Archive of Our Own

“You would not believe the issues I had getting old man Peters to – ooh! Biscuits!” Mr Farnon’s loudly called ranting and the thud of muddied boots being unceremoniously kicked to the side filtered off into cheery joy as he stretched winter-cold hands towards the rack of cooling ginger snaps.

Audrey tapped his hand away before he got close and he pouted. She only smiled at him in response and waited until he stepped back, hands raised in submission. She had trained him well over the years.

“You’n’Jimmy are as bad as each other,” she chuckled at last, turning back to her baking. She was in the middle of making scones to accompany the biscuits and thin sandwiches. Over the years, she’d gotten accustomed to serving up paltry offerings, but it still made her feel guilty – like she was failing in her duty as hostess in having to ask people to bring anything they could to her table. She was looking forward to the day that rationing ended, though there seemed no sight of it yet.

Audrey felt, rather than saw, Mr Farnon cross to the other side of the table, and peer forward at the items cooling in interest. She left him to it, waiting with amusement for him to work through his thoughts.

“Not that I am not always delighted by you making a spread, Mrs Hall,” he said slowly, and she had to fight a smile, pressing her lips tightly together to avoid chuckling aloud and keeping her eyes firmly on her tray to resist temptation. She’d known he would forget. Of course he would. Daft man. “But this doesn’t look like dinner… are we expecting people?”

She looked up at him, cheeks dimpled, and raised her eyebrows at him. “You mean you don’t remember?” she teased. He looked back at her, frowning slightly as he tried to sort through a mental calendar or conversation.

“No, I’m sorry, I need a hint,” he admitted at last, sneaking a carrot stick from a plate and biting into it with a crack.

“Well,” she started, and then watched as she didn’t even have to say anything for his eyes to widen, and his face to comically fall. “Aye, you got there in the end.”

“Your Women’s Institute meeting,” he groaned, dropping his chin to his chest. “Remind me again why I agreed to let you host it in our living room?”

“I din’t ask,” she shrugged simply, and jerked her chin at the oven, picking up her tray. Mr Farnon moved towards the oven in a mirror automatically, “Bottom drawer.” She slid the tray in and stood upright, bunching the tea towel in her hand. “And it ain’t the whole WI, just a few of us inclined to readin’ of an evenin’.”

“So not only am I not allowed to sample your wonderful baking, I lose you for a night of reading by the fire too?” he surmised, looking genuinely disappointed and Audrey firmly hurried her heart back into a box before it got any ideas. “Well, I suppose you will be reading at least.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind you joining us,” she edged closer, just slightly, and then twisted her tea towel in her hands to stop from reaching for him. He wasn’t hers to reach for, she reminded herself firmly, he was Dorothy’s. Even if they hadn’t seemed to spend nearly as much time together in the last week or two. “Dorothy’ll be comin’.”

She thought it would be an incentive for him, but he just grimaced briefly and shook his head. Perhaps he didn’t want to be reminded of their evening only the other week, when Dororthy and Tris had invited themselves to their Peter Wimsey book. It hadn’t exactly been smooth sailing, after all.

“No, no, I shall be good and clear out,” he said firmly, crossing in front of her to pick his bag up. “I very much doubt you and your ladies want me and my opinions about… what book are you reading?”

“Emma,” she replied instantly, and began to transfer her biscuits to the plate now they’d cooled. After a second, she cracked one in half and handed it to Mr Farnon with a barely-concealed smile.

“Your pick, I presume?” he teased in visible amusement, perhaps even fondly, accepting the offering and holding it in his fingers lightly. “You do love that book. I suppose the benefit of picking a book you’ve read so often means you don’t have to worry about re-reading it.”

Though she’d had plenty of evenings to herself and the Herriots recently. More than enough time to re-read her favourite of Jane Austen’s works, and more besides. She hadn’t had so much time to herself since she’d arrived back to Skeldale, and needed to keep reminding herself that it was a good thing, that she enjoyed the peace and quiet.

“Well, I suppose yes, in a way, it were my pick,” she said, filling the kettle for their tea now there was more space on the table. “But accidental-like. Our ‘Elen said she ‘adn’t read it, so I leant ‘er my copy, then we were talkin’ bout it waiting for Mrs Pumphrey to start th’meeting and then Grace said she’d never read it and always wanted to, and ‘Arriet Ingledew, and next thing I know, I’ve offered to ‘ave everyone over to discuss the book once we’ve all read it.”

He blinked at her, and then slowly bit into the biscuit. It crunched loudly, and a scattering of crumbs lined his mouth. She quickly looked down to the teapot and the tea she was scooping from the tin, rather than watch the fate of those crumbs. He hummed in appreciation, and she was relieved when the kettle sang, and she could move to make the tea. Away from him. It simply wouldn’t do, letting herself stand so close. What would Dorothy think?

“All that said,” she fussed with the teapot, ignoring how he’d gravitated to her side again as she did. “I am lookin’ forward to it. You know ‘ow much I love Emma.”

“I do,” his smile took on a slightly mysterious, pleased quality that she wondered about for a moment, before deciding she didn’t really have time to try and untangle that look today. She’d inevitably find out soon. “And I am glad you’re doing this. You don’t get to spend enough time with your friends, what with all of us calling after you morning, noon and night.”

“Well, everyone else at least ‘as the decency to come find me, not ‘oller through th’house,” she grinned and he beamed back, not even slightly sheepish. She wouldn’t have it any other way, of course. She’d hardly been in the house three months before he’d started calling for her for every little thing. It was as much a part of the sound of the house as the creak on the third stair, or the back door rattling when closed.

As if to prove her wrong, however, a small voice being big preceded some concerningly rapid footsteps. Audrey put the kettle down quickly, Mr Farnon pushing the cups with their tea further towards the middle of the table. They’d had too many near misses recently and the preparation was almost automatic at this point.

“AUNTIE AUDREY, AUNTIE AUDREY,” Jimmy hollered through the hall, running towards them with a breathless giddy excitement and Dash at his heels. “AND UNCLE SIEGFRIED!”

He crashed into Audrey’s side, wrapping his arm tightly around her as he pushed her into Mr Farnon ever so slightly. She laughed in delight, hugging the little boy close as Mr Farnon steadied her with warm hands against her back. She should scold him for running in the house, but it was so lovely having them back and she could let him off just this once.

“’ello!” he beamed up at them, “I smelt biscuits!”

Audrey rested a hand on the little boy’s head, and turned to look at Mr Farnon, eyebrows raised and trying – not particularly hard – to not burst out laughing.

“’E learnt all this from you, y’know,” she said drily, and he had the audacity to look vaguely affronted for all of a second. She laughed at last; she couldn’t help it.

“Wot’s funny?” Jimmy asked, grinning widely as he moved around her body without breaking contact and wedged himself between her and Mr Farnon instead, peering up at them with rosy cheeks and even cheekier eyes.

“You are, my lovely boy,” Audrey ruffled his hair again and leant across to where she’d left the other half of the biscuit. “You can be just like yer Uncle Siegfried sometimes!”

“Oh, good!” Jimmy giggled. “Can I ‘ave a biscuit Auntie Audrey?”

“Can I have a biscuit…” Mr Farnon trailed off significantly, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Can I ‘ave a biscuit please, Auntie Audrey?” Their little boy asked hopefully, and Audrey pretended to consider for only a moment before handing the biscuit shard down to him. He whooped in joy and released them both to run off with his prize, yelling a thank you over his shoulder.

They stared after him for a moment, relishing in the specific chaos that had arrived back into their home with the Herriot’s.

“So what time are your ladies arriving?” Mr Farnon took up his tea as if they hadn’t been interrupted, and handed her own over. “In the interest of a calm evening of literary pursuits… Might I suggest I take the boys, and Jimmy of course, over to the Drovers?”

“Runnin’ away are ye?”

“Rapidly, Mrs Hall, rapidly,” he smiled a charming, warm smile, “I know better than to try and face down an entire room of women over the literary merits of Mr Knightley.”

“Too right,” she knew him though, for all their gentle mocking, knew he enjoyed reading Jane Austen as well. She’d found Evelyn’s copies of the books on his nightstand more than once, a bookmark wedged halfway through. He seemed to cycle through them about once a year, though she’d noticed Emma on the table enough times over the months of her return. She couldn’t be certain, but she thought Emma looked a little more worse for wear than it had before the war, as if he’d read it more frequently in her absence – like he’d missed her. But that was the kind of foolish, romantic notion Marianne would think of, when Audrey was a sensible Elinor.

“Will I be taking Tristan too, do you know? Or will he be out with the charming Miss Beauvoir?”

“Charlotte did say she’d come by, apparently she’s a big fan,” Audrey mused, “So you can ‘ave Tris. I doubt ‘e’d be much interested in Jane Austen, even for Charlotte’s sake.”

“Yes,” Mr Farnon mused, consideringly, “He’s never had much appreciation for truly excellent literature, has he? Well, perhaps I might have to talk to him about appreciating romances. For Charlotte’s sake.”

Audrey huffed a laugh, and finished her tea, brushing her pinny down briskly.

“Right then, why don’t you go collar our godson and get ‘im to ‘elp you lay the table for dinner. Stew’ll be ready shortly,” she looked consideringly at her table again and nodded firmly. “Come back fer the bread. Knowing Jimmy, ‘e’d get cracking and fill ‘imself up on that. As would you.”

“Mrs Hall, you wound me,” Mr Farnon laid a hand in mock injury against his heart and his eyes twinkled at her. “But I shall endeavour to complete your wishes, as always.”

He had the audacity to wink at her, before sliding past and calling loudly for Jimmy and whistling as he went. Audrey rolled her eyes, not even fighting the indulgent smile he always managed to bring to her face as she watched him leave, waiting until he’d turned the corner and called for Jimmy again before taking a deep, steadying breath, clearing her mind, and turning back her evening preparations.

She had things to be getting on with, scones to check and stew to serve up. Mr Farnon and all his ridiculous notions would have to wait.

-------------------

The doorbell rang before Mr Farnon had managed to get Tristan, James and Jimmy out the front door, and in the hullabaloo they didn’t really notice it. Audrey was busy helping the littlest man of the family into his shoes, Jimmy on one of the waiting room chairs while she untangled his laces, while Tris complained good naturedly about being banished from his own sitting room for a reading group.

“Tristan Farnon, complaining about a night at the Drovers?” James teased. “Charlotte, what have you done to him, eh?”

“If I had truly made a difference,” Charlotte called from where she was helping Helen and Rosie with arranging the dining room chairs around their regular furniture, “He would be taking a seat and joining in.”

“Oh, good luck wi’that,” Audrey snorted, and then looked up at Mr Farnon to catch his eye before continuing, “Even Mr Farnon is runnin’ from the prospect of a room full o’women, aren’t you Mr Farnon?”

Mr Farnon made a noise of mock outrage, “I am not running away, Mrs Hall,” he insisted, “I am making a strategic and dignified exit.”

“Are you indeed?” her smile was the amused and indulgent kind she couldn’t help but give him when they both knew he was talking nonsense quickly to make his excuses as impressively or as blustery as he could.

“I am,” he said firmly, eyes crinkling down at her, just as someone rang the bell and he startled, staring at the door like he wasn’t quite sure if he wanted to open it.

“You goin’ t’get that?” Audrey asked in amusement, fixing Jimmy’s hat firmly on his head and helping him down.

“Of course, Mrs Hall,” he said formally, opening the door and welcoming the first of her guests into the room. “Ah, Diana! I didn’t realise you were a Jane Austen afficionado, come in, come in.”

“Siegfried,” Diana greeted in her smooth, coy way, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek before turning round and finding Audrey pushing herself up by the chair. “Audrey, darling! I have done my very best and bought sausage rolls. Not a patch on yours of course, but I’m sure they’ll go down just as easily with the gin and tonic I bought.”

“’ello, Diana,” Audrey chuckled, bumping cheeks with her friend. “’Ere, pass them over to ‘Elen and I’ll get yer coat.”

Diana did as bid, turning to undo her coat and looking at the coated menfolk with interest, “Oh, are you all running away to the Drovers for the evening? Very sensible,” she winked at Siegfried, “Means we can gossip without your ears burning.”

“Behave,” Audrey chided half-heartedly, hanging Diana’s coat up on the hook. She mostly felt only amusement at Diana’s teasing now, where once she’d struggled with having the grander woman’s attention. For how entertaining it had been when she and Siegfried first started dating, Diana had become a remarkably solid friend over the intervening years. Telling Diana not to flirt was like telling the grass not to grow.

“Spoilsport,” Diana pouted dramatically, and Audrey huffed a laugh, catching Mr Farnon’s eye in time to see his hardly hidden amusement. His eyes crinkled at her, rolling his eyes at Diana’s drama. Audrey looked away, back to Diana who was now staring rather pointedly at her, eyebrows raised and dark eyes sparkling mischievously. Audrey didn’t like that look.

“We should go,” Tristan said with an exaggerated sigh, “Before we end up in the way of Mrs H’s guests. Or worse – invited to join.”

“Ah, yes,” Mr Farnon somehow looked both relieved and reluctant, and Audrey looked at him a bit puzzled. He was the one who had wanted to leave. Perhaps he was hoping Dorothy would arrive before he left? “Well, have a splendid evening, ladies,” he opened the door again and the boys bundled out into the street, leaving Mr Farnon holding the door. Audrey moved towards him to close the door behind him, but he paused, turning on the doorstep and lowering his voice. “You’ll come get me, if I’m needed?”

She blinked at him in surprise and some confusion, “I’m sure if the phone rings I can pop over to th’Drovers meself to pass any messages on,” she reassured him with a pat to his arm, and he looked at her with an expression she couldn’t quite parse before his eyes flickered over her shoulder and he smiled, thanking her, and bidding them both goodnight.

“You do realise he wasn’t talking about the telephone,” Diana said mildly, looking delighted with Helen at her shoulder.

“Course ‘e were,” Audrey corrected her, going to close the door only to see Harriet Ingledew and Miss Elliot from the dressmakers crossing the square, and the lights of what could only be Dorothy’s car drawing close. She waved at them, and stepped away from the door, turning back to Diana standing there with a delighted and incredulous look on her face, like she’d just stumbled upon something marvellously juicy. “What?”

“Nothing, Audrey dear,” Diana patted her arm just as Dorothy let herself into the house with a cheery hello. “Ooh, who’s this? I recognise you, but I don’t think we’ve ever been introduced.”

“Ah,” introductions she could do. “Diana, this is my friend Dorothy, from me days in the Wrens. Dorothy, this is Diana. Dorothy moved to Brawton just before Christmas, from Malta.”

They exchanged pleasantries and Audrey took the moment to relive Dorothy of her coat and greet her friend properly, before turning to leave them to it, and greeting her next guests. The time passed in a flurry of sending people into the living room for drinks from Helen and Charlotte, women cooing over Rosie and getting themselves settled.

“Right then,” Audrey said brightly, bustling into the room to check everyone had a seat, and a drink, “I think that’s all of us, ‘as everyone introduced themselves t’Dorothy? Good, good. Everyone fer a drink?”

“Aud, sit down,” Helen laughed, reaching out and pulling Audrey to the seat beside her. “Stop fussin’! The lads and Siegfried will be ‘ome before we start otherwise.”

Audrey joined in the laughter, and made herself comfortable, accepting a glass of sherry from Grace Chapman who’d come down from the farm especially for this.

“Is Mr Farnon alright with us turning ‘im out of ‘is own ‘ome?” the one face Audrey wasn’t familiar with asked a little anxiously, glancing at the woman clearly her sister. There had been an awkward moment at the door where the newcomer had thanked her as Mrs Farnon, and been hastily corrected while Audrey glanced over her shoulder to make sure Dorothy hadn’t heard.

 “Oh, ‘e’s fine with it,” Grace reassured her kindly, “Audrey’s not that kind of ‘ousekeeper and Siegfried’s not that kind o’man.”

“No, Siegfried would never turn her down anything,” Diana agreed cheerfully, “He’d give her everything she asked you know. In fact I’d be surprised if Audrey even had to ask, he’d have offered.”

“Give over, Diana,” Audrey sighed, rolling her eyes and glancing at Dorothy briefly, slightly surprised to see her friend just looking amused and nodding along with Diana.

“Honestly, Audrey, Siegfried is never happier than when you’re ordering him about,” Diana insisted, and Audrey couldn’t help but blush as half the circle nodded along with her statement. She ignored the feeling that she’d been put on display, and all but willed her face not to get any redder. They weren’t insinuating anything after all. It was just Diana being Diana.

“We’re fine,” she reassured the newcomer instead. “’e offered, and if ‘e’s back before we’re done, ‘e’ll probably just join in. Shall we get started then? Everyone read? Right then, who wants t’start?”

Audrey had never been part of a book club before – not counting her firesides with Mr Farnon which was less a book club and more… routine? – so she didn’t know if there were rules she was meant to follow, or discussions she was meant to lead. All she wanted was to chivvy the conversation away from Mr Farnon and onto Emma as quickly as she could, painfully aware of her heart beating an aborted rhythm in her chest and Dorothy sat on the chair opposite her looking interested, amused and something else.

Luckily, no one else had ever been part of a book club either, and as the people of Darrowby were never short of an opinion, they didn’t really need any rules of engagement. Before long, Audrey was laughing and cajoling and thoroughly enjoying all the extra love and irritation for a book she’d long admired.

Mr Farnon faded from almost everyone’s minds, and Audrey did her best to let him fade from hers too. At least for now.

-----------------------

Across the road at the Drovers, Tristan Farnon flopped down into his chair and distributed the ales with an overly dramatic huff.

“What’s up with you?” Siegfried asked archly, accepting his drink. “You can’t be missing Charlotte that much, you’ve been over there most nights in the last month.”

“Oh, and you’re not even slightly put out to be missing out on an evening reading with Mrs H?” Tristan parried back instantly, and Siegfried was astounded by how accurately his brother could read him. And slightly peeved by it. He had no right to monopolise Mrs Hall’s time, after all. It was good she was spending time with her friends.

“Nonsense,” he said briskly instead, “If she didn’t have the WI to our house, she’d have been out instead. It’s hardly a small price for us to pay to let the ladies have an enjoyable evening.”

Tristan stared at him incredulously. “Liar.”

“Tris,” James warned him with a smile, “Are you really that put out by Charlotte choosing a book club with Mrs H over your company? Surely it’s a good thing she’s getting on with Mrs H. Imagine how hard your life would be if they didn’t get on.”

Tristan grimaced and took a long drink of his ale. Siegfried frowned at him, the worry he constantly felt about his little brother that was always under the surface bubbling up again. He remembered how he’d clung to Evelyn when he’d first come back, after all. As if she was the only thing in this new world he’d found himself in that made sense. He was glad that Tristan had his own port in a storm, but worried that he might become a little too much like Siegfried himself, and become overly reliant on it. He made a mental note to discuss with Mrs Hall, soon. She’d know a way of seeing their boy right.

“It’s just,” Tris paused and pulled a face again, trying to put it into words. Siegfried could sympathise; for all the words he knew, he always seemed to find himself short when trying to explain himself or at least, his lamentable feelings. “I’m not a reader. We all know that. I’d much rather do something than read something, and I…”

He trailed off, and Siegfried filled the rest in for him: “Worry that she won’t be interested in you because you don’t also read?”

Tristan looked away, and Siegfried wondered how sometimes his brother could still feel so young despite the years and the war that sat on his shoulders. It seemed that Tristan had forgotten all the hours lolling on the sofa reading Biggles, and Kipling, and others, that he’d done before the war.

“Well, Helen doesn’t like reading,” James pointed out, “She reads occasionally but she’d rather listen to the wireless. And I love reading. It doesn’t mean anything. She’s only reading Emma because Mrs H loves it so much.”

“Yes, but …” Tristan trailed off, and then looked back down into his drink and forced a smile onto his face. And just like that, Siegfried saw the moment pass, and the wall go up. They wouldn’t be talking about it any further. “Women and romance novels, hmm? Why do they love them so much. They take so long to get to the point, all these classical romances, aren’t there quicker ways?”

“There is something to be said for a good romance,” Siegfried corrected him, letting Tristan hide whatever worries he had under a subject shift and humour. “And often, they say rather a lot about society.”

“Fine,” Tristan rolled his eyes, “Fine then. Why is Emma Mrs H’s favourite? It doesn’t make sense.”

“What do you mean?” James asked curiously, and Siegfried was also curious as to what his brother’s reasoning was for that. To him it made perfect sense that it was her favourite Austen and one of her absolute favourite books.

“Well, I would have thought a Mr Darcy type to be more of Mrs H’s interest,” Tristan waved his drink to make his point. “A grumpy, oblivious man who looks at the way his behaviour has insulted everyone around him, and changed to be a better man to deserve her. Surely that’s more her interest?”

James made an aborted nod of agreement, his eyes flicking between Tristan and Siegfried as if he was trying to gauge Siegfried’s reaction to Tris’s reasoning.

“Is that it?” Siegfried asked incredulously, “Is that your entire reason? You think she’d prefer a Darcy? What evidence do you have of that?”

Tristan just raised his eyebrows in a mocking look Siegfried couldn’t understand. James hid his face in his tankard.

“No idea why I’d think she’d like a man to change for the better for her,” Tristan muttered into his ale.

“What makes you think anyone reads them for the men?” Siegfried put his mug down on the table to glare at his brother, “They’re about more than just the romance – they’re about the women and their roles in society, and their friendships and relationships and society itself, and yes they also warn against rakes, and provide good husbands but I can’t see Mrs Hall ever picking anything because of the man involved.”

Tristan and James shared a commiserating glance over their ales that Siegfried chose to ignore. It was Tristan’s choice to start this line of conversation after all. He should have to suffer the consequences.

“Emma isn’t her favourite because of the romance in it, that isn’t the point of it for her. It’s Emma herself. Mrs Hall likes Emma because in that one, more than the others, Emma realises her own faults eventually. No one else likes Emma, so of course Mrs Hall will. Emma wants what’s best and goes about it poorly sometimes, but she’s a good, if selfish heart,” he took a moment to drink some whiskey and looked at the slightly stunned and perplexed look on his companions faces. “I did, of course, have a lengthy discussion with Mrs Hall about it some years ago, but really, Mrs Hall opens her heart up to everyone. Why wouldn’t she love a book for the female character growth?”

“Isn’t Emma the one where she marries her best friend and neighbour at the end?” Tris asked James lowly, “Or is this the one where he’s just rich?”

“They’re all just rich,” Siegfried rolled his eyes, before answering his brother’s question. Honestly, why did he pay so much for his education when he hadn’t even read half the classics in the library. This one wasn’t even in a different language after all. “But yes, she and Knightley have been very close friends and neighbours for her entire life. In fact, I always read it that he feels more at home in her house than he does in his own, but that might be a somewhat modern romantic take given how much they bicker.”

Tris’s eyebrows rose and stayed there. Siegfried frowned at him. “What? I told you; I’ve read it before.”

“Quite a few times, I’d wager,” James muttered into his drink, avoiding eye contact. Siegfried snapped his attention to his partner and wondered just what that was supposed to mean. He felt like they were having a different conversation to him – one parallel that he wasn’t quite invited to and he didn’t like the feeling at all.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I enjoy the book. It’s very well done.”

“And it’s Mrs H’s favourite,” Tris added, not so very helpfully.

“Well, it’s her favourite Austen, though she does love other books as well,” Siegfried frowned. “It’s good to know the favourite books of the people you care about. You should find out what Charlotte’s favourite books are, Tristan, and read them. It will mean a lot to her that you read them despite not being a fan of reading, and you never know when it will help to know. Though I’d wager they’d have more words than the Beano.”

He muttered the last part darkly into his glass, and missed the wide-eyed, shocked look the two younger men exchanged. He was too busy thinking of the weeks that had stretched into months when first he’d started re-reading Emma to stave off the quiet loneliness of evenings without her, and then found he both couldn’t bear to touch the book, nor to move it from his bedside as the months stretched into years. It was still there, the bookmark wedged firmly into the scene at Box Hill where Emma successfully pushes everyone away through her sheer, unbridled arrogance and youth.

“So, when do you think it’ll be safe to go home?” James ventured at last, glancing over to where his son was happily playing with Albert in front of the fire, toy trains scattered around them.

“I’d give it a few hours,” Siegfried advised, and stood to fetch more drinks. “I think you underestimate how much Mrs Hall alone could talk about that book. If they get into a debate we could be here all night.”

---------------------------

Back at Skeldale, Audrey was starting to wonder if this evening with one of her favourite books was such a good idea after all. Emma was a complicated character to begin with, Audrey knew that. She knew that when she’d first read the book during the war she hadn’t much liked her, envying the girl her comfortable position when she was aboard a ship spotting for mines. She had grown into liking Emma over the years, as she understood more of the world, but it hadn’t been instant understanding.

The conversation has started well enough, but it became abundantly clear that many of the first-time readers had absolutely no patience for the titular character and her high and mighty ways. Even Charlotte had admitted that Emma wasn’t her favourite of Austen’s heroines, though that may have been because she knew girls like Emma at school and they hadn’t been friends.

As with most discussions of Emma, the main character flaws of Emma herself were hotly debated, with the added entertainment of being debated by a group of hardworking, war-weary women who’d been barely able to stretch ends to meet during the previous six years. Her entitlement and wealth led to more than a fair bit of reverse snobbery and indignation. It had been highly amusing, as had Harriet Ingeldew’s mockery of Mr Woodhouse’s mannerisms.

They had discussed entitlement, and selfishness, and how utterly self-absorbed and obtuse Emma could be, and Charlotte had even started a spirited debate about Mr Woodhouse and how his desire to keep Emma close all those years had contributed to all those character flaws. She drew on her own experiences with her own father, though did admit her rebellion had been a lot more extreme than Emma – who barely seemed to chafe under the indulgent rules.

They had discussed Knightley too, and how he – at times – was more exasperated father than lover. When he chastised her for her foolish and selfish ways, reminding her of her duty to the Bates, and reminding her of just how much older he was. But in the end it was their friendship, and arguments, and knowledge of each other – that trust – that led to love.

(Audrey refused to let her mind wander off topic to what Mr Farnon might have to say about that).

All this Audrey managed with the poise and experience due to her as hostess. She ensured everyone had a chance to participate, that everyone remained supplied with food and drink, that no one was left out. She introduced additional thoughts when the conversation ran a bit thin, and deftly redirected a particularly thorny discussion about Emma’s treatment of Miss Bates – for while the woman was painted as ridiculous, the housewives and farmers wives of Darrowby felt more kinship with her precarious living situation than with Emma’s lofty heights. In the end, she teased them into an agreement that it had been, to echo Mr Knightley, badly done indeed.

So she didn’t see the danger, when Helen first turned the conversation turn to Emma’s matchmaking, seeing only a lively discussion to be had when matchmaking was as much a sport for the mothers of Darrowby as it was for Emma.

“Y’know what annoyed me the most about our Emma? ‘er meddlin’,” Helen said with plenty of indignant feeling, waving her hand about to emphasise her point. Audrey smiled at her enthusiasm, especially when so many evenings of late had Helen huffing as she read, struggling to concentrate on the prose after an entire day as farmer and mother. “If she’d just left well enough alone, none o’this would’ve ‘appened!”

Audrey, for the first time that evening, felt her hold of the conversation begin to slip, the weight of Helen’s comment sitting strangely where it fell.

“Aye, what right ‘as she to meddle in ‘Arriet’s love life, eh?” someone else agreed, though Audrey could hardly tell who as she became aware of a very faint buzzing in her ears. Which was ridiculous. Why would a comment like that feel like it had wormed under her skin?

“She’s a bored, rich young girl,” Diana shrugged, her shoes kicked off and her feet tucked underneath her as if this was her own living room and looking mighty comfortable as she sipped her gin. “That’s all the reason she needs, surely.”

It was a teasing hark back to earlier in the evening, and people laughed accordingly.

“She wants her friend to be happy,” Dorothy spoke up for the first time that evening, having been more than content letting the conversation flow over her with the occasional quips rather than putting her own opinions forward. “But I’d wager in this, she doesn’t know her friend as well as she thought.”

It wasn’t directed at her. It wasn’t about her. But already primed by Helen’s comment about leaving well enough alone, Audrey felt each of Dorothy’s words niggle at her heart, a cold finger of ice trailing her spine as she wondered if it was, after all, about her.

“Well, no, ‘ow can she?” Helen countered, “Emma plucked th’girl who din’t know any better outter that school and declared they were friends and ‘Arriet was what? Grateful? Willin’ ter be moulded inter whatever Emma wanted?” Helen scoffed at that concept of friendship – the patronage kind that was no longer part of their world but had been in time gone past. “And then, when ‘er so called friend ‘as a chance t’be ‘appy she sticks ‘er oar in and gives ‘Arriet all these ideas an’ delusions when th’girl were ‘appy enough before.”

“I suppose losin’ a friend to marriage were a bigger deal back then,” Grace offered, “And she ‘ad so recently lost her governess. ‘Er friend, even.”

Audrey wanted to kiss her, was ready to grasp that point with both hands and manhandle the conversation onto social class and marriage if she had to, but Helen didn’t give her a chance.

“If Emma weren’t a right snob, she’d have been ‘appy for ‘er friend and gon’ter visit ‘er at ‘er new farm,” Helen said firmly, “As she probably does at the end o’the book when she is ‘Arriet’s friend. I know she just lost that governess-ma of ‘ers but she still ‘ad no business interferrin’ as she did.”

“Mr Farnon would argue if ‘e and I an’t prodded James, you’d’ve been waiting months more for a proposal from ‘im,” Audrey found herself speaking, her voice somehow light and teasing despite feeling brittle inside, like she had to prove something. Prove that her meddling wasn’t unwarranted. Prove to Dorothy she did know her friends after all.

“You’n Siegfried weren’t meddlin’ though,” Helen countered, “Not really, and you ‘ad every right to, ‘im being in yer ‘ouse an all. But you encouraged, and aye, Siegfried all but dared ‘im, but we still would’ve gotten married eventually. It ain’t the same.”

“Ain’t it? Where’s that line then? Between encouragin’ and meddlin’ as you call it?” Audrey replied, her voice a little sharper than she’d expected because Helen turned to face her, frowning slightly and her gaze shrewd and assessing. “Where is the line where encouragin’ becomes interferin’?”

And had she crossed it herself, at Christmas?

“Well, Emma shouldn’t ‘ave ‘elped ‘Arriet write that letter to ‘er farmer,” Grace said, her tone even and gentle, as it would be in a discussion about literary characters, and her naming them helped steady Audrey a little. “She shoulda stopped when ‘Arriet were so pleased to get ‘er proposal. That were right unfair of ‘er.”

“Aye, and Mr and Mrs Weston were encouraged because feelings were already there,” Harriet added, “She encouraged that, and interfered with ‘Arriet.”

“That she were,” Audrey said, nodding along with everyone else. Because it as true, after all – it was things she had thought and said before. So why, now, did it feel pointed? Like she was the one under review, not Emma?

She really did not want to think on that.

“Moren that,” Helen picked up again, waving a hand generally in emphasis, “If she ‘and’t interfered, ‘Arriet would never o’set ‘er cap at Knightley and then there’d been none of that trouble in their friendship later on!”

“Ah, I think you’re missing the point there though, Helen,” Dorothy interjected smoothly, leaning forward in her chair, “In that if Emma hadn’t interfered with Harriet and Mr Martin then yes, Harriet wouldn’t have gotten ideas about Mr Knightly. But, if Harriet hadn’t done so, if she hadn’t announced she loved Mr Knightley, and thought he might like her back, does she have Emma’s blessing – then Emma would never have realised how she felt, and how she could lose him. Arguably, if she hadn’t interfered, she’d never have discovered that she loved him.”

Dorothy punctuated the end of her opinion with a raised glass, a smirk and a sip of her drink. She quirked an eyebrow at Audrey as she did so, and Audrey had the encroaching sense that Dorothy hadn’t been talking of characters when she’d said all that. That this… this veiled point… was why Dorothy had come tonight, and why she had waited to share her opinion till the conversation had turned to matchmaking. And she felt a bubbling need to defend herself – no, defend Emma. She wasn’t Emma. Dorothy wasn’t Harriet. Mr Farnon – goodness, Mr Farnon wasn’t Knightley.

“And even when she does realise,” Audrey found herself saying, her voice miraculously even, her heart thundering against her chest and looking down to smooth imagined creases in her skirts so she didn’t have to meet Dorothy’s eyes. She felt exposed, like all the eyes turned on her were seeing too much, and why oh why was she still talking? “She’s willin’ ter put ‘er own feelin’s aside, if it makes ‘im, if it makes both o’them, ‘appy. ‘er friends. She’d let ‘im go to make em ‘appy.”

“But she doesn’t need to,” Dorothy replied gently, her voice laden with far too much and Audrey felt her breath hitch, unable to stop herself from looking over to Dorothy and seeing compassion and care and knowing in her look. Far too much knowing. “She just needed t’talk to him, because all he wants is her. And if she didn’t talk to him, how could either of them have known that?”

They weren’t talking about Emma and Knightley now, Audrey was awfully, painfully sure of it. She felt hot, and breathless, and she needed air. She needed to leave because how did Dorothy know? When had Dorothy seen? What had Dorothy seen? She didn’t even know how she felt, not really, and she’d been so sure she’d hidden it so well, that no one could know, but Dorothy did. Dorothy knew. Did the others? Oh, goodness, did Mr Farnon? He’d be so polite and gentle as he told her he wasn’t interested in her like that - Audrey knew this, surely Dorothy knew that too?

Audrey was Harriet – in the way. Not Emma, like Dorothy seemed to be suggesting.

Had she taken a breath? She couldn’t remember. She was in company. She had to breathe, to remain calm, to pretend – as she always did – that nothing was wrong. Had she been silent too long? She couldn’t remember.

“Besides, Harriet Smith is more than happy with her Robert Martin, when he proposes again,” Dorothy continued, eyebrows quirked and her smile soothing. Had all of that happened in a heartbeat?

Taking Dorothy’s cue to steady her and anchor her, Audrey forced a smile on her face and agreed that it had, indeed, led to the resolution at the end of the book.

“And what a confession,” Diana sighed dreamily as if she couldn’t feel the tension in the room, as if it only existed between Dorothy and herself. Or perhaps it was only her tension. Maybe it was just Audrey who felt as if her lungs were too small, her girdle too tight, the fire too hot, her collar too close. “I do believe darling Jane really knows the best ways for a man to confess. Utterly divine.”

“’Ow does he confess again?” Someone asked, though Audrey didn’t know who, and the words tripped out of her mouth before she could stop them, was even aware of them.

“I cannot make speeches, Emma. If I loved you less, I might be able t’talk about it more. But you know what I am.” Her voice trailed off, the weight of the last sentence settling on her heart.

Love that grew out of knowing someone so well, every little frustrating and endearing thing being just part of who that person is and loving every messy part of them. To see and be seen – that was, perhaps to her, the most beautiful part of Knightley’s declaration. He didn’t try to be something he wasn’t – he just was, regardless of whether or not Emma loved him. He just was, and she just was. A sum of all their parts and dear because of it. How could she not think of Siegfried Farnon then?

Diana broke the moment of appreciative silence that followed Audrey’s unexpected recitation by pretending to swoon, and the laughter in the room burned hot and bright against her thoughts. Only half a beat too late, Audrey joined in, letting the now overtake the maybes and finding it easy to concede ground to Diana briefly – letting her lead on some suggestive comments about Mr Knightley that had the room crying with laughter.

Diana winked at her through the laughing, and Audrey felt a wave of appreciation for a woman she’d once never imagined could be her friend.

“Of course,” Dorothy, it seemed, wasn’t done, and Audrey felt the fragile equilibrium she’d forced herself into wobble slightly in concerned anticipation. “The issue with that entire chapter – that scene – is that it shows that both of them think they are doing what the other wants.”

“How’d y’mean?” Helen asked, frowning slightly. But Audrey knew what Dorothy was getting at.  

“Well,” Dorothy picked up her book – a much fancier edition than Audrey’s own battered and slightly dog-chewed copy – and flicked through, glancing over pages quickly until she struck on the passage she was after. “In the chapter, after Harriet has made her confession and Emma has realised quite how much he means to her – but before Knightley confesses himself, Emma’s narrative is:

“Emma could not bear t’give him pain. He was wishing to confide in her – perhaps to consult her – cost her what it would, she would listen. She might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give just praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own independence, relive him from that state of indecision which much be more intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his.”

She looked up from the book as if that answered everything. Audrey felt each word as if it were a sharp reflection of her own situation. Hadn’t she done the same since Christmas? Hadn’t she chosen to relieve him of the indecision about his single life and praised Dorothy? Continued to do so each day so he didn’t feel obliged to address the turmoil she’d been trying to work through, the quagmire of her own messy feelings?

He didn’t feel the same, after all, and she wouldn’t make it his burden to bear. Oh, she had no doubt he loved her in the same way that he loved James and Helen, as family and dear to his heart, but he didn’t see her as a possibility in that soulmate nonsense he searched for. He loved her as one did a warm and familiar thing, with none of the burning fear that made one in love. And she was fine with that.

“Well, Emma here is willing to give any advice he seeks, because she can’t bear him being in pain – even the pain of not knowing if his feelings for Harriet are the same. She’ll cause herself pain to do so, o’course,” Dorothy closed the book and looked around the room, eyes lighting on Audrey only briefly before continuing to address them all. “But he, as it turns out, has spent all this time thinking Emma loves Frank Churchill. And he were willing to do whatever was needed as her friend to console her, to support her, in that. He was respectful, and he doesn’t think he has the slightest chance of her feeling the same. He’s too old and crochety in his mind, after all. But the thing is, they’ve both spent all this time thinking the person they love with their whole heart and soul is in love with someone else, and that they would have to live watching their hearts in a life they feel they can’t have.”

“Aye, true,” Grace nodded sagely, “But he couldn’t have said anything before – she din’t know, did she? Not till ‘Arriet.”

“No,” Dorothy’s eyes danced with success, her eyes sliding to Audrey’s with unnerving accuracy, and smiled. “Not till Harriet.”

The room hollowed out, all the air being sucked out, and her awareness narrowed to Dorothy’s gaze and the stifling weight of it, of what Dorothy seemed to think she knew. Of what it would mean for them, for all of them, for-

“It’s Jane Fairfax I feel most sorry for,” Charlotte chirped up, and Audrey could have kissed her in sheer relief at the conversation finally turning away from whatever it was Dorothy was saying and yet not saying.

She let the conversation slide over her, as Charlotte steered it firmly towards Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax, and tried to smile and join in, even as she felt Helen’s hand close gently around her own, hidden in the fold of her skirt. Perhaps she hadn’t been so good at hiding her unease as she thought she had.

Audrey glanced at the clock, registering the time as abstract, and forced herself back into the room, in the moment. As she had done on Christmas Eve. As she had done before. As she had done when Robert had stormed out, and Edward had crawled in – hesitant and afraid. As she’d always done, and always would.

Her emotions didn’t matter. What mattered was here, and now, and being the hostess in her employer’s house, wishing they would all just leave.

-----------------------

There was something soothing about the routine of washing up – filling the sink with water and rationed soap, stacking the cups carefully with the plates next to them so she could access them easily. The cups here. The saucers there. The plates there. The cutlery there. The wine glasses over there. All organised ready for her to clean, and put away ready for use another day. Resetting her kitchen as she’d done almost every night for thirteen years.

It helped Audrey take a breath, and feel the air actually fill her lungs. To enjoy the space around her, and the quiet hum of the house at rest.

The only ones left were Helen, who’d gone upstairs to check on Rosie; Diana and Charlotte, who were gossiping brightly while they put chairs back about Austen heroes like they were men about Darrowby; and Dorothy, who announced her presence in the doorway with additional plates and by clearing her throat.

“That’s the last of it,” she said brightly, dropping them to the table and moving to snag the tea towel off the side. Audrey felt a flare of panic at the thought of any length of time alone with Dorothy. As much as she loved her friend, she needed her to be anywhere else but here.

“Oh, no, don’t worry about that,” Audrey said firmly, tugging the tea towel, but Dorothy just held on, and raised her eyebrows knowingly. “You’ve still time till last call – why don’t you get ‘Elen and Charlotte and go over t’Drovers. Join Mr Farnon and the boys.”

“And leave you ‘ere worrying?” Dorothy snorted, and picked up the first cup to dry. “Not likely.”

Audrey turned back to the sink, giving up only because her throat felt tight, her body coiled to run, and the routine of washing and rinsing and repeating was sorely needed now more than ever.

“What do I ‘ave to be worryin’ about?” She said lightly, refusing to let any of her inner turmoil show on the outside. If she pretended she didn’t know what Dorothy has been insinuating with veiled character and plot analysis, maybe Dorothy would let it go. Maybe she’d been imagining it all regardless, and Dorothy hadn’t actually meant anything in the curve of her finely shaped brows. “I thought it were a success, glad everyone else seemed to agree.”

So much so in fact that at least half the group had asked what they should read next, over the next month or so, and whose house they should go to next time as they couldn’t always put the pressure on poor Audrey’s house. She’d balked slightly at the general and accepted assertion that it was her house too, not just his, but only briefly. In this context, it was hers. And it was hers. She shouldn’t worry about that now when it had been her home for so long.

“Aye, it were a good evenin’,” Dorothy agreed calmly, then she knocked her hip gently against Audrey’s own. “Want t’talk about it?”

“About what?” Audrey rinsed a cup and reached for another.

With Dorothy, silence was very rarely actually silence, and this one felt loaded, and pointed, and Audrey couldn’t help but look up, directly into her friends knowing look. And she knew, she knew that Dorothy had meant every word the way she’d taken it. That she’d used Emma and Harriet to talk of Audrey, and she both wanted to, and didn’t want to, know how Dorothy had worked it out. And even what she’d worked out and could she please let Audrey know the summary because heavens knew Audrey was having trouble working out what all her conflicted feelings meant. What any of it meant.

“There’s nowt t’talk about,” Audrey said firmly, swallowing thickly.

Some of this must have played across her face – the fear, the pain, the anxiety – for Dorothy’s voice was compassionate when she said, “Oh, Aud.”

And she didn’t want to talk about it. There was nothing to talk about.

“The book ends with an ‘appily ever after,” Dorothy reminded her gently, a hand to her arm in sympathy or success, and Audrey hated that she was second guessing Dorothy’s motivations that night, second guessing everything she said and looking for hidden meaning.

“You’re as bad as ‘e is,” Audrey scoffed before she could keep the thought inside. At Dorothy’s questioning look she sighed, and clarified, “With all ‘is nonsense about … soulmates and Aristophanes. It’s a book. Of course there’s an ‘appy ending. It wouldn’t be a romance without all the couples ‘appily married at th’end.”

“But it doesn’t mean you can’t be ‘appy too,” Dorothy said firmly. “They just needed t’talk and you do-”

“It’s a book, Dorothy,” Audrey said firmly, and returned to the sink, plunging her hands back in to search for plates and cups and scrubbing them with a little more force than was strictly necessary. “A good book, one I very much enjoy. But still, just a book.”

In those words she silently begged Dorothy not to ruin it for her, not to take away something she loved and give it a meaning too heavy to bear. Perhaps Dorothy heard it, for she simply picked up something to dry from the rack, and they worked in loaded silence for several painfully long seconds.

“I wish it hadn’t been me,” Dorothy said softly at last, carefully stacking the little plates.

“What ‘and’t been you?”

“Who were your Harriet. Audrey…”

Whatever Dorothy had been about to say, whether it would have loosened the knot of tension twisting round her spine or not, was irrelevant as Diana all but danced into the room, humming cheerfully with Helen and Charlotte following behind.

“Helen tells me you live out towards Brawton, Dorothy,” Diana said brightly in welcome, dropping her glass to the side and patting Audrey’s arm warmly. Audrey didn’t know if she should be relieved or not at Diana’s entrance, having forestalled whatever Dorothy had decided to discuss. “Will you be heading over to the Drovers to join Siegfried?”

“No,” Dorothy glanced at Audrey quickly, and pasted a smile on her face. A welcoming, friendly one. Audrey turned back to the washing up. It needed to be done, after all. “I don’t fancy another drink tonight.”

“Ah, in which case, might I beg a lift home from you? I live just off the Brawton Road so it shouldn’t take you out of your way,” Diana smiled winningly, “And just think of all you and I can gossip about on the way!”

And with that, Dorothy had agreed with a laugh, won over by Diana as everyone inevitably was, and placed the towel to one side for Audrey to dry her hands on, once again the hostess with guests leaving.

“Why don’t you and Charlotte ‘ead on over t’Drovers,” Audrey suggested herself to the girls, “I can keep an ear out for our Rosie, and you’ve both been such’an ‘elp tonight.”

It would also give her the time and the space to think about everything that had happened that evening – a moment to breathe with no one else to witness it.

“You sure?” Helen looked hopeful at the thought of joining her husband.

“Aye, be gone wi’you,” Audrey all but shooed them down the hall after Dorothy and Diana, “Come on, now. Go.”

“Righto, Mrs H,” Charlotte smiled cheerfully and Helen hesitated only a moment before agreeing, frowning slightly at the thought of leaving her alone, but Audrey just nodded encouragingly.

A round of coats and goodbyes later, and Audrey leant against the front door in relief at the blessedly empty house, the dogs at her feet.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and closed her eyes tightly for a moment, breathing out slowly and carefully to stop everything from bubbling up. As she’d always done.

Slowly, she made her way back to the sink, back to the detritus on the table and the washing up that always needed doing. The routine of it as regular as the sun rising in the morning.

Had she been right to interfere? If she hadn’t, Mr Farnon might not have kissed Dorothy in front of the village, and made the decision to give a relationship rather than a passing fancy a go. If she hadn’t, she might not have ever needed to name the warmth she felt when he was near, how fond she was of his eccentricities, even the annoying ones. How much it had hurt to seem him with Dorothy that first night. She’d never had felt the fear that she could lose him, and just what that meant.

Perhaps, like Emma, she did now bitterly regret her meddling. But only because it had been so much easier before.

She didn’t know how she felt, not really, and what if all it was she felt was, in fact, fear? Fear that she’d have to leave if another Mrs Farnon were to take her place in the household. She did at least know that she could, and would, make a life for herself in Sunderland but she didn’t want to. It was her place. Her home. Here, with him – with them.

So caught up in her warring, swirling thoughts, she didn’t notice Dash rushing off to the corridor, or the footsteps in the hall until he was there, a tweed clad arm entering her peripheral vision to pick up the discarded tea towel.

“How was it? The inaugural meeting of the Darrowby Women’s Literary Society?” he asked cheerfully familiar pipe hanging from the side of his mouth, picking up a cup and drying it absently, his eyes creasing into a smile as she stared at him. “Mrs Hall?”

Oh, she hadn’t answered him. She dropped her hands back into the water and made a show of searching for any missing items.

“It were good,” she said, finding she didn’t need to dredge up a smile for him, despite how off-kilter she felt. “’ad some every interestin’ debates about Emma, o’course. What’re you doin’ ‘ome? You got a few ‘ours to last call.”

“Ah, well, when Charlotte and Helen arrived, it was clear your reading group had disbanded, and I decided to leave the lovebirds to it,” Mr Farnon smiled at her again, and the warmth spread across her body, loosening the tension in her shoulders, “And I wanted to see how your evening had gone. Any complaints? I can always go back. I’m sure Maggie won’t complain.”

The teasing lilt to his voice, and that he was standing so close to her she could smell the tobacco and the washing soap she used on his clothes, made her dizzy.

“Who said anythin’ bout complainin’? If you’re ‘ere, you can ‘elp,” she jutted her chin to the table as she pulled the plug to refill the basin, feeling her cheeks curve in response, glad to have him home after all, for all the swirly confusing mess of emotions he seemed to cause inside her. “Can you pass me them plates?”

“I can indeed,” he stepped back to the table that earlier that day had been covered with her baking. He glanced over the cleared plates, and she registered the disappointment on his face before he said, “Ah, I see the ladies of Darrowby and beyond were as taken with your baking as I am.”

She snorted, and tugged the tea towel off his shoulder to dry her hands before raising her eyebrows at him, and stepping into the pantry. His delighted look when she returned with a tin of biscuits and cakes saved for him was worth it.

“Why don’t we do the plates quickly,” he suggested, peering into the tin with boyish delight, “And then you and I make a cup of tea, and we enjoy these in something resembling peace before the others come home. While we do both, you can tell me all the insights our ladies had about Emma, Knightley and Hartfield in general, how about that, Mrs Hall?”

He was so earnest, so warm, that she felt all the worries slip to the side – all the anxiety about what Dorothy did or didn’t know, what she’d meant and what she’d wanted to say, all the feelings muddied about her feet – and she handed the tea towel back to him.

“Sounds like you got yerself a deal, Mr Farnon,” she smiled as he joined her back at the sink, and perhaps it was fear, but perhaps it was also the sense she felt that the day had ended properly now, because he was home, and here and next to her, making a silly joke to make her laugh. Perhaps it was just the warmth, of being known for who you were, and not the promise of who you might be. And perhaps she could worry about it another day.