by Joan Aiken
‘He seemed a respectable, estimable man,’ replied Elizabeth calmly.
‘And very proud of his wife,’ added Emma. ‘He looked at her most fondly.’
Jane darted an irritable glance at her, but Robert said in a considering manner:
‘This astonishing news does, I must confess, greatly augment my esteem for my sister Penelope. Indeed I never could have imagined that she would bring off such a consummation. And I will not deny that it is no small weight off my own mind. For I had every reason to fear that she might have been a considerable charge upon us in years to come – when the inevitable melancholy event befalls us—’ with a glance at the ceiling in the general direction of his father’s bedchamber. ‘Now that at least one of my four sisters is respectably and satisfactorily disposed of, we may perhaps have better hopes of further good fortune—’ nodding in a kindly, patronizing manner towards Margaret and Emma. ‘For our poor Eliza here, I am afraid we cannot entertain any such expectations; but pewter can breed gold (as they say), and since Penelope has established herself so creditably, she may, not unreasonably, be depended on to find husbands for her younger sisters. Clissocks, indeed! Well, well, well! Dr Harding must be a warm man, indeed, if he can afford to put that place in order. It has been on the market for I do not know how many years. I myself would never in the world undertake such a costly piece of renovation – no, not if I had all the wealth of Dives – but it may do excellently for Dr Harding. Yes, indeed! And I do not deny that it will sound well – “My brother-in-law, Dr Harding, of Clissocks!” Yes, indeed, yes, indeed!’ rubbing his thin hands together. ‘This has been a most favourable day for the family. And Tom Musgrave came calling, with his friend Lord Osborne, you say, as well?’
‘I would place no dependence on the favour of either of those gentlemen,’ said Margaret spitefully, and Emma was obliged to agree.
‘It was a mere whim, because they had been disappointed of their day’s hunting.’
‘But Mrs Blake called, also! We have not yet told you about Mrs Blake!’ put in Elizabeth eagerly.
‘And who, pray, is Mrs Blake?’ inquired Jane in a light, scoffing manner. ‘Mrs Blake! That hardly sounds a name to raise one’s hopes high. A decidedly flat, commonplace designation. Mrs Blake! Humph! She sounds like a good, tedious body of the village.’
‘There, my dear sister, you are wholly mistaken!’ cried Elizabeth warmly. ‘Mrs Blake is both delightful and very well-bred; she is the sister of Mr Howard the Chaplain at Osborne Castle, and I believe her connections are quite as high up and grand as those of Lady Osborne; and her husband has just been made a captain. In the navy.’
‘Oh! Well! I am very glad to hear it. The navy must always be unexceptionable,’ said Jane graciously, perhaps recollecting that Blake was no more commonplace a name than Watson. ‘It is true, I have heard talk in Croydon that Lady Osborne is to marry Mr Howard.’
‘Why,’ cried Margaret in disgust, ‘how can that be? A baron’s widow to stoop so? And sure, she must be ten years older than he is – twenty, even!’
‘Yes, my dear creature; but in those high circles so many years’ difference is considered of small consequence. Besides, to look at Lady Osborne, one would never guess that she is such an age. From her appearance, one would suppose her no more than thirty years at most – she is so delicately fair, with such fine grey eyes and dark lashes, and she carries herself with such an air, speaks with so much brilliancy and grace. Not at all like that red-headed daughter of hers! I have seen Lady Osborne, many times, from a distance, at Assemblies in Croydon, sometimes with Mr Howard; it is true, doubtless, that she could do vastly better for herself, but it is also plain that she has set her heart on the gentleman, and it can’t be denied that he is personable enough. A fine figure of a man. Also I have heard tell that her former husband, old Lord Osborne, was a regular bear, and she was persuaded, even coerced, into that match by her parents, the Bungays. No doubt, this time, she feels herself entitled to please her own fancy. She has provided an heir; she has done her duty.’
Emma felt impelled to put a question: ‘And is Mr Howard equally devoted to her ladyship? Is it known that he, too, wishes for the match?’
‘Lord, child, she has ten thousand a year of her own! He would be a great fool if he did not fall in with her wishes. But I have also heard it said that he is perfectly complaisant. These great ladies, you know, are accustomed to their own way. They carry all before them. And Mr Howard himself, for all his cleverness and handsome looks, is not a wealthy man.’
Emma sighed. She could not help feeling it a great pity that a man of such apparent good taste, insight, intelligence, and compassion should permit himself to be manoeuvred into such an ill-balanced match. If, indeed, that was the case. Yet, she thought, what do I know of his inner wishes and intentions? I danced two dances with him at that Assembly, nothing more than that. Besides, where does prudence end and calculation begin? Very likely he may be able to put ten thousand a year to better use than the lady would do if she were alone, or married elsewhere. And it is sheer presumption on my part to make any judgement in the matter when I have so little acquaintance with the gentleman, and none at all with the lady. She may be all that is benevolent, and wholly deserving of his affections.
Endeavouring to withdraw her thoughts from a subject which could have no comfort or relevance to herself, she listened to the others.
They were now giving Elizabeth an account of their day’s encounters with old friends and former acquaintance.
‘How poor old Mrs Selbourne has aged! I should scarcely have known her!’ – and, ‘Lord! What a shocking change in Frederick Winston! He was used to be so smart, quite a beau, but now he looks no more than a middle-aged yokel farmer!’ was the general tenor of Robert’s and Margaret’s narrative, and the latter might have been absent from Stanton for three years, rather than three months, to judge by her descriptions of amazing general deterioration and decline in the district. Jane confined herself to comments on wardrobes, and a pervasive astonishment that, only twelve miles from Croydon – that seat of modishness and brilliant taste – fashions should lag so far behind what was permissible.
‘Even ladies of the better class wearing pattens! I hardly knew where to look! I was not aware that such a practice still prevailed, even among the lower orders.’ Guiltily, Emma managed to withdraw her eyes from those of Elizabeth. ‘And, my dears, in one house, a lady – for such I suppose she must be termed – received us wearing what I believe used to be called a Caraco jacket – I was obliged to keep my gaze on the mat – three petticoats – when nobody now wears more than one – stays, my dear, when every person of fashion has left off even corsets – shift-sleeves – when even a chemise is now unheard-of. Truly, in these country districts, one might be in the Middle Ages.’
‘And – and did you call, as you said you meant to, on Mr and Mrs Purvis?’ inquired Elizabeth in a faltering voice.
(‘It was old Mrs Fitzsimmons, wearing the Caraco jacket,’ put in Margaret. ‘Even when I was a child she was a frumpy old quiz.’)
‘Oh, the Purvises, yes,’ Robert answered his sister carelessly. ‘My word, though, she has gone off, poor thing! So frail and sickly as she looks, I shall be exceedingly surprised if Purvis does not repent of that alliance. And but one little puny daughter to show for the marriage – ay, he would have done better to stay by you, Eliza, though at the time it did not seem so. Did he not cast an eye in your direction, some ten years ago? Still, I do not say but what events have turned out for the best; my father needs your services now, it is plain; and though, as it came to pass, my sister Emma could have filled that office, it was not then to be anticipated that Aunt Turner should throw her bonnet over the windmill, behave with such arrant folly. No, no, matters are best as they are. I suppose you do not receive any word from your aunt, Mrs O’Brien as she now is?’ he asked Emma.
During Robert’s speech Emma had felt mo
st acutely for Elizabeth who, it was plain, could only just contain her tears; but, by good fortune, at this moment, their father rang his bell upstairs, and, with a muttered excuse, Elizabeth hurried from the room.
Emma told her brother that she had received a few letters from her aunt, none of very recent date. He nodded, and said, ‘It was a bad business. A shocking bad business. I daresay she has by now greatly regretted her rash act. But no remedy can be found now. Only you are cut out of a fortune, Emma. Poor Eliza,’ he went on, ‘she has gone off quite amazingly, too. I wonder at her loss of looks. I do indeed.’
‘Indeed, yes!’ agreed his wife with great composure. ‘One can say so, now she is out of the room. Dear me! It seems quite hard to imagine that she can ever have had a serious suitor – so coarse her complexion has grown, and her hair so thin and pitiful. It makes me quite sorry that my maid Hargreaves is not here, to try what effect bandoline might have to improve it—’
‘Oh, fiddlesticks, Jane,’ said her husband impatiently. ‘What in the world, pray, do you imagine would be the use of such trickery? (And where, in any event, could you put your maid in this house? In the stable-loft?) Besides, where would be the sense – Eliza has long since—’
He was obliged to cut short the rest of his argument, for Elizabeth now returned to the dining-room. The brief interlude upstairs had been enough to render her once more quite in control of her features. She said calmly, ‘Emma, my dear, our father has expressed a wish for your company. He asks if you will go and read aloud to him. So – if you do not object to forgoing dessert—’
‘Not in the very least!’ cried Emma with great eagerness, pushing back her chair. ‘I shall be very happy to go and keep him company. Pray excuse me,’ she added to the company in general, and almost ran from the room. As she mounted the stair she heard Jane’s high, assertive voice commenting:
‘Little Emma would not be quite so much amiss if she had rather more stature and a deal more countenance. But that pert, self-assured manner of hers! It is of all things unfortunate – quite the outside of enough – I do not know how we could introduce her to our friends—’
Odious, odious woman, thought Emma, continuing to climb the stair. But I am very glad if she has taken a dislike to me, for then perhaps she will cease urging me to come back and stay with them at Croydon, which is the very last thing I would ever wish to do. Her friends! I can imagine what they are like! Sharp young lawyers and rich, patronizing tradesmen.
She tapped at her father’s door and entered. The silence and peace of his chamber came as a deep refreshment in itself, after the loud self-satisfied voices and commonplace pronouncements to be heard downstairs; and when he said, ‘Ah, Emma, my dear child; I should be glad if you would sit for a while and read to me,’ she was wholly happy to be of service to him. He had been seated by the fire in an easy chair, but she persuaded him that his bed would be more comfortable, and assisted him to make the transfer.
He then expressed a wish to be read to out of his own sermons, of which he had a tolerably large collection, going back many years, preserved and transcribed from the days when he had been able to be more active in parish affairs.
‘I had thoughts of offering them for publication,’ he told Emma. ‘Mr Howard informs me that volumes of sermons, such as that of the Reverend Fordyce, command substantial sales these days – when, alas, young clerics are not so industrious in preparing their own texts as they should be; Mr Howard kindly undertook to advise me regarding the preparation of a selection from my works. So I should be obliged, my dear, if you would assist me by reading them aloud, in order to refresh my memory.’
‘There is nothing I should like better, Papa.’
Indeed, this was no more than the truth. The discourses were sober, well-argued, and sometimes intensely moving homilies, as, for example, the one Mr Watson had preached after his own wife’s death; throughout the ensuing weeks Emma, daily reading through the greater portion of them to her father, received the benefit of their quiet wisdom.
On this first occasion he halted her after twenty minutes.
‘Thank you, my child. That has calmed and made me drowsy. I think that now I shall sleep peacefully. It has proved a somewhat trying day. Did not some person inform me that Penelope was married? But never mind that at present. Goodnight, my dear; you have a gentle voice – “an excellent thing in woman,” as the bard puts it. I am reminded by it of your dear mother.’
Emma felt very well rewarded, as she lowered the flame of the lamp and tiptoed away; this brief, peaceful interlude contained, for her, greater value than all the rest of the strangely variegated day.
***
Four days later Robert and Jane returned to Croydon, taking Margaret with them again. There had been a half-hearted invitation to Emma to accompany the party, for Jane’s dislike of her was in some degree overmastered by the undoubted fact that Emma’s wardrobe, formerly furnished and governed by the comfortable means and superior taste of Aunt Turner, would be matter for much interest and discussion among Jane’s circle of friends in Croydon. The offer, accordingly, was made, but in so languid and insincere a manner that Emma had no difficulty in parrying it.
‘Thank you, but my father has asked me to read aloud all his sermons to him – it is a task which will take a number of weeks, and my sister Elizabeth is by far too busy – besides, she does not like reading—’
‘Oh la, my dear Emma, I am afraid you are quite a Bluestocking!’ cried Jane archly. ‘Poor Mag here and I will never be able to keep up with you, so learned as you will be when you have perused them all – am I not right, Mag, my love? We must confine our poor selves to discussions of figured cambric and pearl-edged ribbon. Well, dear Emma, you must come to Croydon another time – must she not, Robert, Maggie? In the spring we shall renew our entreaties – in the meantime we must content ourselves with returning our charming Mag to the disconsolate Mr Hobhouse – if he has not pined away from melancholy in the meantime . . .’
Robert adjured her to finish off her goodbyes, for heaven’s sake, and get into the carriage, or they would never be home in time for dinner.
The departure of Margaret came, to Emma, as a considerable relief. She scolded herself for lack of affection to a sister, but was honest enough to admit that it was almost impossible to like her immediate elder who, although not lacking in shrewdness and intelligence, took no pains to study the needs of others, and cared for nobody but herself. Upon her first return to the parsonage Margaret, evidently wishful to impress Emma with her gentility, had assumed a soft, cajoling manner, had spoken with almost languishing slowness and restraint, had expressed nothing but the most laudably charitable and unexceptionable sentiments, and found not a single object about her that did not deserve praise. But, by degrees, either deciding that Emma’s opinion was of small consequence, or that such a demeanour was too difficult to maintain over a long period of time, she had reverted to what was evidently her normal mode: a whining, fretful, continual displeasure with the amenities of the parsonage, and repeated querulous attacks upon Elizabeth, who bore them with the indifferent calm of long usage.
Invited to return to Croydon with the married pair, and having apparently given up hope of Tom Musgrave, she made no secret of her eagerness to quit Stanton once again.
Kind-hearted Elizabeth was a little distressed by this.
‘You return to our home for so very short a visit? You do not wish to spend more time with Papa? Or with our sister Emma?’
‘Oh,’ cried Margaret carelessly, ‘there will be time enough for that when Penelope has come back with her doctor and set up house at Clissocks. Then, indeed, there will be something worth – I mean, there will be more society in the neighbourhood.’
‘The fact of the matter is,’ explained Jane in a loud confidential whisper to Elizabeth, ‘that young Mr Hobhouse, my husband’s junior associate, you know, has been paying Miss Margaret such decidedly m
arked attentions, that – oh, I quiz her about him amazingly, do I not, Robert?’
Margaret was ready with a simper, but Robert, busy anticipating a dirty road and a slow journey, had no time for such social niceties.
‘No doubt we shall find Mr Hobhouse waiting at home with the liveliest anxiety to see if Margaret has continued to honour us with her company on the return journey to Croydon!’ ran on Jane. ‘He had heard such tales of the beaux at Stanton – especially one Tom Musgrave!’
Just at this moment Tom Musgrave and a friend cantered past in the adjoining meadow, adding weight to Margaret’s decision by failing to make any effort to pause or engage in conversation, merely waving hats and whips as they rode by.
‘I declare that Mr Musgrave is a very disagreeable young gentleman and quite eaten up with pride,’ snapped Jane Watson. ‘You are far better off, my dear Mag, in the city of Croydon where one can, at least, walk the streets in one’s nankeen half-boots without sinking into the mud, and where you will have Mr Hobhouse to escort you.’
So the trio took their departure, and a quiet daily routine was re-established at the parsonage.
But one observation made by Mrs Robert Watson had remained to tease Emma’s mind.
The next monthly Assembly in Dorking was now a month away. This time, Emma had self-sacrificingly resolved that she herself would remain at home to keep their father company, while Elizabeth, who so dearly enjoyed any form of sociability, should not be deprived of the pleasure of dancing.
‘And, my dear sister, do pray permit me to try the effect of bandoline on your hair. My aunt Turner has always been used to apply it, with the most improving results, and I am persuaded that it would do wonders for your appearance.’
Elizabeth was doubtful, hesitant, hard to convince, either that she should go to the ball in place of her sister, or as to the efficacy of the bandoline.
‘Besides, we have none,’ she added as a clincher.
