What were his early years like, and how did he lose his parents? A man in his mid-thirties, he must have had at least one romance along the way. Did it end badly? Is that why he’s never married? When and how did his relationship with Emma shift from friendship to love? And what can explain his incredible forbearance towards the eccentric Mr. Woodhouse? Now, Mr. Knightley reveals these answers and more in His Own Words.
This is not a variation from but a supplement to the original story of Emma, chronicled in the hero’s point of view. Two-thirds completely new material, it features key events in Mr. Knightley’s past – events that still haunt him and yet have shaped who he’s become, the superior man Emma can’t help falling in love with.
Austenesque author Shannon Winslow continues her "In His Own Words" series with the testimony of Mr. Knightley, the love interest of Jane Austen's Emma Woodhouse. Although Mr. Knightley in His Own Words is currently on my TBR list, it won't remain there for long. I'll be posting my review of Winslow's latest in December. In the meantime, she has offered an excerpt from Chapter 1 for us to get a taste of what is to come. Read below and enjoy!
CHAPTER 1
I have come away to think.
Ostensibly, I am come into London to visit John and Isabella, but I am a very poor guest, for I neglect my relations to a shocking degree. No doubt the whole family is quite put out with me, especially the children, who are used to claiming their Uncle George as their personal property, to climb upon and make the center of their sport. Their parents are more perceptive, I believe. They merely shake their heads over me and look worried.
I have no heart for socializing, and perhaps I have made a mistake in coming here at all. But I had to do something. The situation at home had become intolerable. The unfortunate case is this; I have recently had to admit to myself that I am in love… in love with Emma Woodhouse.
Such a revolutionary circumstance must change everything! And yet it can be allowed to change nothing at all. Such a brilliant revelation should be shouted from the rooftops, and yet I cannot speak of it to a single creature. Such a glorious cataclysm of the heart and mind demands to be celebrated, and yet I cannot. Alas, it brings only misery.
Oh, that Frank Churchill had never come to Highbury! I abused the blasted young man for not coming sooner, but now I could wish it all undone. Except on his father’s behalf, I could wish him to the other side of the moon for all the mischief he has made! Had he never come, we might then have all gone on comfortably as we were before. No revolutions or revelations. No inconvenient cataclysms of any kind.
But now! Now the situation is irrevocably altered, at least for me. For the genie, once out of the bottle, cannot be put back again.
I thought the risk of falling in love was well behind me. I was not immune in my younger years, I admit, twice succumbing to that temptation then, but never since. No, truly only once. I do not count dear Isabella. Not anymore, for to admit to remembering my brother’s wife with any passion would be inexcusable. To imagine it, offensive. Besides, despite how sincerely fond I was of her – and still am – I am now quite convinced that there never was any serious attraction between us. Not on her side, presumably, considering her later actions. As for myself, I can only judge by comparison, and what I felt then for Isabella does not begin to equal what I cannot help feeling now for her sister, God help me.
Everybody expected me to be the one to marry Isabella, of course, especially after…
However, I am run ahead of myself.
As I said, I came away to think. I had the idea that, by putting a little distance between myself and my ‘problem,’ I might recover my perspective. By allowing my head to clear, I might talk myself into being sensible again – in short, to talk myself out of being in love with Emma Woodhouse.
Oh, but so sweet was our manner of parting that it has made the task even more difficult. Perhaps it would have been wiser to leave without seeing her, but how could I? How could I let the last words between us on the old footing be ones of acrimony? Next time I meet her, everything may have changed. She may no longer be my free and easy friend but Mr. Churchill’s future bride: a disaster on so many levels.
And so I waited with her father, and then also Harriet Smith, at Hartfield until Emma returned from calling on Mrs. and Miss Bates.
I rose immediately when Emma entered. My, but how well she looked! – although perhaps a little embarrassed at seeing me. No doubt she was remembering, as I was, the unfortunate manner of our leave-taking the day before at Box Hill. Her eyes begged my approval and that we should be friends again. All I could think was that I had best get away at once. As appealing as she looked at that moment, I did not trust myself to do and say what was wise, what I knew I must. Indeed, were it not for the safeguard of others present, who can say what might have happened? For I longed to take her into my arms and tell her all was forgiven. I longed to tell her the truth about everything. But instead, I was obliged to hold myself in check, to appear calm and indifferent when I felt anything but.
“I would not go away without seeing you, Emma,” I told her in as neutral a tone as I could affect, “but I have no time to spare, and therefore must now be gone directly. I am off to London, to spend a few days with John and Isabella. Have you anything to send or say, besides the ‘love,’ which nobody can carry?”
She looked confused, perhaps even a little distressed. “No, nothing at all. But wait, is not this a sudden scheme?”
“It is… rather,” I said. “Although I have been thinking of it for some little time.”
I told myself to go without further delay, to stop staring at Emma and leave at once. Somehow, though, my feet refused to move, and then Mr. Woodhouse was talking, praising his daughter’s kindness to the Bateses, which served to heighten Emma’s color even more. By the way she looked at me then, with a wan smile and slight shake of her head, she clearly told me she knew this praise was unjust – unjust and undeserved.
If only I could have stayed angry with her, as I had been the day before! How much easier it would then have been to go. But remaining angry with Emma Woodhouse is something I have never been able to do, not from when she was a small, mischievous child until this day. No, I was in fact very proud of her at that moment – for apparently acknowledging her mistake, repenting of it, and humbling herself in order to attempt some reparation to Miss Bates. What an excellent creature she is – flawed but excellent nonetheless!
I am afraid the grave look I had been determined to maintain melted away. No further words were spoken between us, but, just as I had understood her silent communication moments before, I am certain she could not have failed to read the warm glow of regard I felt burning in my heart for her then.
I cannot exactly say what happened next. Did I reach for her hand or did she offer it? It seemed the work of simultaneous thought. In any case, however it came about, I took her hand, pressed it, and held it for a moment, even going so far as to lift those lovely white fingers partway to my lips before stopping myself. I had kissed Emma's hand, casually, many times before. This would have been different, however. This time would not have been a casual, meaningless gesture. There existed far more consciousness now, at least on my side, and far more significance than I had any business communicating to her.
I released her hand instead, leaving the room and the house at once.
Shannon Winslow claims she was minding her own business when an ordinary trip to Costco a dozen years ago changed her life. That was the day a copy of the ’95 film adaptation of Pride and Prejudice fairly leapt off the shelf and into her oversized shopping cart. She has been hopelessly hooked on all things Jane Austen ever since, her obsession ultimately inspiring her to begin writing her own stories a la Austen.
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