by Joan Aiken
‘No, no, no, my dear creature, of course not. The very idea!’ said Penelope, rippling with laughter. ‘No, no, we propose going no farther than the Pulteney Hotel in Piccadilly today. There we shall pass a night or two, and buy a few trifles, before travelling on to Northampton.’
Emma and Elizabeth exchanged brief glances of profound relief.
Mr Watson, making his slow way into the room, now required to have everything explained again to him, clearly and simply.
‘Penelope and Dr Harding are married, Papa. And here, to make our acquaintance, is Penelope’s husband. This is Dr Harding.’
‘Married? They wish to be married? Then we must have the banns called – somebody will have to go down the road and fetch Mr Nicholls the curate – but, dear me, where will the gentleman be able to stay for three weeks?’
‘No, no, Papa dear; they are married already – they were married in Chichester, in the church of St John. See, Penelope shows you her wedding ring!’
Penelope did so, most exultingly. And along with the gold ring was another, with a large and remarkably handsome stone.
‘But, harken to me, we mean to be with you again very soon,’ she was informing Elizabeth, in what Emma could not help considering a tone with a wholly uncalled-for degree of patronage in it. ‘No, no, not in this house, my dear girl. That would hardly suffice. Or be fitting. But, guess what! Only guess what we have done, this very morning!’
‘I cannot possibly guess, Penelope,’ said Elizabeth faintly. Emma divined that she was trying to estimate whether there would be sufficient pease soup in the larder to offer to the unexpected guests, along with the remainder of the pigeon pie, before they proceeded on their journey.
‘We have been to view Clissocks! We have purchased Clissocks!’
‘Clissocks,’ murmured Mr Watson, who was still only half abreast of the conversation. ‘Now, there was an example of a fine old Saxon settlement, and a house wastefully fallen to rack and ruin. And not so very long since! A sad business; a very sad, shocking business, that was.’
‘I had written and asked my friend Tillie Sawyer – you remember her, Tillie Partridge that used to be, who married and moved to Guildford – and she replied and told me, yes, Clissocks still stood empty. And so, I made the suggestion to monsieur mon mari – why do we not take it in on our way, inspect the property, as we shall be passing close by, and, of course, bring along with us monsieur mon mari’s man of business, our esteemed, invaluable Mr Thickstaffe – and, upon my word, never was a purchase so swiftly transacted! Poor old Sir Meldred, you know, living on bread and cheese in the lodge, was happy to accept our very first offer. But he looks not long for this world—’
‘Clissocks?’ Mr Watson was still bewildered. ‘You are thinking of purchasing Clissocks? But it has stood empty these ten years. Nobody would buy it – it was in such a shocking state of disrepair, even before Lady Torridge died. No, no, you would be well advised to put that notion quite out of your heads.’
‘But it is done, Papa. The thing is accomplished.’
‘But – Dr Harding – do you not own a house in Chichester?’ Elizabeth ventured to ask.
‘Ay, to be sure, he does, a little hencoop, a little doll’s house of a place, with a garden the size of that table. But now we shall come and be neighbours to you all. Dr Harding, you see, is just retired from medical practice; and I tell him we shall require a great deal more room to stretch out in.’
Penelope gazed about her, effulgent, smiling with happiness and triumph. She had, Emma thought, very much the same air as Mrs Blake’s baby girl earlier, surveying the scene around her, confident in her total power over it.
Now the sound of horses’ hoofs could be heard outside.
‘Oh no!’ cried Elizabeth, almost in despair. ‘Not more visitors?’
‘Can it be our brother Robert, returning?’ suggested Penelope hopefully. ‘I vow I quite long to see Jane again. And Margaret. The dear creatures!’
‘No, it cannot be Robert,’ said Emma. ‘For I do not hear carriage wheels. Whoever comes is on horseback.’
Her heart sank, as she thought of one possible explanation; and, sure enough, glancing through the casement, she saw the figures of Tom Musgrave and his friend Lord Osborne, and a third horseman in the distance, who appeared to be riding off in the opposite direction.
‘I fear it is Tom Musgrave,’ Emma murmured to Elizabeth, whose expression revealed only too plainly how little she relished the news.
‘Tom Musgrave?’ cried out Penelope. ‘Well – I protest! I am amazingly surprised! To think that he – of all persons – should come by, just at this juncture. Tom Musgrave, I must inform you, my dear sir,’ she told her husband, ‘is a young fellow who used to dangle after me, oh, most pertinaciously. But, I am glad to say, I pretty soon despatched him about his business! I wanted no dealings with such an empty-headed, self-satisfied puppy. Oh, he was a fop! No, no, I very quickly sent him to the right-about! Did I not, Eliza! And then – after that’ (without waiting for Elizabeth’s response) ‘I believe he started a flirtation with Margaret; he is one of that sort, you know, who will trifle with any young lady that may catch his eye. And I suppose’ (laughing affectedly) ‘he has now turned his attention to you, little Emma, has he?’
Emma was spared the need for reply by a rat-tat at the front door.
There was nothing for it but to admit Tom Musgrave and Lord Osborne, though they were the very last people Emma would have wished to see.
‘Hollo, there, Miss Emma!’ said Tom, very jovially, stepping into the hall – and Emma, recalling her aunt O’Brien’s new husband, became instantly aware that he and his companion must have dropped in at the Bird in Hand, or some other hostelry, before making their call, since a strong aroma of sherry emanated from one or both. They were, as well, mud-stained, scratched, dishevelled, and wind-blown. ‘Hollo, there! We have had such a cursed piece of bad luck – lost the fox, a cunning old rascal who got clean away from hounds at High Down Gorse! Up to that point we had a capital run of it, both of us well in the lead – and then the shrewd old brute whisked away to the side of us and into Fotherby Wood – so there was an end of our sport, hounds quite at a stay – for, you know, Sir Giles won’t permit hounds on his demesne – it was the most vexatious thing – was it not, Osborne? – so, to cut a long tale short, as we were within half a mile of you on our way home, we thought we might just as well cast round this way and pass the time of day – ran into Howard, too, but he sheered off . . .’
Tom Musgrave was running on in this manner, very freely and convivially, without taking particular note of his surroundings. He stood in the hall, smiling, flushed, and quite at ease, with his thumbs tucked into his waistcoat pockets and his whip under his arm. He was a well-set-up, good looking young man with dark hair and a somewhat florid complexion. He had a confident, cheerful air, as if he expected the world in general to treat him well, and had hitherto been justified in such expectations. His friend Lord Osborne, somewhat younger, was fair-haired and had narrow, patrician features; his manner varied between callow, unsure, awkward, and then suddenly supercilious – as if he thought himself above his society, yet was not certain of his welcome. Now, perhaps because he was more sensitively aware, or possibly because he had imbibed a little less freely at the Bird in Hand, he jogged his friend by the elbow and murmured, ‘Hey-day, Musgrave, here’s company in the house – company, you know. Here’s folk, other folk, in the parlour over and beyond the family.’
‘Why, the more the merrier,’ declared Tom happily, rolling into the parlour. ‘But, I say, you know, Miss Emma, what it was, we were disappointed not to see you at the meet. Did I not tell you expressly that we were to throw off at Stanton Wood at nine o’clock? We looked to see you there, we were sadly put-about at your absence, I can tell you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Emma, very coldly indeed, ‘but, first, it was quite out of
my power to be at such a place at such a time; and, secondly, I understood from you that the meet was to be on Wednesday, not on Monday.’
‘Oh, well, ay, that’s so, certainly, I found when I got home that it was at Larchbrook Spinneys this day, not Stanton Wood the day after tomorrow – but, nonetheless, we were deuced sorry not to see you there. Were we not, Osborne? By the bye, where is Howard? He was with us but now.’
‘He rid off,’ said Osborne. ‘He would not stay. He said my mother was expecting him. And that it was not a suitable time for a call at the parsonage.’
‘Ay, did he? Ay, that’s right; he suddenly fetched up some pettifogging reason why it would be best not to enter the parsonage—’
By this time Emma was heartily annoyed with herself that she had ever let the gentlemen into the house, and wondered how in the world to get them out again, when suddenly Penelope stepped forward.
‘Why – I do verily believe that it is Thomas Musgrave!’ Her voice was shrill and unfriendly, the smile she launched at Tom was like a javelin. ‘What a very singular coincidence – that you should choose to step into this house, just as I am come by on my wedding journey. Is not that laughably bizarre! But – dear me – how you have changed, Mr Musgrave! How you have – well, I can hardly say gone off, can I? That would not be civil! But you seem so much older than when I saw you last – indeed and truly had I met you in the street I would hardly have known you – nor here, indeed, had not my sister spoke your name. I would have thought that you were your own father – indeed I would! But now you must let me make my husband known to you – for I am no longer Miss Penelope Watson, I will have you know – my name is now Mrs Joseph Harding. And we shall soon be your neighbours, my husband and I – for we have bought Clissocks, and plan to settle there as soon as may be!’
Tom Musgrave seemed quite bemused by all this information, which was delivered in a high, breathless tone without any pauses. He stood rocking slightly back and forth, his countenance flushed and puzzled.
Dr Harding, almost equally at a loss, stood up, bowed, said, ‘Your servant, sir,’ and sat down again.
Mr Watson, exhausted, it was plain, by all this unexpected company, observed faintly to his daughter Elizabeth, ‘Eliza my dear, I think I must retire again to my chamber. All these strange voices fall too harshly on my ears. I believe I was informed just now that somebody had been married? Now who was that again? I would not wish to seem uncivil, but, indeed, I fear I must return to my chamber.’
He rose up and began to move with faltering steps towards the door.
Tom Musgrave, meanwhile, was gazing at Penelope in stupefaction.
‘Miss Penelope? Married, you say? Good God!’
Lord Osborne now acted with more propriety and good sense than he had shown hitherto.
‘Allow me to give you joy, ma’am! Come, Musgrave, we are in the way here, I believe. We had better follow Howard. You may recall, also, that Mr Watson likes to take his dinner at this hour.’
And he plucked at Tom’s arm, almost pulling him from the room. Tom at last allowed himself to be led out, muttering to himself, ‘Penelope Watson married? Married? Can I credit my ears? Did she really say that?’
‘Ay, old fellow, but come along; Rajah and Bendigo will take cold if we do not get them back to the stable within the next half-hour.’
‘And did I hear her say that they had bought Clissocks?’
Tom’s voice now came from outside the front door.
Lord Osborne’s reply was lost in the clatter of hoofs as the two gentlemen mounted their muddied steeds and rode away.
Penelope, pale with fury, was heard declaring to the world at large: ‘Well! Upon my word! Is this what country manners are coming to? I was never so shocked! I could hardly believe my eyes! Or my ears! If it were not for our strong wish to see my dear brother and sister later today—’
Emma, seizing a chance to slip away from this not unnatural indignation, assisted her father back up the stairs and hurriedly set and carried him a tray with some cold meat and a glass of negus to consume in peace at his own hearthside.
When she returned to the parlour she found that Elizabeth was endeavouring to placate her sister with the remains of the pigeon pie and some damson tartlets which had been intended for the company at dinner that evening.
Dr Harding still seemed a trifle confused, as if the recent inundatory flow of events had left him solitary and stranded in its aftermath. Emma sat by him and did her best to put him more at his ease by asking civil questions about the wedding.
‘Oh, ay, it was a very pretty ceremony; very pretty. Special licence, you know; no guests, except for my niece Miss Shaw, and my man of business, Percy Thickstaffe; and after the wedding breakfast we were soon on our way . . . And, do you know, my dear Penelope, I believe we must be running along, now,’ he added, with more of a collected manner than he had displayed hitherto, ‘If we are to reach the Pulteney before dusk, I reckon we should be taking our leave.’
Penelope was not pleased. She still, evidently, hoped to show off her rings to Jane and Margaret.
‘But our men have gone down to the inn,’ she objected.
‘I can soon send the garden boy for them,’ said Elizabeth, immensely relieved at the prospect of at least a short intermission between batches of guests.
And, when the Hardings had been seen off, with flutterings of handkerchiefs, and many promises from Penelope for a speedy reunion, ‘As soon as there is a bedroom at Clissocks fit to be slept in!’
Elizabeth heaved a huge sigh of deliverance, and said, ‘Do you know, Emma, I believe that still, with a little good luck and contrivance, we may be finished with our laundry before the others are returned from their round of visits. And old Nanny says she is well enough to get up and help us this evening, and Betsey King has promised to remain and wash the plates.’
Chapter 2
Mr Watson was not to be prevailed upon to join the party at dinner that evening – a fortunate circumstance, perhaps, since Robert, Jane, and Margaret were sufficiently late back from paying their round of calls on friends to make their dressing for dinner a somewhat scrambled affair, and the meal greatly delayed. Robert, as on the previous days of the visit, received a scolding from his wife for the insufficiency of the powder on his hair.
‘There is quite enough powder for my wife and sisters,’ said he, shortly. ‘Do be satisfied, Jane, with having put on a very smart gown yourself.’
Emma, seeing her sister-in-law’s expression, hastily began to praise the gown.
‘Do you really think so, my love?’ cried Jane, instantly all amiability. ‘You do not consider it over-trimmed? I had some thoughts of putting this gold lace on my drab-coloured satin that I wore yesterday – what do you think? Would that enhance it? La! I vow it is useless to ask your sister Margaret – for she is such a flatterer! She praises all my gowns with equal fervour.’
‘But perhaps they all deserve it?’ suggested Emma.
‘Oh, my dear child! Pray do not be satirical! I shall think you as shocking a quiz as Miss Margaret there,’ said Mrs Robert, with a complacent look.
Robert’s wife was dressed very fine, and did her hair very skilfully, despite the lack of her maid, a deficiency which she continually lamented; she was decidedly short in stature, and had a broad nose and a wide mouth, but the vivacity of her countenance made ample atonement for these fallings-off from complete beauty; her face, indeed, was hardly ever at rest, for she was in a perpetual flow of spirits and repartee, abusing her husband for his silence, and teasing Margaret about her suitors at Croydon, especially a particular one, a Mr Hobhouse. When at rest it could be seen that the skin of her face, though soft, was marred by a thousand tiny wrinkles like the glaze on a piece of china-ware that has been left too close to the fire.
Margaret Watson, the next sister above Emma in age, was not without beauty; she had a slight, pretty
figure, and rather wanted countenance than good features, but the generally sharp and anxious expression of her face made her beauty a secondary consideration. She was so intent upon marriage as a goal that the need for some grace in the preliminaries to this state had quite escaped her.
When she learned that Tom Musgrave and his friend had made a brief visit to the parsonage during her absence from it that morning she made no attempt to conceal her vexation.
‘He and Lord Osborne, both? What did they say? How long did they stay? Did they make any inquiry after me? Did they disclose any plan – announce any intention of returning here?’
Emma could not put forward much hope of such a possibility in the immediate future. Margaret’s displeasure at this news, however, was quite swamped and overborne by the unbridled and clamorous astonishment displayed by both Robert and his wife over the unexpected matrimonial triumph of their sister Penelope.
Robert Watson was a slight, dark-haired man, superficially resembling his father in build and figure, but so dissimilar in character that the mark of it appeared on his countenance: not handsome, though gentlemanlike, he had a careful, nervous, calculating expression which at all times detracted from the joviality and animation that he affected when in company.
‘Penelope married?’ said he. ‘Are you in good earnest, Elizabeth? This is not some Banbury tale that you and Emma have concocted to divert us?’
‘Married? cried Jane Watson shrilly. ‘In what church, pray? Are you certain about this? Did she have wedding clothes? Did she have a ring?’
‘Indeed she did, and, besides that, a great big diamond, the size of a pea,’ said Emma, who found her sister-in-law’s vulgarity, and habit of begrudging anybody else’s good fortune, even when it did not detract from her own, almost insupportable.
‘Well! I never was so astonished in my whole life. For it must be five years at least since Pen lost any reasonable expectation of attaching a husband; let alone a wealthy one. What is his income? What is he like?’
