Chapter 4: The Portrait and the Proposal of Hope

The framed portrait of Harriet Smith became, for several days, the most important object in Hartfield.

Emma placed it where the light touched it kindly, not too close to the window, where the winter sun might fade it, and not too far from the fire, where visitors might miss it. It stood upon a small table in the drawing room, elegant in its new frame, looking far more grand than Harriet herself ever dared to look.

Harriet could hardly pass it without blushing.

“I do not think it looks like me,” she said one afternoon, standing before it with her hands folded tightly.

Emma smiled. “That is because it shows you as you ought to see yourself.”

“But I am not so pretty.”

“My dear Harriet, modesty is charming, but blindness is not.”

Harriet laughed softly, then looked again at the picture. “Mr. Elton thought it worth framing.”

Emma heard the tenderness in her voice and felt the warm satisfaction of success.

“Yes,” she said. “He did.”

Mr. Elton’s admiration had become Harriet’s favorite subject, though she rarely introduced it directly. Instead, she would mention the frame, the portrait, the walk to church, his last visit, his smile, his bow, his smallest sentence. Emma supplied meaning to each detail.

A look became affection.

A compliment became devotion.

A visit became evidence.

And Harriet, sweet and trusting, gathered every word like flowers.

Emma knew Mr. Knightley would disapprove if he heard them. That only made her more determined not to seek his opinion.

For Mr. Knightley, practical and severe, saw danger in every romantic possibility. He valued sense above feeling, character above charm, and plain truth above elegant hope. Emma respected him, of course. She even loved him as an old friend.

But he was wrong about Harriet.

He had to be wrong.

If he were right, then Emma had lifted Harriet’s heart only to let it fall.

And Emma did not like thoughts that made her look unkind.

So she arranged her world around a better conclusion.

Mr. Elton cared for Harriet.

Harriet would rise.

Robert Martin would recover.

Mr. Knightley would one day admit he had underestimated them all.

It was a beautiful plan.

And beautiful plans, Emma believed, deserved protection.

The next morning brought Mrs. Weston to Hartfield.

Emma felt her spirits brighten the moment she heard the carriage. Though Mrs. Weston was now mistress of Randalls and wife to a cheerful, agreeable man, Emma still thought of her first as Miss Taylor—the companion of her childhood, the gentle voice that had filled every empty corner of Hartfield.

Mrs. Weston entered with snowflakes melting on the edge of her cloak and warmth in her face.

“My dear Emma,” she said, embracing her.

“You are late,” Emma replied, holding her a moment longer than necessary.

“By five minutes?”

“Five minutes can be a long time when one is abandoned.”

Mrs. Weston laughed. “Then I must ask forgiveness for my cruelty.”

Mr. Woodhouse, who considered every journey dangerous, welcomed her with anxious affection.

“You should not have come if the air was damp.”

“It is barely damp, sir.”

“That is what dampness always says at first.”

Emma and Mrs. Weston exchanged amused glances.

Once tea was served and Mr. Woodhouse settled comfortably, Emma brought Mrs. Weston to the portrait.

“There,” she said. “Now tell me honestly. Is it not improved by the frame?”

Mrs. Weston studied it with a gentle smile. “It is very pretty.”

“Very pretty? That is faint praise.”

“Then let me say it is charming.”

“Better.”

Mrs. Weston looked from the portrait to Emma’s face. “And Mr. Elton chose the frame?”

“He insisted upon it.”

“That was attentive.”

“Attentive?” Emma repeated. “My dear Mrs. Weston, it was more than attentive.”

Mrs. Weston did not answer at once.

Emma noticed the pause.

“You still doubt him.”

“I do not doubt that he admires something.”

“Something?”

Mrs. Weston smiled carefully. “Perhaps someone.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. “You are becoming mysterious, and I do not approve.”

“I only think we should be cautious.”

“Everyone is cautious now. You, Mr. Knightley—soon Papa will be warning me against romance because it causes indigestion.”

“Your father may not be entirely wrong.”

Emma laughed, but she was not pleased.

Mrs. Weston took her hand. “Emma, I know your heart is kind. But Harriet is very young.”

“That is why she needs guidance.”

“Yes. But guidance should not become certainty before the facts are certain.”

Emma looked back at the portrait. “Mr. Elton’s behavior is fact enough.”

“Perhaps.”

“You sound unconvinced.”

“I sound careful.”

Emma sighed. “Careful people miss half the pleasure of life.”

“And careless people sometimes create half its sorrow.”

The words were gentle, but they stayed in the room.

Emma did not like them.

Before she could answer, Mr. Woodhouse asked whether anyone had tasted the cake and whether it was too rich. The conversation turned, and Emma allowed it to turn. She loved Mrs. Weston too much to quarrel, but the warning had touched the same sore place Mr. Knightley’s warnings had left.

Was she careless?

No.

She was attentive. Observant. Generous.

And if she sometimes saw possibilities sooner than others, that was not a fault. It was a gift.

Later, when Mrs. Weston prepared to leave, Emma walked with her into the hall.

“You must not become a stranger,” Emma said softly.

Mrs. Weston’s face changed at once. She understood what lay beneath the words.

“Never.”

“Randalls has taken you away.”

“Marriage has changed my address, not my heart.”

Emma smiled, though her throat tightened. “That sounds very pretty. I shall try to believe it.”

Mrs. Weston touched her cheek. “You may do more than believe it. You may test it as often as you like.”

For a moment, Emma felt almost like a child again.

Then the carriage took Mrs. Weston away, and Hartfield returned to its quiet order.

Harriet arrived the next day, and Emma, refusing melancholy, turned all her attention to her.

The girl was full of Mr. Elton.

She tried not to be. That made it more obvious.

“He spoke to me after service,” Harriet said, pretending to arrange her gloves.

“Did he?” Emma asked.

“Only a little.”

“A little may mean a great deal.”

Harriet looked up hopefully. “Do you think so?”

“I often think so.”

“He asked whether I had been walking, and whether the cold had troubled me.”

Emma smiled. “Such concern.”

“And he said the church looked brighter when certain people attended.”

“Certain people?”

Harriet’s cheeks turned pink. “He did not say who.”

“He did not need to.”

Harriet covered her face with her hands, half laughing, half overwhelmed. “Miss Woodhouse, you should not say such things.”

“Why not, if they are true?”

“Because they make me too happy.”

Emma looked at her fondly. “Then I shall continue.”

Hope transformed Harriet. Her posture improved. Her eyes brightened. She took more care with her gowns, more interest in books, more pleasure in every visit to Hartfield. Emma watched the change and felt proud.

This, she thought, was what Mr. Knightley failed to understand.

A little expectation could raise a person.

A little admiration could teach a girl to admire herself.

Still, Robert Martin’s name had not disappeared completely.

One afternoon, Harriet received a letter from one of the Martin sisters. She brought it to Hartfield with nervous fingers and asked Emma whether she should answer.

Emma read the letter carefully.

It was friendly, warm, and full of ordinary family news: calves born at the farm, a neighbor’s visit, Mrs. Martin’s health, hopes that Harriet would come again.

Nothing could be more innocent.

And yet Emma felt the danger at once.

The Martins, with their kindness and simple affection, might pull Harriet back toward the life Emma was trying to lift her from.

“It is a very proper letter,” Emma said.

Harriet looked relieved. “Then I should answer?”

Emma folded it slowly. “Yes. But briefly.”

“Briefly?”

“Kindly, of course. But not warmly enough to renew an intimacy that may be better allowed to fade.”

Harriet’s face fell. “They were so good to me.”

“And you may be grateful without remaining closely connected.”

“Would that be unkind?”

Emma softened her voice. “My dear Harriet, life changes. Society changes. A young woman must sometimes step forward, even if others remain behind.”

Harriet looked down. “I do not wish to hurt them.”

“You need not hurt them. Only keep a little distance.”

The girl was silent for some time.

Emma watched her, aware of a faint discomfort in her own chest.

Harriet had a loyal heart. That was one of her sweetest qualities. But loyalty, unguided by judgment, could become a chain.

At least, that was what Emma told herself.

Together they wrote the reply. It was kind, but shorter than Harriet would have written alone. Emma made sure of that.

When it was sealed, Harriet looked sad.

Emma drew her toward the window. “Look at me, Harriet.”

Harriet obeyed.

“You are not doing wrong. You are learning to understand your own value.”

Harriet nodded slowly.

“And Mr. Elton,” Emma added lightly, “would never expect you to remain attached to people beneath your future station.”

The name worked like sunlight.

Harriet’s sadness softened into shy hope.

Emma felt the room brighten again.

A week later, Highbury received news that Mr. Elton had gone to London for the day and would carry the portrait with him to be properly mounted and protected.

This caused great excitement in Harriet and great satisfaction in Emma.

“London!” Harriet said. “Only for the portrait?”

“So it seems.”

“That is too much trouble.”

“Men in love rarely think trouble troublesome.”

Harriet’s eyes widened. “Do not say it so plainly.”

“Would you prefer I say it obscurely?”

Harriet laughed, but her voice trembled.

Emma found her delightful in this state—half afraid of happiness, half eager to believe it. She imagined future scenes with pleasure: Mr. Elton declaring himself, Harriet astonished and grateful, Mr. Knightley forced into silence, Mrs. Weston admitting Emma had been right all along.

It would be a triumph.

Not a selfish triumph, of course.

A benevolent one.

When Mr. Elton returned, he came almost immediately to Hartfield.

Emma was alone with Harriet when he arrived, which seemed perfect.

He entered with his usual polished eagerness, bringing news of the portrait and speaking of it with a warmth that made Harriet barely able to lift her eyes.

“It is now safely handled,” he said. “I took the greatest care. One could not be too careful with such a treasure.”

Emma glanced at Harriet. The girl was glowing.

“You are very good,” Emma said.

Mr. Elton bowed. “Good? No. Merely devoted to what deserves devotion.”

Harriet dropped her work.

Emma almost smiled too openly.

“Miss Smith,” Mr. Elton continued, “must forgive my enthusiasm. But the likeness is truly charming.”

Harriet murmured something too soft to hear.

He looked pleased.

Emma saw everything she wished to see.

After he left, Harriet could hardly speak.

“Devoted,” Emma repeated with meaning.

Harriet pressed both hands to her heart. “Perhaps he meant the portrait.”

“Perhaps the portrait gave him courage to mean more.”

Harriet sat down as if her knees had weakened.

Emma felt powerful, affectionate, and certain.

That evening, however, Mr. Knightley returned and spoiled the mood.

He found Emma alone in the drawing room, her father having retired early with complaints of a chill that existed mostly in imagination.

“I saw Elton in Highbury today,” he said.

Emma continued arranging her threads. “Did you?”

“He was in excellent spirits.”

“He often is.”

“Too excellent.”

Emma looked up. “What does that mean?”

Mr. Knightley stood by the fire, one hand resting on the mantel. “It means I do not trust excessive admiration when it is directed everywhere at once.”

“You speak in riddles tonight.”

“No. I speak plainly. Elton admires you.”

Emma stared at him, then laughed. “Me?”

“Yes.”

“That is impossible.”

“It is very possible.”

“Mr. Knightley, you cannot be serious.”

“I am entirely serious.”

Emma laid her embroidery aside. “Mr. Elton is interested in Harriet.”

“So you have decided.”

“So he has shown.”

“To you, he has shown admiration because you expect him to admire Harriet. To me, he looks like a man trying very hard to please Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield.”

Emma’s cheeks warmed with irritation. “You are determined to ruin this.”

“No. I am trying to prevent ruin.”

“You see vanity in him because you see vanity everywhere.”

“I see vanity in him because he is vain.”

“And you see pride in me because you enjoy scolding me.”

“I see pride in you because I care what becomes of you.”

That stopped her for a moment.

The fire cracked softly between them.

Mr. Knightley’s voice lowered. “Emma, I do not say this to wound you. But Elton is not thinking of Harriet as you think he is. He praises the portrait because you drew it. He visits Hartfield because you are here. He flatters Harriet because she is under your protection.”

Emma stood. “You are wrong.”

“I hope I am.”

“No. You do not hope it. You expect to be right.”

“Often, yes.”

Despite her anger, the honesty almost made her smile. She resisted.

“Harriet would be deeply hurt if she heard you.”

“Then do not let her build happiness on sand.”

“It is not sand.”

“Then prove it by waiting. Stop feeding her expectations. Let Elton act without your interpretation.”

Emma folded her arms. “And if he declares himself?”

“Then I shall congratulate Harriet sincerely.”

“And apologize to me?”

“If necessary.”

“I shall require a very long apology.”

“I expected nothing less.”

The tension eased slightly, but only slightly.

Mr. Knightley left not long after, and Emma remained by the fire, unsettled despite herself.

Could Mr. Elton admire her?

The idea was ridiculous.

He was civil to her, yes. Attentive, certainly. But she was Emma Woodhouse. Men were often attentive to her. It meant nothing. Her position required politeness. Her influence invited respect.

Besides, she had never encouraged him for herself.

Never.

She thought of his compliments.

Miss Woodhouse, your talents...

Miss Woodhouse, your taste...

Miss Woodhouse, your judgment...

Emma frowned.

No. Those were ordinary compliments. He praised Harriet too. He had called the portrait charming. He had taken it to London. He had said treasure. Devotion.

Surely that meant Harriet.

Surely.

The word did not comfort her as much as it should have.

The next day, Emma watched Mr. Elton more carefully.

He came to Hartfield after dinner, full of smiles and agreeable remarks. Harriet sat nearby, nervous and lovely. Emma observed every movement, every look, every word.

At first, everything supported her hopes.

Mr. Elton praised Harriet’s singing. He asked if she had read the poem he mentioned. He smiled when she spoke. Harriet blushed beautifully.

Then he turned to Emma.

“Miss Woodhouse always improves those around her,” he said. “One sees the effect of her influence everywhere.”

Emma felt a small chill.

Harriet looked delighted, taking the compliment as shared praise.

Emma forced a smile. “You give me too much credit.”

“Impossible,” Mr. Elton replied. “Some people are born to guide taste, feeling, and society itself.”

That was too much.

Even Emma thought so.

She changed the subject at once.

But Mr. Knightley’s warning had found a crack in her certainty.

After Mr. Elton left, Harriet sighed happily.

“He spoke so kindly tonight.”

Emma looked at her friend’s shining face and could not bear to darken it.

“Yes,” she said. “Very kindly.”

“Do you think he was pleased with me?”

Emma hesitated only a moment.

“Very pleased.”

The answer restored Harriet completely.

It did not restore Emma.

Over the next week, Emma lived in a strange state of determination and unease. She continued encouraging Harriet, but with slightly less freedom. She continued interpreting Mr. Elton, but with more effort. She found herself listening not only to what he said, but to whom his eyes turned after saying it.

Sometimes they turned to Harriet.

Too often, they turned to Emma.

This irritated her deeply.

It was inconvenient of Mr. Elton to behave in a way that could be misunderstood.

Christmas approached, bringing invitations, cold roads, bright fires, and the promise of gatherings. Mr. Weston planned a dinner at Randalls, and Emma knew Mr. Elton would be there. Harriet too might have been invited, had she not caught a sore throat and been advised to remain indoors.

Harriet’s disappointment was painful to witness.

“Perhaps Mr. Elton will not go,” she said weakly.

Emma, who knew very well that Mr. Elton would go wherever good society gathered, answered gently, “If he does go, he will miss you.”

Harriet smiled from beneath her shawl. “Do you think so?”

“I am sure of it.”

Emma said the words because Harriet needed comfort.

But as she prepared for the dinner at Randalls, she felt an uneasiness she could not name.

Snow had begun to fall lightly by evening. The carriage wheels moved carefully over the cold road. Mr. Elton joined them for the journey, all politeness and good spirits.

Mr. Woodhouse remained at home, having declared winter roads a personal enemy.

Emma sat opposite Mr. Elton in the carriage, wrapped in fur and silence.

He spoke almost entirely to her.

At first, she answered pleasantly. Then less pleasantly. Then with a careful reserve she hoped he might understand.

He did not.

“How unfortunate Miss Smith cannot join us,” Emma said deliberately.

“Very unfortunate,” Mr. Elton replied quickly. “A sweet young lady. Very sweet indeed.”

Emma relaxed a little.

Then he added, “But any party graced by Miss Woodhouse can hardly be thought incomplete.”

Emma’s heart sank.

Outside, snow thickened against the carriage window.

Inside, Mr. Elton smiled as if he had said something charming.

Emma turned her face toward the glass.

For the first time, she began to fear that Mr. Knightley might not be entirely wrong.

And somewhere at Hartfield, Harriet Smith lay dreaming of a man whose heart may never have been hers at all.