The Watsons and Emma Watson

by Joan Aiken

  Tom Musgrave, always livelier and quicker to grasp any situation, cried, ‘Why, Osborne, we came just in the nick of time. We can be of assistance by carrying the young lady down to the carriage – can we not? I daresay she don’t weigh a feather – do you, Miss Emma? Stand aside, Sindell, we’ll whisk her down to the carriage sweep in a brace of shakes.’

  A tart old voice from near the other fireplace now recommended that the young lady be allowed to put on her pelisse and hat before going out of doors. ‘And try not to be more of a dunderhead than the Almighty created you, grandson! Or you, Tom Musgrave!’

  Emma was for the first time made aware that the aged withered lady wrapped in shawls on a sofa by the second fireplace must be the dowager Lady Osborne.

  ‘Let’s take a look at you, miss!’ snapped the old lady as the two young men bore Emma towards her. ‘Yes! You do bear a certain resemblance to your mother. I can see it. She was a woman with a considerable degree of sense. I used to pay heed to what she had to say. But none of the young folk have any sense nowadays. Rattle-pated fools, the lot of them. Doubtless you are the same as the rest.’

  ‘I – I hope not, ma’am,’ gasped Emma, as she was borne past. The younger Lady Osborne had remained behind, with an air of cold detachment, beside her daughter, Miss Carr, and Mr Howard. Emma was sorry not to have been given a chance to say goodbye and offer some kind of thanks.

  As the two young men – more carefully than she might have expected – lifted her into Mr Sindell’s carriage, she said to Lord Osborne, ‘Pray, my lord, express my gratitude to your mother and – and say everything that is proper to her for her hospitality.’

  Not that it amounted to anything out of the common, she thought privately. All Lady Osborne did was allow me the use of her sofa and permit Mr Sindell to foment my wrist in her drawing-room.

  ‘Oh, to be sure,’ said Lord Osborne. ‘No matter for that. But I hope you are soon in a better way, Miss Emma! Pity to see you in such poor trig. Come, Musgrave – Sindell wishes us at the devil, I dare say.’

  Mr Sindell contented himself with saying, as he drove away, ‘I wonder that Lady Osborne did not invite you to pass the night at the castle! If it were not for you, her daughter might have been much longer incarcerated in the ice-house! But she is one of the high ones, Lady Osborne, she takes very little thought for the concerns of those beneath her. I am surprised, though, that Mr Howard did not suggest it to her.’

  ‘I would not have wished to stay overnight in the castle,’ said Emma quickly. ‘Not for the world! I did not feel at all comfortable there.’

  Elizabeth, when her sister was delivered at the parsonage, repeated Mr Sindell’s sentiments, but more vigorously.

  ‘My word!’ she cried. ‘I marvel at Lady Osborne, I do indeed! Why! you saved her daughter from a night in the ice-house – for it might have been hours before anybody went in search of her there, if it were not for you – and all the thanks you receive is to be scolded for hoydenish behaviour. Any other person for fifty miles around would have put you to bed and kept you overnight; anybody else would have given you dinner and nursed you and petted you. And you say that Mr Howard was there? Why did he not speak up and say you was not fit to be moved? I think the worse of him, indeed I do. I have no patience with him!’

  ‘But, Elizabeth, I did not want to stay at the castle. I should have been worried to death about you and my father.’

  ‘The castle folk could have sent a message to us by one of the estate men. Or Mr Sindell.’

  ‘But Lady Osborne is so cold and rebuffing. I am much happier at home. I should have hated above all things to be obliged to pass the night under her roof and have to feel beholden to her.’

  ‘Now,’ said Elizabeth sadly, ‘we shall never know if they really do have silk sheets on all the beds, and if the gentlemen really eat baked lobster and oyster fritters for breakfast, as Betsey’s sister told her.’

  Chapter 5

  The following morning brought a visit from Miss Osborne and Miss Carr in the pony-phaeton. It soon became plain to the parsonage sisters that a certain amount of reconsideration and readjustment must have taken place overnight in Osborne Castle; perhaps Mr Howard had delivered a homily on Christian charity to the lady of the manor; or the dowager had intervened; or the intercessions and pleas of Miss Osborne had in the end borne fruit and exerted a mollifying influence; whatever the cause, the visitors delivered a basket of flowers and fruit from the castle succession-houses, and all manner of gracious messages from Lady Osborne herself: ‘She hoped that the young lady’s wrist was not causing her too much pain or inconvenience, was deeply obliged for the kind service that had been rendered to her daughter, supposed that the injury must prevent Miss Emma Watson from attending the next Assembly at Dorking, therefore regretted the loss of an opportunity of seeing her there, but hoped that on a later occasion this might prove possible, etc. etc.’

  Such a signal civility from Lady Osborne must, of course, be reciprocated; the callers were invited into the parsonage and pressed to partake of baked apples and sweet cake, Elizabeth’s unvarying provision for morning guests. These refreshments they civilly declined but Miss Osborne, immediately catching sight of the pianoforte in the parlour, at once inquired which of the parsonage ladies might be the musician?

  ‘It is my sister Emma,’ said Elizabeth with eager pride. ‘Emma has a voice like a nightingale! Her masters at Shrewsbury could not speak too highly of her talent. She has perfect pitch! And performs on the instrument most beautifully, as well—’

  ‘Only not at present, of course,’ Emma said in haste, exhibiting her bandaged wrist. She had no wish to be called on to perform in front of these ladies whose standards of taste and performance, no doubt, far outstripped her own, and felt herself lucky to have so impregnable a defence.

  ‘Oh, Miss Watson! If only you would sing to us!’ breathed Miss Osborne with round, admiring eyes. It was plain that she was in the first stages of a hero-worship. ‘I should like to hear you above all things! My friend Miss Carr here could play for you – she always accompanies us when we dance – she is never tired of playing – and she could sing duets with you as well. Pray, pray, Miss Emma, do give us that pleasure! Do permit us to hear you.’

  Emma, cross, and, in truth, fatigued from a bad night and feeling in a low state of health, was obliged to conquer a very strong disinclination to perform; but she could see that Elizabeth was afraid of offending the ladies from the castle. And she herself was anxious to conceal from Elizabeth her own state of slight indisposition lest her sister consider this a reason for not attending the Dorking Assembly. After so many pains had been taken, Emma was determined that Elizabeth should reap the benefit. Accordingly she made no more difficulties but, ignoring her slight headache and the throbbing in her wrist, complied with Miss Osborne’s wish and sang a couple of ballads.

  Miss Osborne was in raptures. ‘What a miracle of a voice! She had heard nothing better in London – no, not even at Covent Garden. Miss Emma must not hide her light under a bushel. She must come – some evening – very soon – and sing at Osborne Castle – did not Miss Carr agree?’

  Emma thanked, and demurred. ‘She was very obliged but did not think it would be within her power at present – her father in such an uncertain state of health – not advisable to make evening engagements – later, perhaps, in the spring, and when her sister Penelope had moved into Clissocks—’

  This provided a most welcome diversion of interest and topic. News of Dr Harding’s purchase of Clissocks had evidently not reached the castle yet – Emma was amused to discover that what had become a common subject of neighbourhood gossip among the village folk apparently took longer to percolate to the upper gentry – and the ladies were all astonishment and eager inquiry.

  ‘So Clissocks was at last to be put into proper repair and occupied by a family? What an excellent thing! Such a handsome, historic old house! Such a
pity that it had for so long remained uninhabited. So sad about Sir Meldred and Lady Torridge – the last of an ancient family . . .’

  ‘My grandmother will be particularly interested to hear this news,’ Miss Osborne declared, ‘for I have heard her many times tell that the Torridges were one of the most respected families of the country. And so your sister and Dr Harding really plan to come and live there?’

  ‘Yes, very soon,’ Elizabeth was beginning, when Miss Carr, who had for some time been attempting, by various significant looks, to remind her young companion that the ladies had remained quite long enough for a morning call, at last succeeded in her purpose.

  After they had taken their departure, with many friendly professions, Elizabeth gave her younger sister a great scold.

  ‘Why did you not wish to sing at Osborne Castle? It would have been such an entry for you among the great ones! Such a fine way of making yourself known.’

  ‘Yes! As a hired performer!’ said Emma with curling lip. ‘Much obliged, but I prefer to make my entry on the basis of personal friendship, or not at all!’

  ‘Emma! Emma! You have too much pride for your own good.’

  ‘Pride! Yes, I have! I do not choose to be fetched in like a circus animal, as a professional performer. Did you not notice how amazed they were to hear that Penelope and her husband were to occupy Clissocks? And how shocked? They look on us as a lower order of beings. For persons of our degree to aspire to live in such a style is not at all the thing!’

  ‘Oh, fie, what nonsense, Emma! You are imagining far more than is the case. They were surprised, that is all.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Emma. ‘We shall see, when Penelope and her doctor are moved in, how much recognition they receive from the Osbornes. We shall discover whose estimate lies closer to the truth.’

  Elizabeth still found it exceedingly hard to convince herself that Penelope and Dr Harding would ever really return and move into Clissocks; but the reality of their intentions soon became more apparent when the next day’s post brought a letter from Penelope.

  ‘Dr Harding and I decided to extend our wedding journey to Weymouth,’ wrote the new Mrs Harding, ‘the more reason to do so as, from what we hear of the builders’ progress at Clissocks, the workmen are being disgracefully behindhand and dilatory in the business. Pray, my dear Elizabeth, do you step along there and urge them to work faster! We had hoped to be moved in by the time this finds you, but fear there is little chance of that. I certainly cannot consider setting up house without a properly appointed kitchen and a closed stove.’

  ‘Dear me,’ remarked Elizabeth, greatly puzzled. ‘From where can our sister have acquired such grand notions? We have no closed stove here, nor ever thought of one.’

  ‘Well, let us by all means go and harry the workmen at Clissocks,’ said Emma cheerfully. ‘I have a great curiosity to see the place again, I must confess. I can recall being taken there once by our mother when I was about five. It seemed to me then like the palace of the Sleeping Beauty.’

  Clissocks, the manor house purchased by Penelope and her husband, stood at the foot of a wooded hillside, above a river, about a mile from Stanton Parsonage, in the opposite direction from Osborne Park. It was by far the oldest house in the neighbourhood, very much older than Osborne Castle, parts of it dating back, some historians believed, at least to Saxon times. And the family in occupation, the Torridges, were of comparably ancient lineage, but in the present century had fallen upon hard times, especially the last representative of the line, Sir Meldred Torridge, who, it was said, had gambled away all his inheritance, worth £70,000 a year, at Watier’s, and recently threw himself over the cliff at Brighton.

  The approach to the house lay along a winding track by the river, with the beech-hung hillside above, and the gleam of water seen through bushes below.

  ‘This is very beautiful,’ said Emma, as Elizabeth guided the pony-chair at a pace appropriate to the meanderings of the track, ‘but imagine driving along here at night! Or in snowy weather! I wonder that our sister Penelope proposes to establish herself at the far end of such a tortuous approach. Can she really have given it serious thought?’

  ‘I have been asking myself the same question,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Penelope saw it once, once only, on a fine day in October when the scene was brightened by dead leaves on the ground. But when this hillside is masked by summer foliage, it will be dark – very dark. Our sister is exceedingly apt to make a hasty decision on the basis of a scanty, curtailed judgement – and then, if matters go amiss, as they often do, she refuses to accept the blame, but denounces the nearest person who can be found as scapegoat.’

  They drove round a corner and saw before them the house, which was a long, low, rambling structure, most pleasingly situated on a moderate eminence above the water. It was evident that repairs were in hand: sawing and hammering could be heard, workmen trundled wheelbarrows to and fro. Elizabeth, who knew every man, woman, and child in the country for twenty miles around, caught the attention of one such man and asked him if the master builder, Josiah Dawkins, could be located, as she had a message for him.

  He nodded and disappeared under an arch, while the mare made her slow way forward into the main entrance-yard of the L-shaped building.

  Here they discovered another carriage.

  ‘Hey-day!’ said Elizabeth. ‘It is the Osborne phaeton! And there, to be sure, is Miss Osborne herself, I do declare, with Mrs Blake.’

  As the old mare came to a willing halt, Miss Osborne came to greet them:

  ‘Ha! My dear Miss Watson, I fear you have caught us peeping through the keyhole! I hope that you will forgive us. Grandmamma was so curious to know what changes were being made here – even when assured that it was so, she could hardly believe that some intrepid person was really going to restore and live in this ruin of a house.’

  Mrs Blake smiled at Emma, and said, ‘In addition to which, my brother chances to have visiting him a cousin of ours, Captain Fremantle, a great enthusiast for architectural curiosities, particularly of the Saxon period. Hearing how close we were to Clissocks, he confessed to an overmastering wish to look at the place – especially before many alterations were made, in case, you know, it were to be improved out of all recognition – as sometimes occurs. He has gone round to the back, and is climbing over piles of masonry and inspecting Saxon stonework – in short, dear Miss Watson, you must forgive our outrageous inquisitiveness!’

  Elizabeth, a little flustered by this unexpected company, civilly bade the ladies welcome and invited them to look at whatever they wished; then, seeing the master-builder, she gladly made use of the excuse to walk across the yard and convey Penelope’s messages to him. Miss Osborne walked after her, in search of their male companion.

  Emma made friendly inquiries of Mrs Blake as to the health of little Charles, expressing the hope that he had suffered no subsequent ill-effects from the adventure in the ice-house.

  ‘No, no, I thank you, my dear Miss Emma, none,’ said Mrs Blake. ‘Charles remains at home doing extra lessons with my brother as a penance for his rashness; in fact (between you and me) this is just to appease the castle, since we do not see how else he could have conducted himself, and it is no great penalty after all, for he loves his lessons with Adam. He himself suffered no ill-effects; though he is grieved, of course, about little Fido – very grieved,’ she added in a lower tone, as Miss Osborne moved farther off, to speak to a gentleman who at this moment emerged from under the arch.

  ‘Little Fido?’ said Emma, surprised. ‘Why? Was he injured? I thought Charles said he was unharmed?’

  ‘That is so, but Lady Osborne was so displeased at the incident that she gave orders for the animal to be done away with.’

  Emma was inexpressibly shocked, and could only stare in silence for a moment as she digested this information. Then she asked, in a subdued tone, ‘But why? I do not understand. The dog was not
at fault – the whole thing was an accident – the ball rolled . . .’

  ‘I am afraid,’ replied Mrs Blake in the same tone, ‘that, once she has taken this kind of a notion into her head, there can be no reasoning with the lady in question. She is very implacable. But come,’ she added in a louder voice, ‘Miss Emma, permit me to make Captain Fremantle known to you. Matthew, this is our friend and neighbour, Miss Emma Watson.’

  The gentleman stepping forward was not particularly tall, but looked so, because of his extreme thinness. He wore his light brown hair somewhat longer than was customary, and had a long smiling face to match, with a narrow, prominent jaw, a bony nose, and keen hazel-brown eyes under a jutting forehead.

  ‘Miss Emma Watson!’ He bowed over her hand. ‘Allow me to congratulate you on your sister’s acquisition of this most interesting property! I have an idea that Clissocks might have been one of the royal estates of Ceawlin of Wessex, who, as you doubtless know, was Bretwalda of Southern England in the sixth century, conquered the regions as far as the Severn and was one of the first major rulers of this country. Soke, you see, from the Old English sacu and socn, means a right of jurisdiction, so Clissocks might well derive from Ceawlin’s socage – of course the words soken and sokemanry came in later under the Danes. Naturally the property might equally have belonged (and very possibly did later) to Caedwalla, who, in the eighth century (as you are probably aware) made himself master of Sussex and the southern Thames basin as far as Kent, and quite eliminated the Jutish element from the Isle of Wight.’

  Captain Fremantle’s smile at Emma as he delivered this information was so eager and ingenuous that she could not help a similar smile in return.

  ‘Did he indeed do so? That seems a long way for him to have travelled, just to eliminate the Jutes.’

  ‘Upon my word, it was so! Caedwalla in his turn was succeeded by Ine, who issued a number of laws greatly admired by King Alfred; although his influence was, in some degree, curbed by Wihtred of Kent. Unfortunately Ine was followed by Athelbald of Mercia – who was, I am sorry to say, a most discreditable villain.’