Chapter 3: A Young Heart Misled

Harriet Smith did not recover from refusing Robert Martin as quickly as Emma had expected.

For several days, the girl moved through Hartfield like someone walking in a dream. She smiled when Emma smiled. She agreed when Emma spoke. She tried to look proud of herself, because Emma had told her she had acted with dignity, but every now and then her face softened into doubt.

Emma saw the doubt and disliked it.

Not because it made her regret her advice. She would not call it regret. Regret belonged to people who had made mistakes, and Emma had not yet decided she had made one. Still, Harriet’s sadness made the room feel less bright.

“My dear Harriet,” Emma said one afternoon, when they sat together beside the fire, “you must not allow one letter to rule your spirits.”

Harriet looked down at the ribbon in her hands. She had been turning it over and over until its edges curled. “I know I should not.”

“Then do not.”

Harriet gave a small, helpless smile. “You make it sound easy.”

Emma softened. “Because it will become easy. You have done nothing wrong. You chose carefully. You refused a connection that was not equal to what you may become.”

The words seemed to steady Harriet, but only for a moment.

“Do you think he is very unhappy?” she whispered.

Emma paused.

Robert Martin’s honest letter had returned to her mind more often than she liked. Its plain warmth, its careful respect, its quiet hope—these things had no elegance, but they had sincerity. And sincerity, Emma had discovered, could be inconveniently memorable.

“He may be disappointed,” she said at last, “but disappointment passes.”

“Does it?”

“Of course.”

Harriet looked unconvinced.

Emma leaned forward and took her hand. “You must trust me. A young woman cannot marry only because a man is kind and she fears causing pain. Marriage is too serious for pity.”

That argument, at least, was strong.

Harriet nodded slowly. “I did not love him enough, did I?”

“No,” Emma said, more firmly than she felt. “You did not.”

Harriet breathed out, as if Emma’s certainty had given her permission to borrow it.

Emma was relieved.

She had begun to understand that Harriet’s mind was like soft wax. Every impression mattered. A careless word might unsettle her. A confident one might shape her completely.

That should have made Emma cautious.

Instead, it made her feel necessary.

If Harriet was weak, then guidance was not interference. It was kindness. It was protection. Emma told herself this often enough that it became almost indistinguishable from truth.

The only person who refused to accept it was Mr. Knightley.

He had not called at Hartfield for two days after their disagreement, and Emma felt his absence more than she cared to admit. She told herself she was glad of the peace. She told herself she did not miss being judged in her own drawing room.

Yet every evening, when the servants brought in the lamps and her father settled into his chair, Emma listened for footsteps in the hall.

On the third evening, he came.

Mr. Woodhouse received him with delight.

“Mr. Knightley! We feared the cold had kept you away.”

“No, sir. Only business.”

“Business is almost as bad as cold.”

“Sometimes worse,” Mr. Knightley said.

Emma looked up from her embroidery. “How fortunate that you survived both.”

His eyes met hers. There was no anger in them now, but there was still distance.

“Fortunate indeed.”

The conversation began carefully, like people crossing a frozen pond. Mr. Woodhouse spoke of the weather, the fire, and Mrs. Weston’s health. Emma answered lightly. Mr. Knightley responded with his usual patience.

But beneath every ordinary sentence lay the memory of their quarrel.

At last, Mr. Woodhouse dozed, and silence opened between them.

Emma broke it first.

“Are we never to speak of Harriet again?”

Mr. Knightley looked at her. “I will speak of her whenever you can bear to hear me.”

“I can bear many things.”

“Except correction.”

“Especially correction, when it is deserved.”

“And who decides that?”

Emma smiled despite herself. “I do, naturally.”

The corner of his mouth moved. The ice cracked a little.

Then he said, “I was severe the other day.”

Emma lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“But not, I think, wrong.”

“There is your apology, then. Very handsome.”

“I am sorry if I hurt you.”

That was different.

Emma’s fingers stilled over the cloth. “You did.”

His expression softened. “I know.”

For a moment she felt less angry, which was inconvenient, because anger had been useful.

“And yet,” she said, “I remain convinced Harriet should not marry Robert Martin.”

“Then we remain opposed.”

“Not entirely. I admit he wrote a respectable letter.”

“That is generous of you.”

“Do not laugh. It was better than I expected.”

“Because you expected a farmer to write like an animal?”

Emma frowned. “Now you are trying to offend me again.”

“No. I am trying to make you hear yourself.”

She looked away.

Mr. Knightley leaned forward slightly. “Emma, you have many gifts. But you must learn that refinement is not the same as worth.”

“And you must learn that worth alone does not create happiness.”

“No. But without worth, happiness has poor foundations.”

She had no quick answer.

The conversation might have sharpened again, but Mr. Woodhouse woke suddenly and asked whether anyone had mentioned drafts, because he felt certain one had entered the room.

The subject was lost.

Yet Emma spent the rest of the evening unusually thoughtful.

The next day brought a welcome distraction.

Harriet arrived at Hartfield with brighter eyes than she had shown all week.

“Miss Woodhouse,” she said, hardly waiting until her bonnet was removed, “I have seen Mr. Elton.”

Emma looked up with interest.

Mr. Elton, the young vicar of Highbury, had long been a pleasant figure in Emma’s mind. He was handsome, agreeable, well-mannered, and always eager to please. He had a comfortable living, a respectable position, and enough polish to move easily through good society.

In short, he was everything Robert Martin was not.

“Have you?” Emma asked.

“Yes. On the road near Mrs. Goddard’s. He stopped to speak to us. He asked after you particularly.”

Emma smiled. “Did he?”

“Very particularly.”

Harriet’s blush was slight, but Emma saw it.

A new idea, already planted, began to grow.

Mr. Elton and Harriet.

It had occurred to Emma before as a possibility, but now it seemed almost a design. He had noticed Harriet. He had spoken warmly. He admired Emma, of course—everyone admired Emma—but perhaps his visits to Hartfield might serve a second purpose.

Harriet needed a better prospect.

Mr. Elton needed a wife.

And Emma needed to prove that her judgment was not only kind but brilliant.

“Mr. Elton is a very pleasing man,” Emma said carefully.

Harriet’s eyes lowered. “Yes. He is.”

“And good-hearted.”

“Very.”

“And respected by everyone.”

“I am sure he must be.”

Emma watched her with satisfaction. The ground was ready. One must not rush such things. A seed forced too quickly might break. But a little sunlight, a little warmth, and the heart would do the rest.

“He spoke to you kindly?” Emma asked.

“Very kindly. He said I must not let the cold keep me indoors, for walking gives health and beauty.”

Emma almost laughed. It sounded exactly like Mr. Elton: pleasant, polished, and just flattering enough to be remembered.

“A charming remark,” she said.

Harriet blushed more deeply.

By the time Mr. Elton called at Hartfield later that week, Emma was prepared.

She placed Harriet near the window, where the afternoon light softened her features. She encouraged conversation, guided topics gently, and observed Mr. Elton with close attention.

He was all admiration.

At least, Emma believed he was.

He praised the room. He praised the weather after Emma said it was not disagreeable. He praised Harriet’s embroidery when Emma drew attention to it. He smiled often, bowed gracefully, and seemed delighted with everything.

“Miss Smith has a very delicate hand,” Emma said, lifting Harriet’s work.

Mr. Elton leaned nearer. “Indeed. Very delicate. Very elegant.”

Harriet looked overwhelmed.

Emma felt triumphant.

“She is too modest to think well of her own talents,” Emma continued.

“Modesty,” Mr. Elton said, looking warmly in their direction, “is often the companion of true merit.”

Excellent.

Emma could hardly have written the line better herself.

After he left, Harriet sat silent for nearly a minute.

Then she whispered, “He is so very kind.”

Emma smiled. “Yes.”

“Do you think he truly liked my embroidery?”

“I think he liked more than your embroidery.”

Harriet’s eyes widened. “Miss Woodhouse!”

“Do not look so frightened. It is only an observation.”

“But he could never—”

“Why not?”

Harriet lowered her head. “He is so far above me.”

Emma took her hand. “My dear Harriet, you must stop speaking as if you were beneath everyone. It is unbecoming, and worse, it is untrue.”

Harriet trembled between disbelief and hope.

Emma knew that look.

It was the moment before a heart allowed itself to dream.

From then on, Mr. Elton became the center of Harriet’s imagination, though Harriet herself hardly dared say so. Emma did much of the saying for her.

She praised his manners. She noted his attentions. She interpreted his smiles. She turned every polite word into possible tenderness and every visit into evidence.

The more Harriet believed, the more Emma believed too.

It was a delightful arrangement.

One morning, Emma decided Harriet should have her portrait drawn.

“A portrait?” Harriet said, startled.

“Yes. You have a face that would look very well on paper.”

“Mine?”

“Certainly yours.”

“But I am sure I could not sit properly.”

“Then I shall teach you.”

The idea pleased Emma for several reasons. It would flatter Harriet, occupy their mornings, and—most importantly—give Mr. Elton an opportunity to admire her more openly.

When Mr. Elton heard of the project, he responded exactly as Emma hoped.

“A portrait of Miss Smith? What a happy thought. Miss Woodhouse, your talents will do justice to a most worthy subject.”

Harriet blushed.

Emma smiled.

The first sitting took place in the drawing room, with Harriet near the window and Emma holding her pencil like a general holding a sword.

“Turn your face slightly,” Emma instructed. “No, not so much. Yes, there. Think of something pleasant.”

Harriet looked instantly confused.

“Not anxious,” Emma said. “Pleasant.”

“I am trying.”

“Trying looks anxious.”

Mr. Elton, who had arrived at precisely the right time, stood nearby in admiration.

“I have never seen a more charming likeness begun,” he said before Emma had drawn more than the outline.

Emma laughed. “You are too generous.”

“Impossible. Praise cannot be excessive where beauty and talent meet.”

Harriet’s color deepened until Emma feared the portrait would need twice as much pink as planned.

The sittings continued over several days. Mr. Elton found reasons to call during nearly all of them. He admired every line, every shadow, every small improvement. He urged Emma to finish it, then urged her not to hurry, because such beauty deserved care.

Emma interpreted all of this in Harriet’s favor.

How could she not?

When the portrait was complete, Emma felt proud of it. It was not perfect. She had improved Harriet’s features slightly—softened the chin, brightened the eyes, refined the shape of the mouth—but Emma saw no harm in making a picture show what a person might be at her best.

Mr. Elton was enchanted.

“It must be framed,” he declared. “It must absolutely be framed. Such a treasure cannot remain unprotected.”

Harriet looked ready to vanish from happiness.

Emma’s heart danced.

“Do you truly think it worth framing?” she asked.

“Worth framing? Miss Woodhouse, it would be a crime not to.”

“Then perhaps we should send it to London.”

“Allow me,” Mr. Elton said quickly. “I should be honored to take charge of it.”

Emma lowered her eyes to hide her smile.

There it was. Proof.

A man did not become so eager over a young woman’s portrait unless his heart was engaged.

Harriet could hardly speak after he left with the portrait carefully wrapped.

“Do you think,” she whispered, “that he cared so much because it was me?”

Emma answered gently, “I think you may safely believe he did not care only for the paper.”

Harriet pressed her hands to her cheeks.

If happiness could be dangerous, Emma did not see it then. She saw only a girl raised from sadness into hope, and she felt herself the author of that hope.

Mr. Knightley, however, remained unconvinced.

When Emma mentioned the portrait and Mr. Elton’s enthusiasm, he frowned.

“Elton is eager to please you,” he said.

“To please Harriet.”

“Are you certain?”

Emma laughed. “Entirely.”

“I think he admires the artist more than the subject.”

“That is absurd.”

“Is it?”

“Mr. Elton is civil to me because I am his friend and neighbor. His real interest is plain.”

“Plain to you because you arranged it.”

Emma’s eyes flashed. “You will not allow me success in anything.”

“I will gladly allow success when I see it.”

“And what do you see?”

“A vain young man flattering the woman of consequence in the room.”

Emma stiffened. “You misjudge him.”

“Perhaps.”

“You misjudge Harriet too.”

“No. I pity Harriet.”

That silenced her.

Mr. Knightley’s voice softened. “She is being led into expectations that may hurt her.”

“You are determined to make me cruel.”

“No, Emma. I am determined to make you careful.”

She turned away. “Then you waste your effort.”

“I hope not.”

After he left, Emma told herself he was wrong. Mr. Knightley was too suspicious, too practical, too unwilling to see romance where romance clearly stood before him.

Mr. Elton had praised Harriet’s beauty. He had taken charge of her portrait. He visited often. He spoke with warmth. What more could be required?

The answer came, quietly, in the small hours of the night.

Certainty.

Emma had confidence, but not certainty.

And confidence, when challenged, had a way of becoming louder to hide its weakness.

The days grew colder. Highbury wrapped itself in winter mist. At Hartfield, Harriet lived between trembling hope and nervous joy. Mr. Elton continued his visits. Emma continued her observations. Mr. Knightley continued his warnings, though less often, as if he had realized she would not listen.

Then one evening, Mrs. Weston came to Hartfield.

The sight of her entering the drawing room still struck Emma with a small ache. She looked happy—softened by marriage, brightened by affection, and yet still entirely herself.

Emma embraced her with more feeling than she intended.

“You are too far away,” she said.

Mrs. Weston smiled. “Half a mile?”

“An unreasonable distance.”

“Then I shall try to make it shorter by visiting often.”

They sat together near the fire, and for a little while Emma felt almost restored. Mrs. Weston listened as she always had, with warmth and patience. Emma told her of Harriet, of the portrait, of Mr. Elton’s admiration.

Mrs. Weston heard it all with interest, though not with quite the excitement Emma expected.

“You think Mr. Elton attached to Harriet?” she asked.

“I am certain of it.”

Mrs. Weston smiled gently. “That would be a pleasant thing if true.”

“If true?”

“My dear Emma, I only mean that young men may admire in many directions before they settle in one.”

Emma felt a small irritation. “You sound like Mr. Knightley.”

“Then perhaps Mr. Knightley and I are both cautious.”

“Or both blind.”

Mrs. Weston laughed softly. “Perhaps.”

But Emma saw concern in her friend’s eyes.

It unsettled her more than Mr. Knightley’s opposition. Mr. Knightley opposed many things. Mrs. Weston rarely did.

Still, Emma refused to yield. “You will see. Mr. Elton cares for Harriet. I have watched him carefully.”

Mrs. Weston took her hand. “Only promise me you will watch Harriet’s heart as carefully as his manners.”

That night, Emma thought of the sentence again and again.

Watch Harriet’s heart.

Harriet’s heart was already involved. That was the difficulty. To stop now would be cruel. To continue might be risky. But surely the risk lay only in doubt, and Emma had never been a friend to doubt.

A few days later, Mr. Elton returned with the framed portrait.

It looked handsome—more handsome, perhaps, than the drawing deserved. The frame was elegant, chosen with care, and Mr. Elton presented it with such feeling that Harriet nearly cried.

“There,” Emma said softly when he had gone. “Can you doubt him now?”

Harriet gazed at the portrait as if it were a promise.

“No,” she whispered. “I do not think I can.”

Emma smiled, satisfied.

But outside the window, winter clouds gathered over Highbury, dark and low.

And far away at Abbey-Mill Farm, a man whose honest love had been refused tried to return to ordinary life, while at Hartfield, a young woman’s heart was being lifted toward a dream that might never be waiting for her at all.