by Joan Aiken
‘Your road through the village is infamous, Elizabeth,’ said he; ‘worse than ever it was. By heaven! I would indict it if I lived near you. Who is surveyor now?’
There was a little niece at Croydon to be fondly enquired after by the kind-hearted Elizabeth, who regretted very much her not being of the party.
‘You are very good,’ replied her mother, ‘and I assure you it went very hard with Augusta to have us come away without her. I was forced to say we were only going to church, and promise to come back for her directly. But you know it would not do to bring her without her maid, and I am as particular as ever in having her properly attended to.’
‘Sweet little darling!’ cried Margaret. ‘It quite broke my heart to leave her.’
‘Then why was you in such a hurry to run away from her?’ cried Mrs Robert. ‘You are a sad, shabby girl. I have been quarrelling with you all the way we came, have not I? Such a visit as this, I never heard of! You know how glad we are to have any of you with us, if it be for months together; and I am sorry’ (with a witty smile) ‘we have not been able to make Croydon agreeable this autumn.’
‘My dearest Jane, do not overpower me with your raillery. You know what inducements I had to bring me home. Spare me, I entreat you. I am no match for your arch sallies.’
‘Well, I only beg you will not set your neighbours against the place. Perhaps Emma may be tempted to go back with us and stay till Christmas, if you don’t put in your word.’
Emma was greatly obliged. ‘I assure you we have very good society at Croydon. I do not much attend the balls, they are rather too mixed; but our parties are very select and good. I had seven tables last week in my drawing-room.’
‘Are you fond of the country? How do you like Stanton?’
‘Very much,’ replied Emma, who thought a comprehensive answer most to the purpose. She saw that her sister-in-law despised her immediately. Mrs Robert Watson was indeed wondering what sort of a home Emma could possibly have been used to in Shropshire, and setting it down as certain that the aunt could never have had six thousand pounds.
‘How charming Emma is,’ whispered Margaret to Mrs Robert in her most languishing tone. Emma was quite distressed by such behaviour; and she did not like it better when she heard Margaret five minutes afterwards say to Elizabeth in a sharp, quick accent, totally unlike the first, ‘Have you heard from Pen since she went to Chichester? I had a letter the other day. I don’t find she is likely to make anything of it. I fancy she’ll come back “Miss Penelope,” as she went.’
Such, she feared, would be Margaret’s common voice when the novelty of her own appearance were over; the tone of artificial sensibility was not recommended by the idea. The ladies were invited upstairs to prepare for dinner.
‘I hope you will find things tolerably comfortable, Jane,’ said Elizabeth, as she opened the door of the spare bedchamber.
‘My good creature,’ replied Jane, ‘use no ceremony with me, I entreat you. I am one of those who always take things as they find them. I hope I can put up with a small apartment for two or three nights without making a piece of work. I always wish to be treated quite “en famille” when I come to see you. And now I do hope you have not been getting a great dinner for us. Remember we never eat suppers.’
‘I suppose,’ said Margaret rather quickly to Emma, ‘you and I are to be together; Elizabeth always takes care to have a room to herself.’
‘No. Elizabeth gives me half hers.’
‘Oh!’ in a softened voice, and rather mortified to find that she was not ill-used. ‘I am sorry I am not to have the pleasure of your company, especially as it makes me nervous to be much alone.’
Emma was the first of the females in the parlour again; on entering it she found her brother alone.
‘So Emma,’ said he, ‘you are quite a stranger at home. It must seem odd enough for you to be here. A pretty piece of work your Aunt Turner has made of it! By heaven! A woman should never be trusted with money. I always said she ought to have settled something on you, as soon as her husband died.’
‘But that would have been trusting me with money,’ replied Emma; ‘and I am a woman too.’
‘It might have been secured to your future use, without your having any power over it now. What a blow it must have been upon you! To find yourself, instead of heiress of 8,0001. or 9,0001., sent back a weight upon your family, without a sixpence. I hope the old woman will smart for it.’
‘Do not speak disrespectfully of her; she was very good to me, and if she has made an imprudent choice, she will suffer more from it herself than I can possibly do.’
‘I do not mean to distress you, but you know everybody must think her an old fool. I thought Turner had been reckoned an extraordinarily sensible, clever man. How the devil came he to make such a will?’
‘My uncle’s sense is not at all impeached in my opinion by his attachment to my aunt. She had been an excellent wife to him. The most liberal and enlightened minds are always the most confiding. The event has been unfortunate; but my uncle’s memory is, if possible, endeared to me by such a proof of tender respect for my aunt.’
‘That’s odd sort of talking. He might have provided decently for his widow, without leaving everything that he had to dispose of, or any part of it, at her mercy.’
‘My aunt may have erred,’ said Emma, warmly; ‘she has erred, but my uncle’s conduct was faultless. I was her own niece, and he left to her the power and the pleasure of providing for me.’
‘But unluckily she has left the pleasure of providing for you to your father, and without the power. That’s the long and short of the business. After keeping you at a distance from your family for such a length of time as must do away all natural affection among us, and breeding you up (I suppose) in a superior style, you are returned upon their hands without a sixpence.’
‘You know,’ replied Emma, struggling with her tears, ‘my uncle’s melancholy state of health. He was a greater invalid than my father. He could not leave home.’
‘I do not mean to make you cry,’ said Robert, rather softened – and after a short silence, by way of changing the subject, he added: ‘I am just come from my father’s room; he seems very indifferent. It will be a sad break up when he dies. Pity you can none of you get married! You must come to Croydon as well as the rest, and see what you can do there. I believe if Margaret had had a thousand or fifteen hundred pounds, there was a young man who would have thought of her.’
Emma was glad when they were joined by the others; it was better to look at her sister-in-law’s finery than listen to Robert, who had equally irritated and grieved her. Mrs Robert, exactly as smart as she had been at her own party, came in with apologies for her dress.
‘I would not make you wait,’ said she; ‘so I put on the first thing I met with. I am afraid I am a sad figure. My dear Mr W.,’ (addressing her husband) ‘you have not put any fresh powder in your hair.’
‘No, I do not intend it. I think there is powder enough in my hair for my wife and sisters.’
‘Indeed, you ought to make some alteration in your dress before dinner when you are out visiting, though you do not at home.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘It is very odd you should not like to do what other gentlemen do. Mr Marshall and Mr Hemming change their dress every day of their lives before dinner. And what was the use of my putting up your last new coat, if you are never to wear it?’
‘Do be satisfied with being fine yourself and leave your husband alone.’
To put an end to this altercation and soften the evident vexation of her sister-in-law, Emma (though in no spirits to make such nonsense easy), began to admire her gown. It produced immediate complacency.
‘Do you like it?’ said she. ‘I am very happy. It has been excessively admired; but sometimes I think the pattern too large. I shall wear one to-morrow that I think you will prefer to
this. Have you seen the one I gave Margaret?’
Dinner came, and except when Mrs Robert looked at her husband’s head, she continued gay and flippant, chiding Elizabeth for the profusion on the table, and absolutely protesting against the entrance of the roast turkey, which formed the only exception to ‘you see your dinner.’ ‘I do beg and entreat that no turkey may be seen to-day. I am really frightened out of my wits with the number of dishes we have already. Let us have no turkey, I beseech you.’
‘My dear,’ replied Elizabeth, ‘the turkey is roasted, and it may just as well come in as stay in the kitchen. Besides, if it is cut, I am in hopes my father may be tempted to eat a bit, for it is rather a favourite dish.’
‘You may have it in, my dear, but I assure you I shan’t touch it.’
Mr Watson had not been well enough to join the party at dinner, but was prevailed on to come down and drink tea with them.
‘I wish we may be able to have a game of cards to-night,’ said Elizabeth to Mrs Robert, after seeing her father comfortably seated in his arm-chair.
‘Not on my account, my dear, I beg. You know I am no card-player. I think a snug chat infinitely better. I always say cards are very well sometimes to break a formal circle, but one never wants them among friends.’
‘I was thinking of its being something to amuse my father,’ said Elizabeth, ‘if it was not disagreeable to you. He says his head won’t bear whist, but perhaps if we make a round game he may be tempted to sit down with us.’
‘By all means, my dear creature. I am quite at your service; only do not oblige me to choose the game, that’s all. Speculation is the only round game at Croydon now, but I can play anything. When there is only one or two of you at home, you must be quite at a loss to amuse him. Why do you not get him to play at cribbage? Margaret and I have played at cribbage most nights that we have not been engaged.’
A sound like a distant carriage was at this moment caught; everybody listened; it became more decided; it certainly drew nearer. It was an unusual sound for Stanton at any time of the day, for the village was on no very public road, and contained no gentleman’s family but the rector’s. The wheels rapidly approached; in two minutes the general expectation was answered; they stopped beyond a doubt at the garden-gate of the parsonage. ‘Who could it be? It was certainly a postchaise. Penelope was the only creature to be thought of; she might perhaps have met with some unexpected opportunity of returning.’ A pause of suspense ensued. Steps were distinguished along the paved footway, which led under the windows of the house to the front door, and then within the passage. They were the steps of a man. It could not be Penelope. It must be Samuel. The door opened, and displayed Tom Musgrave in the wrap of a traveller. He had been in London and was now on his way home, and he had come half-a-mile out of his road merely to call for ten minutes at Stanton. He loved to take people by surprise with sudden visits at extraordinary seasons, and, in the present instance, he had the additional motive of being able to tell the Miss Watsons, whom he depended on finding sitting quietly employed after tea, that he was going home to an eight o’clock dinner.
As it happened, however, he did not give more surprise than he received, when, instead of being shown into the usual little sitting-room, the door of the best parlour (a foot larger each way than the other) was thrown open, and he beheld a circle of smart people, whom he could not immediately recognize, arranged with all the honours of visiting round the fire, and Miss Watson seated at the best Pembroke table, with the best tea-things before her. He stood a few seconds in silent amazement. ‘Musgrave,’ ejaculated Margaret, in a tender voice. He recollected himself, and came forward, delighted to find such a circle of friends, and blessing his good fortune for the unlooked-for indulgence. He shook hands with Robert, bowed and smiled to the ladies, and did everything very prettily; but as to any particularity of address or emotion towards Margaret, Emma, who closely observed him, perceived nothing that did not justify Elizabeth’s opinion, though Margaret’s modest smiles imported that she meant to take the visit to herself. He was persuaded without much difficulty to throw off his great-coat and drink tea with them. For ‘whether he dined at eight or nine,’ as he observed, ‘was a matter of very little consequence;’ and without seeming to seek he did not turn away from the chair close by Margaret, which she was assiduous in providing him. She had thus secured him from her sisters, but it was not immediately in her power to preserve him from her brother’s claims; for as he came avowedly from London, and had left it only four hours ago, the last current report as to public news, and the general opinion of the day, must be understood before Robert could let his attention be yielded to the less rational and important demands of the women. At last, however, he was at liberty to hear Margaret’s soft address, as she spoke her fears of his having had a most terrible cold, dark, dreadful journey—
‘Indeed, you should not have set out so late.’
‘I could not be earlier,’ he replied. ‘I was detained chatting at the Bedford by a friend. All hours are alike to me. How long have you been in the country, Miss Margaret?’
‘We only came this morning; my kind brother and sister brought me home this very morning.’ ‘Tis singular – is not it?’
‘You were gone a great while, were not you? A fortnight, I suppose?’
‘You may call a fortnight a great while, Mr Musgrave,’ said Mrs Robert, sharply; ‘but we think a month very little. I assure you we bring her home at the end of a month much against our will.’
‘A month! Have you really been gone a month?’ Tis amazing how time flies.’
‘You may imagine,’ said Margaret, in a sort of whisper, ‘what are my sensations in finding myself once more at Stanton; you know what a sad visitor I make. And I was so excessively impatient to see Emma; I dreaded the meeting, and at the same time longed for it. Do you not comprehend the sort of feeling?’
‘Not at all,’ cried he, aloud; ‘I could never dread a meeting with Miss Emma Watson, or any of her sisters.’
It was lucky that he added that finish.
‘Were you speaking to me?’ said Emma, who had caught her own name.
‘Not absolutely,’ he answered; ‘but I was thinking of you, as many at a greater distance are probably doing at this moment. Fine open weather, Miss Emma – charming season for hunting.’
‘Emma is delightful, is not she?’ whispered Margaret; ‘I have found her more than answer my warmest hopes. Did you ever see anything more perfectly beautiful? I think even you must be a convert to a brown complexion.’
He hesitated. Margaret was fair herself, and he did not particularly want to compliment her; but Miss Osborne and Miss Carr were likewise fair, and his devotion to them carried the day.
‘Your sister’s complexion,’ said he, at last, ‘is as fine as a dark complexion can be; but I still profess my preference of a white skin. You have seen Miss Osborne? She is my model for a truly feminine complexion, and she is very fair.’
‘Is she fairer than me?’
Tom made no reply. ‘Upon my honour, ladies,’ said he, giving a glance over his own person, ‘I am highly indebted to your condescension for admitting me in such dishabille into your drawing-room. I really did not consider how unfit I was to be here, or I hope I should have kept my distance. Lady Osborne would tell me that I was growing as careless as her son if she saw me in this condition.’
The ladies were not wanting in civil returns, and Robert Watson, stealing a view of his own head in an opposite glass, said with equal civility—
‘You cannot be more in dishabille than myself. We got here so late that I had not time even to put a little fresh powder in my hair.’
Emma could not help entering into what she supposed her sister-in-law’s feelings at the moment.
When the tea-things were removed, Tom began to talk of his carriage; but the old card-table being set out, and the fish and counters, with a tolerably cl
ean pack brought forward from the buffet by Miss Watson, the general voice was so urgent with him to join their party that he agreed to allow himself another quarter of an hour. Even Emma was pleased that he would stay, for she was beginning to feel that a family party might be the worst of all parties; and the others were delighted.
‘What’s your game?’ cried he, as they stood round the table.
‘Speculation, I believe,’ said Elizabeth. ‘My sister recommends it, and I fancy we all like it. I know you do, Tom.’
‘It is the only round game played at Croydon now,’ said Mrs Robert; ‘we never think of any other. I am glad it is a favourite with you.’
‘Oh, me,’ said Tom. ‘Whatever you decide on will be a favourite with me. I have had some pleasant hours at speculation in my time; but I have not been in the way of it now for a long while. Vingt-un is the game at Osborne Castle. I have played nothing but vingt-un of late. You would be astonished to hear the noise we make there – the fine old lofty drawing-room rings again. Lady Osborne sometimes declares she cannot hear herself speak. Lord Osborne enjoys it famously, and he makes the best dealer without exception that I ever beheld – such quickness and spirit, he lets nobody dream over their cards. I wish you could see him over-draw himself on both his own cards. It is worth anything in the world!’
‘Dear me!’ cried Margaret, ‘why should not we play vingt-un? I think it is a much better game than speculation. I cannot say I am very fond of speculation.’
Mrs Robert offered not another word in support of the game. She was quite vanquished, and the fashions of Osborne Castle carried it over the fashions of Croydon.
‘Do you see much of the parsonage family at the castle, Mr Musgrave?’ said Emma, as they were taking their seats.
‘Oh! yes; they are almost always there. Mrs Blake is a nice little good-humoured woman; she and I are sworn friends; and Howard’s a very gentlemanlike, good sort of fellow. You are not forgotten, I assure you, by any of the party. I fancy you must have a little cheek-glowing now and then, Miss Emma. Were not you rather warm last Saturday about nine or ten o’clock in the evening? I will tell you how it was – I see you are dying to know. Says Howard to Lord Osborne—’
