling the other two with her attention once more.

"One of you", she ordered, signaling with a gesture for them to be quick about it, "point me in the way of Sophie's room, if you could bare to be so kind."

The chamber maids shared anxious looks, and after mouthing silently to each other for a slight moment, one was nudged forward.

"She takes residence down the next hall, Miss Woodhouse", the brunette answered, rubbing her shoulder discretely with a sharp glare to her friend, "the second to last door. Shall I—

"Did you not hear?", Emma asked the kitchen maid, whom nodded most readily, "Go then and fetch her for me."

As Mary took her leave, the other two, not yet dismissed for a second time, blanched and quickly lowered their heads once more when Miss Woodhouse caught their stares.

Playing at ignorance, the blonde feigned a great interest in her ring long enough for the maids to squirm under her presence for half a minute more, but just as boredom set in, she rolled her eyes.

"Go away."

Neither girl needed to be told twice.

And, for all that time needlessly wasted, it only took less than two minutes for the scullery maid to show up with a concerned faced Sophie in tow.

"Miss Woodhouse?", she cried, hurrying at the sight of Emma, "You really are here—oh, but if you had need of me, why did you not have someone call?"

The younger girl readily dismissed the french woman's worry with a grin.

"What does it matter?", she replied, "I am here now."

Young Mary, whom minded herself to keep quiet, grew stunned with awe at the genuine look the little Mistress shared with her attendant.

It was the very first time—well since having the honor of just meeting her—that the little maid was able to take special note of how when Miss Woodhouse's lips lifted high enough into what she now realized was the form of her true smile, a small secret dimple would appear at the corner of her mouth.

This was also the first time the gentleman's daughter did not seem to be so very frighteningly impeccable, or even, overwhelmingly indifferent to all around her.

"Mary, from the kitchens?"

Startled out of her reverie, the scullery maid averted her gaze when addressed, "Yes, Miss Woodhouse?"

"Have I something on my face?"

"N-no, Miss Woodhouse", she muttered, heat flooding to her cheeks in embarrassment.

Emma shared a half amused look with Sophie, and shook her head in mock annoyance when the older girl's lips twitched.

"Then you may go—ah, but do keep in mind, if ever I come across you cowering before any other servant again, I myself will personally see to your immediate removal", she replied, tone once again bored, even whilst leveling the younger girl with a sincere yet pointed look.

"I dare say Mr. Knightley will have no use for undependable workers."

While Mary solemnly nodded her understanding, both of Sophie's brows lifted in astonishment as she turned to peer pensively at her mistress.

The lady's maid stayed like so, seemingly amazed, even while curtsying as the little kitchen maid bid her farewells.

"What a fine child", she commented, once the girl had gone.

Emma only scoffed, and held out her hand for the Frenchwoman to take.

"Come, show me to your rooms", she said, eyes gleaming mischievously, "I have a task for you."

A/N:

My dearest reader, for dearest you will always be…

I cannot make speeches, reader. If I loved you less, I might be able to post the first draft and call it a day. But you know what I am. You will read nothing but truth from me. I have abandoned you, and forced you to wait months on end, and you have borne it as no other other reader in this site would have borne it.

Commenters know, I have been a very indifferent writer. But you understand me. Yes, you see, you understand my story and will return to it if you can. At present, I ask only that you still read, once more read this long, so very long, mess of a chapter I have presented to you…

(On a serious note though: I have just edited and "improved" upon all the older chapters of this story, just in case anyone who's come back to read would like to know.)

~Some feedback would be aces! Thanks for reading, guys!