‘Nice pictures,’ said Mrs Firhill. ‘They attract the dust no end, though.’
‘Hah!’ said Philip. ‘Dust is no respecter of art, is it, Mrs Firhill? No, I don’t think it is.’
Mrs Firhill shot him a sideways glance. She had always disliked him, and she would never go to his services on Sundays. Never. He was far too young and far too opinionated for her. And if she died, she hoped that this would happen while she was somewhere else so that Philip would not have the privilege of burying her.
‘You’ll find Mr Woodhouse in his library,’ she said curtly, giving a toss of the head in the direction of the library corridor. ‘That’s where he always is.’
‘Actually,’ said Philip, ‘I’ve come to see Miss Woodhouse. She’s invited me for tea.’
Mrs Firhill pointed down the other corridor. ‘She’s down there in her sitting room.’
‘I know the way,’ said Philip, looking down the broad corridor that led to Emma’s room. Once I’m established here, he thought, that old bat will go. ‘Thank you so much. And I hope we’ll see you in church one day.’
‘Maybe,’ said Mrs Firhill in the tone of one who rather doubted it.
‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘I would never force anybody to listen to any of my sermons.’
‘Not in a free country,’ Mrs Firhill mumbled.
He kept his tone light. ‘Well, yes, I suppose it is a free country. Not that our dear government isn’t seeking to limit such freedoms as we currently enjoy.’
‘There are too many freedoms,’ said Mrs Firhill. ‘Some people think they can do exactly as they please.’
Philip wagged his finger at her in mock disapproval. ‘Tut, tut! Mrs Firhill! Charity. Charity.’ And he thought: Old bag.
He began to make his way down the corridor, but stopped after a few paces. The corridor was not particularly light, and this, he thought, was why he must have missed it. How otherwise could he have walked past a Stubbs?
He peered at the painting. The subject matter was right: a racehorse beginning its exercise on the downs; trees in full leaf; a sky of stacked cumulus cloud. And there, helpfully placed beneath the painting, the attribution etched into a small brass plate: Stubbs, Morning Gallop.
Philip drew in his breath. A Stubbs of this size could be worth at least two million, possibly much more. One had sold at auction recently for over twelve million pounds; he had seen a picture of the painting in the newspapers and read about the attempts to keep it in the country. The Australians had wanted that one, and presumably would jump at this painting too. For a brief moment he allowed himself to imagine his interview: ‘I’m keen to keep this in the country, I really am, and I’ll do whatever I can to ensure this result.’ He would be credited with saving the picture by allowing the National Gallery to purchase it at reduced price. ‘What’s the difference of a million or two when the nation’s artistic patrimony is at stake?’ And they would say: ‘It’s difficult to find the words to express our gratitude – it really is.’
‘It’s nothing,’ he would say. ‘Nothing at all. Such a small gesture.’
‘But so well targeted.’
‘Oh well, one does what one can.’ Of course one only does that sort thing after one has improved the insulation of one’s rental properties. ‘I can’t have people being cold, you know.’
Philip’s train of thought was interrupted by the sound of high-pitched laughter from behind the closed door of Emma’s sitting room. He stepped forward and knocked.
‘Philip!’ exclaimed Emma. ‘You’re just in time. I was eyeing the last scone and struggling with temptation.’
He was gracious. ‘Such temptations should never be resisted,’ he said, smiling first at Emma and then at Harriet. ‘And if one falls, then there is no need for regret.’
‘Such an unusual thing for a clergyman to say,’ said Emma. ‘But then you’re non-stipendiary.’
Philip gave a short laugh. ‘That makes no difference. Holy orders are holy orders.’
Emma gestured for him to sit down next to Harriet on the sofa. As he did so, he noticed the sketchbook.
‘I’d forgotten that you enjoyed drawing,’ he said. ‘I’d give anything to be able to draw and paint. But some of us, alas, lack talent.’
‘I’m not much good,’ said Emma. ‘But I enjoy it. The important thing is—’
‘She’s really good,’ interjected Harriet.
‘I’m sure she is,’ agreed Philip.
‘I’m thinking of doing more portraits,’ said Emma. ‘If I could only find a suitable subject.’ She glanced at Harriet, who looked down at the floor.
Nobody spoke.
‘Harriet,’ said Emma brightly. ‘I could do your portrait. How about it?’
Harriet opened her mouth to say something – to demur, but it was Philip who spoke. ‘That would be a most wonderful thing,’ he said. ‘A portrait of Harriet Smith by Emma Woodhouse! What a picture that would be! I’d love to see it.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m not all that good at sitting still.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Emma. ‘And the artist doesn’t expect the subject to sit completely still. A portrait is not a still life.’
‘Exactly,’ said Philip. ‘A portrait should never be … be …’ He struggled to find the right word.
‘Static,’ said Emma.
Philip flashed another smile at her. There is something on one of his front teeth, Emma thought. A piece of spinach? Spinach often gets stuck on one’s teeth. She gave an involuntary shudder.
‘If you really wanted to,’ said Harriet. ‘I could sit if you really wanted to.’
‘Then that’s arranged,’ said Emma. ‘And you, Philip, will be the first person to see the sketch. I’ll even lend it to you, if you like.’
‘It will be an honour,’ said Philip.
‘Of course it will be difficult to capture Harriet’s looks,’ said Emma. ‘It’s never easy to capture beauty.’
Harriet squirmed with embarrassment. ‘Oh really!’
‘No,’ said Philip. ‘Emma’s right. It will be very difficult to capture Harriet’s quite exceptional looks on paper. No pencil, no pastel, no paint would ever be up to the job.’
The broad smile that he now directed at Harriet was intercepted by Emma. It was clear to her now that he was smitten – just as she had thought he would be.
‘I’ll do my best,’ Emma said modestly.
‘Which is all that any of us can do,’ said Philip. ‘In your case, though, your best will undoubtedly be quite exceptional. Royal Academy standard, I’d say.’
After her guests had left, Emma picked up her sketchbook and paged through it thoughtfully. Harriet had agreed to do a sitting the following day but she had yet to decide what the backdrop would be.
‘I don’t want it to be too formal,’ Harriet had said.
Emma agreed. ‘No, of course not. Something natural.’
‘Oh, natural … yes.’
Emma smiled; to be making a risqué suggestion without even realising one was doing so! Au naturel. It was Harriet herself who had made the suggestion, and there might well be a case for a nude study. What could be more natural than that? But she was not quite sure how to propose it, and she was not sure whether her friend would agree.
‘But you suggested it yourself,’ she would claim.
And Harriet would look at her with that slightly confused look that was at once so irritating and so utterly appealing.
13
It was about this time that Jane Fairfax came to stay with her aunt, the unfortunate Miss Bates, and her grandmother, the even more unfortunate Mrs Bates. The two Bateses lived in the centre of the village, in circumstances that were cramped both physically and financially. It was widely believed that both of them had suffered a serious financial loss at more or less the same time – a loss that obliged them to exchange a comfortable existence for an uncertain life of near-indigence. The financial loss was said to have come about when they had both been persuaded
by a helpful relative to become Lloyd’s Names – private backers of insurance syndicates who, in return for standing behind the contracts, took a share of the often very considerable profits. They did this and prospered considerably in the first year of the investment, only to be rudely reminded the following year of the unlimited personal liability that the system entailed should claims paid out exceed premiums paid in. Re-insurance could take the sting out of most losses, but occasionally events just became too much, and the Names had to make good the deficit. People said that the loss of a ship off the Horn of Africa, closely followed by the grounding of a tanker on a reef off Kochi, consumed most of Mrs Bates’s capital. A series of destructive storms in Taiwan and Japan did the same for her daughter’s.
The response of Mrs Bates to this change in her fortunes was to more or less lose the power of speech. From being an enthusiastic conversationalist, she withdrew into a world of brooding silence, rarely opening her mouth other than to make occasional requests of her daughter. Miss Bates may have been upset by what had happened, but did not appear as traumatised as her mother. She had always been optimistic and cheerful, and continued to be so, very rarely, if ever, referring to their reduced circumstances, and bearing the indignities of genteel poverty – turned blouse collars, for instance – with remarkable fortitude.
Jane Fairfax’s own circumstances were similarly straitened. She was an orphan, and her misfortune was therefore twice that of Emma or Frank Churchill, both of whom had lost only one parent. She had, however, been supported by a generous and understanding family, the Campbells, who had made it their business to ensure that she was given a good general education and, most importantly, piano lessons. That, however, was all that they could provide, and Jane was every bit as hard up as Harriet Smith – more so, perhaps, as, unlike Harriet, she had not been working. Teaching English as a foreign language was her destiny too, it seemed, and she would be looking for a suitable job doing that at the end of the summer.
Emma had not met Jane Fairfax before, but had heard a great deal about her from Jane’s aunt. Miss Bates would talk on any topic with an equal degree of pleasure, but when it came to the subject of Jane her enthusiasm seemed to know no bounds. There were no limits, it appeared, to Jane’s talents, and her musical ability, in particular, had always been prodigious. ‘I’m not saying she’s Mozart,’ Miss Bates gushed. ‘I’m not saying that at all.’
But you are, thought Emma. That’s just what you’re saying.
‘Put it this way,’ Miss Bates continued. ‘She has just the sort of ear that Mozart had. And it’s the ear, you know, that counts.’ Miss Bates said this to Emma without any intention of implying that Emma could never approach Jane’s level of accomplishment, but that was the way that Emma, and those who overheard the comment, understood her remark.
‘And do you know something?’ Miss Bates continued, ‘She’s the most amazing cook! Yes, our Jane. As you know, Mother and I are simple eaters and pick at our food.’
Except when you come to dinner with us, thought Emma. Then you make up for it.
‘She’s one of those artistic cooks,’ continued Miss Bates. ‘She transforms a plate – positively transforms it. And it’s not just the look of the food that’s so wonderful – those dribbles of sauce and so on – it’s the flavours too. My dear, the flavours! Do you like truffle oil? I certainly do, although Mother’s a bit suspicious of it – she says that it smells a bit like the socks that she wore at school. I know what she means, although we had nylon, which isn’t terribly comfortable but doesn’t smell quite as bad, although I think it’s something to do with the sort of skin you have. But Jane works wonders with it. She takes the tiniest slice of truffle – a fragment, really – and uses it to infuse olive oil with the most delicate perfume. I can’t imagine where she got this from because I gather that Mrs Campbell keeps a very simple kitchen, just as Mother and I do.’
‘Perhaps she went on a course,’ offered Emma. ‘Or maybe she spends a lot of time watching those cookery programmes on television. Some people watch an awful lot of those, I think.’
If there was any criticism here of those who watched too much cookery television – which there was – it was lost on Miss Bates. ‘Oh, I think she’s been on one of those,’ she said. ‘There was some sort of competition, and Jane won, not surprisingly, I suppose. Mother and I watched her on television. “There’s Jane,” I shouted out, because Jane was far too modest to warn us she would be on. “There’s Jane, Mother!” And Mother, who’s a bit short-sighted at the best of times, tried terribly hard to see Jane, but I think was confused by all those lights on the set – studio lights are so bright. It must be as hot as the Sahara in there, with all those bulbs. Poor Mother thought that one of the cooking pots was Jane, and although one may laugh about it now, I suppose it was a mistake that was made easily enough, with all that glare and the shape of the human head – not Jane’s in particular, but of all heads – being not all that dissimilar to a cooking pot.’
There had been many such conversations, and on several occasions Emma had had to bite her tongue to avoid giving voice to her thoughts about the remarkable Jane Fairfax. If she were so talented, she asked herself, then what was she doing spending three months of summer cooped up with aged relatives in a two-bedroom cottage in Highbury? Why was she not in London, or even New York, impressing people there with her musical and culinary skills? And if she were as brilliant academically as Miss Bates claimed – ‘Jane has not thought it necessary to do any A levels,’ her aunt had boasted. ‘She is well beyond them, you know’ – then why were universities not falling over themselves to offer her a place, fully funded of course? No, thought Emma, this Jane Fairfax is impossible – she simply cannot be.
It was not until Jane had been in Highbury for several days that Emma decided that the time was right to pay Miss Bates a visit. It was not the aunt she wished to see, of course, but the niece, the news of whose arrival had quickly spread through the surrounding area.
It was Miss Taylor who told Emma of Jane’s arrival. ‘I met her,’ she said as she stopped to speak to Emma in the High Street. ‘It was a brief meeting, but …’
Emma was impatient for news. ‘Tell all,’ she urged. ‘Everything.’
Miss Taylor watched her. She knew Emma. ‘She’s fairly attractive,’ she said. ‘Dark hair. High cheekbones. A bit exotic – in a refined sort of way.’
‘Oh,’ said Emma. Her curiosity was now more aroused than ever. This Jane Fairfax, with her high cheekbones, might liven Highbury up a bit.
‘But she has a rather – how shall I put it? – a rather yearning look to her.’
Emma’s eyes widened. ‘I wonder what she’s yearning after. Or who.’ She remembered that she was in the presence of her governess, for whom grammar mattered. ‘Or even whom. Or do you think one can just yearn in general, without any particular object for your yearning?’
Miss Taylor smiled at the thought. ‘Possibly. Perhaps she’s had some disappointment – or more than one.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Emma. ‘It must be fairly disappointing being Miss Bates’s niece, poor girl. One might feel that one could have been allocated a more exciting aunt in life.’
‘I’m sure that she’s very fond of her aunt – and her grandmother.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Not possibly,’ said Miss Taylor firmly. ‘Highly likely.’ She paused. ‘It’s useful to remember that it’s only a matter of chance that we are who we are, you know. You could be Jane Fairfax, for instance. You’re not, as it happens, but that’s only a matter of the purest chance. We do not choose the bed we are born in.’
Emma said nothing. Now Miss Taylor seemed to relent, and softened. ‘There’s something else,’ she said.
With the argument about genetic chance out of the way, an almost conspiratorial tone – the sort of tone that accompanies the revealing of sensitive or surprising information – crept into the conversation.
‘Yesterday,’ began Miss Taylor. ‘Yest
erday afternoon, to be precise, a van drew up outside Miss Bates’s cottage.’
‘Her things?’ suggested Emma. ‘Jane’s impedimenta?’
They both smiled. Impedimenta was a word that Miss Taylor had taught Emma and Isabella when they were very small. The playroom is littered with your impedimenta. Please tidy it. They had loved the sound of it, and had named a kitten ‘Impedimenta’.
‘No,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘Not her impedimenta. I imagine that she has not brought a great amount of impedimenta with her – there wouldn’t be room in the cottage. No, it was a piano.’
Emma’s eyes widened. ‘They’ve got hold of a piano just because she’s coming to stay?’
Miss Taylor shook her head. ‘No. That’s what I thought to begin with. But then I happened to meet Miss Bates in the greengrocer’s the following day and I asked her about it. She said that it was a gift that somebody had sent to Jane. That was all. I asked her who had sent it, but she just ignored my question – you know how she can be when she’s prattling away about something. She went straight off the subject and started talking about growing kiwi fruit in Cornwall or some other such nonsense.’
‘What sort of piano was it?’ asked Emma.
‘A Yamaha,’ answered Miss Taylor. ‘I saw it because I was walking past just as the men were unloading it. Two young men covered in tattoos. They brought it out on a sort of trolley thing – pianos can be terribly heavy, even for those with tattoos. It was a spanking new Yamaha.’
Emma: A Modern Retelling Page 17
