Emma tried not to smile; she knew that if she smiled, her father would say: ‘Diarrhoea is nothing to smile about.’
‘But Isabella lives in London,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t spend all her time in the loo. We would have heard about it if she did. And John and the children – they don’t look as if they have diarrhoea.’
‘Diarrhoea is nothing to smile about, Emma,’ he said. ‘It can kill, you know. Look what it did in India during those great cholera epidemics in the nineteenth century. That’s when Dr Collis Brown invented that chlorodyne of his. He knew how to deal with diarrhoea.’
Emma looked at her watch. ‘But what about you, where are you going?’
He waved a hand in the direction of Holt. ‘For a drive. I might call in somewhere for tea. Who knows?’
She looked at him sideways. ‘Be careful. Remember what happened to Philip. Avoid ditches.’
This brought a sympathetic reaction. ‘Poor Philip. I gather that he really misses being behind the wheel of his BMW Something-something. Sid said that he saw him being driven around in the village by that new friend of his, Hazel. Apparently she reversed all the way down the High Street for some reason, with Philip directing her from the back seat.’
‘The important thing is that they should be happy,’ said Emma.
‘That’s very kind of you. Is this a new Emma?’
The remark, not intended critically, went home, and stung. A new Emma, not unkind like the old Emma …
Harriet arrived first, as Emma had planned, riding the electric bicycle up to the front door and coming to a halt with a flourish.
‘I hardly had to pedal,’ she said. ‘You just sit there and this little electric thingy does all the work.’
They went inside. ‘I put the net up on the court,’ said Emma. ‘And I found you a racquet and one for Robert.’
They had been walking down the corridor towards Emma’s sitting room. Harriet stopped. ‘Robert?’ she said.
Emma looked innocent. ‘Robert Martin. You know him, of course.’
Harriet was flustered. ‘Yes, yes … Robert.’
Emma shrugged. ‘I’m not sure if he plays much tennis – I don’t think he does, but I asked him anyway.’ She paused. Harriet had coloured. She was blushing. ‘Have you seen him recently?’
Harriet did not answer, but suddenly continued on her way down the corridor. Emma followed.
‘I have to speak to you,’ Harriet said when they reached the sitting room. ‘I have a confession to make, Emma. You’re the closest friend I have at the moment and I’ve been deceiving you. I feel awful, but I have to tell you.’
Emma gestured for her to sit down, and then joined her friend on the sofa. ‘So?’
‘I hate to deceive people,’ said Harriet.
‘Nobody likes doing that.’
‘You see, you’ve been so kind to me, Emma.’
Emma wanted to tell her to get on with it, but did not.
Harriet sounded as if she was close to tears. ‘And then I go and reward you by going against your advice.’
‘What advice?’
‘The advice you gave me about Robert. I’ve been seeing Robert all along.’
Emma’s immediate reaction was one of relief. The whole point of the game of tennis had been to bring them together because she thought that they were right for each other. ‘Great,’ she said. ‘That’s really great.’
Harriet’s demeanour registered her surprise. ‘You think it’s a good idea?’
Emma reached out to touch Harriet on the forearm. ‘Of course I do. He’s really nice. I think that he and you are ideally suited. It’s perfect.’
Harriet uttered a cry of joy. ‘That’s such good news! Such good news!’
‘I’m glad you’re pleased.’
‘Robert and I are going to go off on a gap year together – in a year’s time. We’re going to go to New Jersey for a couple of months and then on to Canada. Robert’s uncle has a motel in New Jersey – we might be able to stay with him for a while and help him. Then we’re going to go to Banff, where Robert has cousins. They stayed with Robert’s parents and they’re keen to reciprocate. It’s good if you can pay people back for things, isn’t it, Emma?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Emma. ‘It’s good to pay back.’
Harriet’s smile faded. ‘There’s another thing.’
Emma looked at her. ‘Yes?’
‘George Knightley.’
Emma stiffened. Had Harriet been seeing George behind her back too? That would be another matter altogether, and the sweetness and light of the moment might prove short-lived.
‘I’ve been talking to him,’ said Harriet. ‘And we were going to meet in a couple of days’ time.’
‘I know that,’ said Emma quietly, and thought: You were going to meet him wearing the cashmere jersey dress that I bought you – and the suede ankle boots too.
‘George likes you,’ said Harriet. ‘And I’ve been encouraging him.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Emma. ‘I’m not quite with you.’
‘I said to him that he should let you know how he feels. I was going to arrange to have you both round for dinner at Mrs God’s.’
Emma stared at her. ‘You were matchmaking?’
Harriet giggled. ‘Yes, I suppose you could call it that.’
Emma drew in her breath. ‘You thought that I needed your help?’
‘I wouldn’t say you needed it, but I thought it might be useful.’ Harriet paused, studying Emma’s reaction to her words. ‘It’s the same with Mrs God and your father. I did my best to bring them together. He’s there right now.’
‘He’s with her? With Mrs God?’
Harriet nodded. ‘They’re like a couple of love-birds.’ She reached out to Emma. ‘You’re not cross with me, are you, Emma? Please say that you’re not cross with me.’
Emma Woodhouse, pretty, clever, and rich, was cross with her friend Harriet Smith, but reminded herself that Harriet had very little in this life, even if she had the faithful affection of Robert Martin, a good friend in Mrs God, and all the attention that exceptional looks can bring. That was something, but it was so much less that she, Emma, had and therefore it was grounds for the dulling of anger. So Emma forgave Harriet, and reminded herself that she had done worse herself, not least to Harriet. It had been an important summer for Emma, as it had been the summer during which moral insight came to her – something that may happen to all of us, if it happens at all, at very different stages of our lives. This had happened because she had been able to make that sudden imaginative leap that lies at the heart of our moral lives: the ability to see, even for a brief moment, the world as it is seen by the other person. It is this understanding that lies behind all kindness to others, all attempts to ameliorate the situation of those who suffer, all those acts of charity by which we make our lives something more than the pursuit of the goals of the unruly ego.
George came to see Emma. They walked in the garden and he said to her, ‘I’ve never been very good at expressing my feelings; other people are so much better at that. But I want you to know that I’ve been in love with you, Emma, for a long time. I just have. Not a day, not a single day has gone past but that I’ve thought about you.’
His words swam about her, and she stood quite still, as if stopped by an invisible wall. It took her a while to respond, but then she said, ‘I’m glad you’ve told me, because I’ve always been fond of you.’
‘Just fond?’
She smiled. ‘Seriously fond.’
He looked away, and she noticed. She reached out to him and began to say something, but it made no sense. He said to her, ‘I was hoping you’d say something else.’
Not more than a second or two passed. It was like leaping off a building. ‘But I want to say it,’ she whispered. ‘I’m in love with you too. Yes, I’m in love too.’
She thought: In love; not by love or with love, but in love. It was a state of being; it was a state of immersion, like being in the sea. And love w
as as powerful as the ocean itself, as embracing, as strong as the sea is. Love. She was like a child playing with a newly learned word; there was the same sense of delight, of discovery. She was astonished by its force, and was struck by the insight that it seemed to bring with it. It was as if a great searchlight had been switched on in the darkness and was bathing all before with its light, its warmth. Now the world made sense because she could see it. Now she knew why she should cherish what she saw about her: other people, the world itself, everything. Embarrassment had stopped her saying it, but now she saw that embarrassment for what it was, and it lay dismantled before her, the ruins of selfishness, of pride, of insensitivity.
It seemed as if he could sense what was happening within her, for he said nothing, as if awed by a moment that would only be defiled if he were to speak. But he embraced her with tenderness, and simply held her for a while before they drew apart and looked at each other as if they were two people who had just witnessed something miraculous. He then said, ‘I do wish you’d come to Donwell and redecorate it.’
She thought for a moment that this was an odd thing to say at a time like this, but then it seemed right to her; it seemed just perfect. It was the best thing he could possibly have said. And she replied. ‘Yes, I will.’
‘And we could go to Italy too. Would you come with me to Florence?’
That was an offer of the world; to which she replied, ‘Of course.’
Mr Woodhouse saw a great deal more of Mrs Goddard, and they too went abroad for a while, in their case to Vero Beach, Florida, where Mrs Goddard had a small apartment. Philip Elton married Hazel, and Hazel sang ‘Non, je ne regrette rien’ at the wedding. ‘Just as well she has no regrets,’ observed Emma to Mr Woodhouse at the ceremony. He whispered, ‘Let us not be without charity, dear girl.’ And she lowered her eyes at the gentle reproach, for she had learned her lesson, even if there would be occasional, but only very occasional, relapses; for none of us is perfect, except, of course, the ones we love, the things of home, our much appreciated dogs and cats, our favourites of one sort or another.
Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill eventually married in Western Australia. There was a house on the wine estate that had been prepared for their use. Jane gave piano lessons to the children of other farmers and in due course had twin boys. Nobody ever worked out who gave her the Yamaha piano, but there were theories. One of these, put forward by Mr Woodhouse, was that the piano was bought by Miss Bates, who was only pretending to be poor in order to defeat her creditors at Lloyd’s. According to this school of thought, she had squirrelled away most of her funds and was easily in a position to buy violet creams for herself and a piano for her niece. ‘That woman never fooled me,’ said Mrs God, who claimed to be a good judge of character.
Emma was happy. She realised that happiness is something that springs from the generous treatment of others, and that until one makes that connection, happiness may prove elusive. In Italy with George, that thought came even more forcefully to her when, in a small art gallery in an obscure provincial town well off the beaten track, she saw a seventeenth-century picture of a young man giving his hand to a young woman. And the young woman takes it and holds it, cherishing it, as one might cherish something that is fragile and vulnerable, and very precious. The eyes of the woman are not on the young man, nor upon the hand that she holds, but fixed on the one who views the painting, and they convey, as do so many of the figures in art that would say anything to us, this message: You do it too.
Emma: A Modern Retelling Page 30
