Have you ever participated in a “progressive dinner”? It was a fun, social thing they did back in the day – church groups, etc.. You all ate the appetizer at one person’s house. Then you moved on as a group to somebody else’s for the salad, then the main course at a third place, and dessert at a fourth – progressing from house to house. That’s what I’ve got planned for you today to celebrate the launch of Mr. Knightley in His Own Words!
You start by going to Austen Variations for the appetizer (the book blurb and Prologue) – just enough to whet your appetite. Then you’ll be moving on to The Calico Critic to read the first half of chapter 1. Think of it as a flavorful salad – tasty, but not quite enough to completely satisfy your hunger. And so you’ll find the second half of the chapter (the main course?) right back here! I promise you will discover some tasty bits to surprise your palate as you go!
Of course, you’re welcome at any time along the way to cut to the chase – skip directly to dessert! Simply go get your own copy now ( Amazon for Kindle and paperback, and audio, B&N for Nook) to enjoy in the comfort of your own home. Devour it slowly, one bite at a time, or binge to your heart’s content!
I’m delighted to bring Mr. Knightley’s full savory story to you, and I hope you’ll enjoy getting to know our deliciously handsome hero much better. One ARC reader said this is my best “in His Own Words” book of all! So off you go now, and I’ll meet you back here in a bit for the main course (below).
Coming away to town has not made my mind any easier, though. I have the strong sense that we are at a critical juncture, and no one but myself seems to be aware of the danger. Little does poor Mr. Woodhouse suspect that Frank Churchill is about to cut up his happiness and destroy his peace of mind forever. As for Emma, I fear she is about to make the biggest mistake of her life. My own painful situation aside, I must think and do what is best for them; this I have resolved. And yet, what can I do? I have been over it time and again and see no useful measures to be taken. Emma will not heed my warnings. Neither will her father. And so my comprehending the imminent danger avails nothing at all.
Having concluded that there is no relieving action I can take myself, I have no choice but to await the outcome of events that are in other hands. Meanwhile, here in Brunswick Square, I intend to distract myself as well as possible.
John and Isabella’s children will serve as an excellent diversion, if I will allow them to be. And to the extent I can give them pleasure, my time here will not be wasted. My other strategy is to set down a record of the past. Perhaps these ramblings of mine will be fit only for the fire in the end, but while I confine my thoughts to the past, I may at least forget my current trouble for a little.
I suppose I should start this narration at the beginning; that would make the most sense. I must go back to the events that established the rule for all the rest: why it is that I owe Mr. Woodhouse my complete loyalty, and why our two families are forever bound together – not only now by John and Isabella’s marriage, but many years prior to that. I must start in 1791, the year before Emma was born.
Until that time, nothing extraordinary had occurred to me. Life was quiet, pleasant, and good. Both my parents lived, and my brothers and I went on well together, making all Highbury – Hartfield and Donwell Abbey in particular – our personal grounds for play and exploration. I say “my brothers,” because there were three of us then, you see. I was in the middle at the age of fifteen, with John four and a half years my junior and poor Miles less than two years my senior.
But then my uncle Spencer Knightley came to stay.
I must have intuitively understood the event’s significance even at the time, for I remember with preternatural clarity the conversation between my parents that heralded my uncle’s arrival. It was a quiet evening at Michaelmas, and we were all gathered in the drawing room. John sat on the floor playing with his collection of toy soldiers, and the rest of us divided our time between conversation and reading – Miles and I with books, my father with his paper, and my mother reading the letters that had arrived earlier.
Mama’s little gasp of surprise suddenly drew my attention. “Your brother is coming!” she told her husband with a certain tone of wariness that seemed to always be employed when speaking of my uncle.
“Spencer?” asked Papa, looking up from his paper with a scowl. “I wonder what he can possibly want here at this time of year.”
“Heaven only knows. He just says that we are to expect him tomorrow. Gracious!”
“Steady, Margaret. Now then, let me have a look,” he said, reaching across to receive the letter from my mother’s extended hand.
Mama said no more; she quietly waited for my father’s opinion, as she always did. She had a very good mind of her own, but a natural timidity of spirit and diffidence as to her rightful claims had given her the habit of always deferring to others, especially her husband, on serious matters. His good judgement and benevolence made this practice no bad thing, while he lived.
She sat poised on the edge of her chair, the perfect picture of the refined lady. She was a bit taller than average with a figure only mildly the worse off for the three sons she had borne. Her hair was still a fine shade of auburn, I remember, although laced with a little silver filigree by that time. She seemed to me somewhat advanced in years, although I suppose she was no more than five years older than I am now, and still a very handsome woman.
After briefly scanning the single-paged letter for himself, my father said, “Spencer can mean nothing serious by this – only a short visit. After all, he must be back in town for the beginning of next term, you know.”
“Yes, of course. Well, I suppose we can put up with him for a few days, can’t we?” Although she sounded none too sure.
“We can and we must. He is my own twin, after all, and this is his home too, in one sense of the word. I can hardly turn him away at the door.”
“No. No, of course not.”
My father, who was ten years older than my mother and fully gray by this time, tossed the letter aside, tended his pipe, and returned to his paper. Mama kept silent for a few minutes, as if she agreed the matter was settled and meant to say no more about it. And yet, from the corner of my eye I observed her restless fidgets. Finally she seemed not to be able to stifle her disquietude in any longer.
“It is just that…”
“Yes, my dear?” said my father, looking over the top of his spectacles at her.
“It is just that with Spencer’s history… Your history with him, that is… His implacable resentment. Well, I do not like his coming unexpectedly like this. Uninvited too. I cannot help thinking it does not bode well. No, it does not bode well at all, and I shall be uneasy until he has been and gone again.”
My father frowned and gave his wife a significant look accompanied by a slight tilt of his head in my direction, which put an end to the discussion of Uncle Spencer, at least within my hearing, and left me to wonder what it all meant. To what “history” did my mother refer? And why was she so uneasy about my uncle’s coming?
Later that night, I decided to talk it over with my brother Miles in private. We were quite close – in age and even more so in temperament – and we had always shared a bedchamber by choice. Oh, how I miss him, even now! He was my best friend as well as an excellent brother, always there by my side to defend and guide me. So naturally I wanted to hear his opinion on the business with our uncle. He had nearly two years more life experience, if nothing else, but I also thought it possible my father had confided more to him, since he was the heir.
“Say, Miles, what do you know about this business with Uncle Spencer?” I asked after we had retired for the night. I had lain awake in the dark, thinking, and was quite sure by the sound of his breathing that he was still awake as well.
His instant answer confirmed it. “What do you mean?”
“The mysterious ‘history’ with our father that Mama spoke of, and why is she so nervous about his coming?”
“Oh, that. Well I know very little – probably no more than you do – but I have always supposed there to be some bad blood between them because of Father’s inheriting and Spencer’s not.”
I considered this. “But why should Uncle resent Father for that? It is not his fault. I do not resent you because I was born second.”
“That is because you have a nobler spirit, George. You always have had. Honestly, though, it does not seem fair, does it? – that I should get it all, and you and John practically nothing, just because of an accident of birth?”
“Not when you put it like that. But then, I have never considered it an accident. It is all part of God’s plan somehow. Is not that right? I am sure I have heard the vicar preach on that subject before.”
“Yes, and I do hope so – that it is God’s plan, and that I will prove worthy of the responsibility when it comes my time. Still, think of Uncle Spencer. If younger sons resent not inheriting, as I believe they often do, think what Uncle must feel as the younger twin. He missed his chance by only a few minutes, not years. It must make the bitter pill even more difficult to swallow. Do not you think so? Like a cruel trick of fate.”
“Miles?” I said after a little silence.
“Yes, George?”
“You do not suppose Uncle means to make any trouble over it, do you?”
“No. I cannot imagine how he could, even if he wished to. Donwell belongs to Father, all legal, right, and tight. Nothing can change that.”
“And after father, it will be yours, not Uncle’s. Is that not so?”
“Exactly so. And I will always look after Mother and you and John. You can rest easy on that head.”
I lay awake a while longer considering all this. Miles had explained the probable source of the conflict so well that I thought I could understand. He was correct, too, as I would later learn, although there was more to it than that. Uncle Spencer came the following day, and so began a very dark period of our lives.
Congratulations! You’ve finished your progressive feast for today! All except dessert: the rest of the story. Did you learn some surprising new things about Mr. Knightley already? I promise there’s a lot more to come. UPDATE: If you’re still undecided, you can now continue reading into chapter 2 at Austenprose: The Trouble with Uncle.
Next, Mr. Knightley in His Own Words goes on a low-key tour (by which I mean no hoopla, outrageous promotions, or giveaways). The goal is just to get the word out about the book. So follow along for fun (live links below as they become available). But if you’d like to know what kind of trouble Uncle Spencer creates, what heroics Mr. Woodhouse performs, and the secrets of George Knightley’s love life, as well as all the rest, don’t wait! Get a copy of the full book for yourself at Amazon or B&N.
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