‘No, but I wrote down the receipt for it, which my aunt’s maid Trotter gave me, in my journal, and here it is. All we need is some gum tragacanth, some essence of almonds, olive oil, spirit of rosemary, and a little old rum. All these ingredients are here in the house, with the exception of the gum, and I am sure that can easily be procured. Do, do, my dear sister, at least let me make the attempt.’
‘I do not think Papa would approve of attempting to better one’s appearance.’
‘Nonsense! He likes us to look neat and proper, and this is but a step forward from that. Besides, it is all Lombard Street to a china orange that he will never notice the difference. If only you could have a new gown,’ sighed Emma regretfully. ‘It is a thousand pities that you are so much taller than I, or you could wear one of mine. But I plan to re-line your velvet pelisse, so as to give it a more elegant drape; and I am going to make you a black lace cap to replace the one which you have been wearing ever since the death of Lord Nelson.’
‘Oh, Emma! You should not exert yourself to such a degree – just for me! Where is the use of it? You should be going to the ball in my stead – young, pretty, stylishly dressed as you are, you should be making the most of your chances.’
‘My dear goose, I shall have chances enough by and by. Only imagine, as my sister Margaret evidently does, the dramatic enlargement of our neighbourhood when Penelope and her doctor return to occupy Clissocks. I am content to wait for that happy epoch. In the meantime it is entirely unfair that you should be immured here always, for you have, I daresay, a whole host of acquaintances who will be pleased to see you at the Assembly, whereas I have no friends at all, and am bashful at being confronted by so many strangers.’
‘And is not a ballroom the very place where introductions can be made? However, this time I will not try to thwart your kind intentions. When the following Assembly falls due, though, you must take your turn and go to it; I will brook no denial. But in the meantime, my dear sister, you do have one friend who should be called on; her civility in visiting us last week should certainly be requited without more delay.’
‘Mrs Blake. You are very right. I will go to her this morning.’
‘And I wish that I could accompany you, but while old Nanny is still so lame I do not care to venture so far from the house in case our father requires assistance . . .’
‘No, it is not to be thought of. And I well remember her house; is it not the one where old Mrs Henshawe used to live, who often gave me gingerbread men?’
‘Yes; not far inside the park gates. I would suggest that old Peasmarsh drive you in the chair, but he is hard at work just now, building the new henhouse – but if you like to drive the mare yourself, you are very welcome – it would present a better appearance—’
‘My dear sister, no! I need no chair and can walk a mile without the slightest exertion. I shall enjoy it, indeed.’
‘Only the lane is probably very muddy,’ said Elizabeth doubtfully. ‘You had better pin up your petticoats.’
‘Don’t trouble yourself. I shall wear pattens – now that the arbiter of fashion from Croydon has left us,’ said Emma with a wicked smile.
Thus accoutred, she set off, intending to enjoy the pleasant downhill walk on a chalky farm track where a tracery of ice crisped over the puddles. It was a dry, windy winter morning and large clouds sailed overhead. Emma, who took pleasure in her own company, hoped this was not one of the days when the local hounds met at Osborne Castle, and that she ran no risk of encountering Tom Musgrave and his friend.
There was a great deal to occupy her thoughts. Firstly, she could not conceal from herself a deep disappointment in her brother Robert and his wife. Robert, whom she remembered from childhood as a kindly, obliging elder brother, had become, perhaps under the influence of Jane, a mean, dull, calculating man. As head of the family, which he would become at their father’s demise, he could be of little support or comfort to his sisters – and that demise, Emma knew from Elizabeth, could not, in the natural course of things, be long delayed. ‘Our brother Sam has told me so,’ Elizabeth confided to Emma with tears in her eyes. ‘Sam knows Papa’s constitution so well – and Sam is a very clever surgeon, whatever the Edwards family may think of him. Sam believes that our father never fully recovered from the grief of Mamma’s long illness and death – and that grief has just worn him out.’ Emma had not seen her brother Sam since he was ten, but she was inclined to put faith in his opinion; she felt that her father was voluntarily saying goodbye to life, and peacefully looking forward to another existence. This grieved her very much, for she had, in the months since she returned home, become deeply attached to the gentle old man; nor could she imagine how they would go on without him. Retired though his way of life must necessarily be, yet his calm steadfast spirit permeated the household. When he had passed away, the sisters would be obliged to leave the parsonage, which would pass to the next incumbent, and where could they go? It seemed dismally probable that Robert and Jane would be obliged to receive them into the household at Croydon: a prospect to appal the stoutest heart. Emma was almost tempted to write an appeal to her aunt in Ireland; but, considering the very strong mutual antagonism between herself and her aunt’s new husband, this must be a last resort.
Perhaps brother Sam may achieve some improvement in fortune, she thought hopefully, and set up a household in which he can accommodate Elizabeth and me. Though as Sam was at present no more than a struggling young surgeon in Guildford, this did not seem too probable. Of course Penelope, once established at Clissocks with Dr Harding, might offer asylum to her sisters, but this possibility still seemed remote. And far from enticing, Emma ruefully admitted to herself. How strange it is, she thought, that my father, such a lovable man, can have engendered three such thoroughly unattractive children as Robert, Penelope, and Margaret! How can it have come about?
Then, scolding herself for uncharitable thoughts – what would Papa think of me? – Emma turned in at the open gate of Osborne Park. No lodge guarded this entrance, which was but rarely used; the main entry to the park lay on the farther boundary, five miles to the south. The road on this side ran between a stretch of oak and hazel coppice and a thorn hedge, liberally laced with brambles. Emma could recall coming here as a little girl with her elder sisters, to pick blackberries, and going on afterwards for milk and gingerbread to the house of kind old Mrs Henshawe who had a spinning-wheel and spun yarn from sheep’s wool gathered by children from thorns and thickets.
How long ago that seems, she thought wistfully, walking along the puddled driveway, which curved in its course between two gentle swells of grassy land, grazed by sheep. How happy we were then!
Ahead of her lay another gate, and a pair of small houses just large enough to avoid the term cottages; they were square and plain, with pillared porches, and stood in modest gardens against a purplish grove of holly and oak trees. One was occupied now by Mrs Blake and her children, the other by Mr Nigh, the steward of Lord Osborne.
As Emma approached the houses, she heard the sound of hoofs thudding over the grass behind her, and turned to see Mr Howard riding towards her on a fleabitten grey cob.
His face seemed to light up at the sight of her. He raised his hat, then dismounted.
‘Miss Watson, good day! Are we bound for the same destination?’
‘Certainly, sir, that is, if you are visiting your sister?’ she said smiling.
At this moment the door of the nearest house burst open, and a cascade of children emerged from it, which then resolved into Mrs Blake’s three little boys followed by their nurse bearing the baby.
‘Uncle Adam! Uncle Adam! Are you come to walk with us? Or to play bilbo-catch?’
‘Whichever you prefer! But where is your mother? And where are your manners? Here is Miss Watson, come to visit you – let me hear your greetings.’
‘Good day, Miss Watson!’ they all chorused, and Charles came shyly to
take Emma’s hand.
‘Have you come to walk with us, Miss Watson? And may we show you the ice-house?’
‘If there is time,’ she said laughing, ‘I shall be happy to see it.’
‘I understand that you have already met George and Frank and my little niece?’ inquired Mr Howard.
‘Yes, I have had that pleasure. And now I am come hoping to meet the pet hare and see the collection of horse-chestnuts.’
‘You can walk round outside the house to see Harriet Hare,’ said Charles, tugging her towards the garden, which was a pleasing mixture of rose-bushes and cabbages, sweet-briars and vegetable beds.
‘I think I should first make my salutations to your mother,’ objected Emma.
Luckily at this moment Mrs Blake herself appeared in the doorway wearing a sturdy warm pelisse.
‘My dear Miss Emma! Forgive this unceremonious greeting! We are delighted to see you here – are we not, children?’
‘Yes, Mamma!’ they all clamoured.
‘Now, are you so tired from your walk as to wish to come into the house at once and take some refreshment? Or shall we first take our promenade in the park, which had been our intention?’
‘Oh, the park, by all means! I have a great curiosity to see this ice-house.’
‘That is capital. Harriet Hare and the chestnuts can be displayed on our return,’ Mrs Blake soothed Charles, whose face had fallen. ‘When we hope that Miss Emma will step in and take her cold meat with us. Our usual procedure on these walks, Miss Emma,’ she added, ‘is for my brother to lead Dapple while the boys take turns riding him. That way, nobody becomes too tired.’
‘But you may take a turn too, Miss Emma, if you grow tired,’ Little George offered kindly.
‘Thank you, my love, but I think I might fall off. I am not accustomed to riding on a man’s saddle,’ she told him.
Little Sophie and her nurse being left behind in the garden, the party set off across the grass. It was plain that this inner section of Osborne Park had been improved with care and taste, perhaps about ten years previously; artful vistas between young clumps of trees directed the eye towards a curving man-made lake, the narrowest part of which water was spanned by a graceful high-arched bridge. And beyond, on rising ground, at the farthest extremity of the park, stood Osborne Castle itself, which Emma recalled only very indistinctly from fourteen years ago, for she had not seen it more than once or twice. She studied it now with interest and realized that what she had taken, in the innocence of childhood, for towers and battlements dating from some distant period of history were, in fact, fairly recent additions.
‘Gracious me! I had forgotten how very big it was.’
‘And how very Gothick?’ said Mr Howard, smiling. ‘The greater portion of what you see, and the castellations, were added on by the present Lord Osborne’s grandfather about forty years ago, and his son, Lord Osborne’s father, built the two tall turrets; perhaps luckily, the present baron has no architectural aspirations. In fact I have heard him describe his home as a “hummocky old pile” and he much prefers the shooting box at Melton.’
‘You taught Lord Osborne for a period, I believe?’ said Emma.
‘Yes, I tutored him and his younger brother Chilton until last year, when Chilton went up to Cambridge. Now I have transferred my attentions to my nephews,’ Mr Howard said, removing Frank from the saddle and replacing him by George. ‘And I find them very rewarding scholars, do I not, boys?’ His tone conveyed that they far outshone his former pupils, but Emma was too tactful to ask for a comparison of abilities. She could imagine that Lord Osborne had not proved a shining student; there was something slow and lackadaisical about his way of utterance which suggested that, if he had been born into a less privileged walk of life, he might have been dubbed shallow-pated, if not positively wanting in wit.
Still, as a lord he does well enough, thought Emma charitably.
While the party walked along, at an easy pace adapted to that of Little Frank, the children bombarded Emma with pieces of information about their surroundings. ‘This is where we saw hares dancing.’ ‘That piece of wood is said to he haunted by the ghost of a gamekeeper who was accidentally shot by old Lord Osborne.’ ‘In that copse you may find Butcher’s Broom growing, with red berries, very fine.’ ‘Over there Uncle Adam saw a heron nearly choke on a fish.’ ‘Our papa is made captain of the Antwerp now, and she is gone to the Mediterranean.’ ‘Lord Osborne has promised to take Charles out hunting next season.’
In between this artless wealth of information the adults exchanged remarks in a friendly, random manner on topics as they were suggested by the children’s chatter: plants, the countryside, politics, books, art – Mrs Blake liked to paint landscapes, she disclosed – but without endeavouring to go deep or pursue any subject in a serious manner. It was like a pleasant game, Emma thought, in which the players tossed the ball without troubling as to who caught it, and there were no rules . . . I have not felt such a sense of easy and comfortable companionship since those walks I used to take in the meadows around Shrewsbury with my aunt and uncle, when we would talk about music and history and poetry and the news of the day. Emma was obliged to admit to herself that Elizabeth, though an affectionate sister and a sweet-tempered companion in the house, was in general so beset with domestic cares that she never opened a book from one month to the next, seldom troubled to glance at a newspaper, and confined her talk to household and neighbourhood topics. Despite this, Elizabeth was by no means a dull house-mate, for she had shrewd good sense and was keenly observant of other people; but it made a delightful change to be with minds commanding wider interests who could provide new ideas on all the topics of the day, and converse with knowledge, spirit, and flow.
They were all exchanging views on ‘The Lay of the Last Minstrel’ which Mrs Blake said she had been reading aloud to her boys, when the sound of hoofs and carriage wheels made them turn, and Charles exclaimed, ‘Why! It is Lady Osborne in her phaeton coming this way across the grass.’
Lady Osborne (as Jane Watson had said) was so extremely elegant, fair, and charming in appearance that no one who did not know her could possibly have supposed her to be much more than thirty years of age. Her daughter, Miss Osborne, did not by any means equal her mother’s standard of beauty; she was thin and lacking in colour, and the brilliant russet hue of her hair served only to emphasize the pallor of her complexion; today, moreover, she looked gloomy and out of temper, in marked contrast to her manner at the ball when, Emma recalled, she had appeared lively and vivacious enough as she excused herself from the dance with little Charles. She did not speak.
Lady Osborne, casting a perfunctory half-smile and inclination of her head towards the two females, reserved her attention for Mr Howard.
‘Why, my dear sir!’ she accosted him, with an air that balanced finely between arch, caressing, and crisp, ‘why, my dear Mr Howard, had you forgot that you were to confer with me this noon regarding the plans and funding for the new alms-houses?’
‘No, Lady Osborne, I had not forgotten,’ he replied courteously, pulling out his hunter watch and consulting it, ‘I had by no means forgotten, but it still wants an hour and a half to the time of our appointment. My sister and I have been combining exercise with natural history for the boys and the pleasure of Miss Emma Watson’s company on our walk – ah – may I be permitted to introduce—’
‘However I believe I must rob the ladies of your company,’ Lady Osborne swept on briskly, with another smile which made no attempt to extend from her lips to her eyes. ‘A number of other subjects have come to mind which I wish to discuss with you – if you will now be so obliging as to follow me back to the castle.’ And, without more ado, she had the carriage turned round and set off at a rapid pace in the direction from which she had come.
Mr Howard, with a decidedly rueful air, sighed, apologized briefly to his companions, removed little George from the s
addle, and mounted himself.
‘I hope that we may resume this very agreeable conversation another time, Miss Watson,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, dear Anna, for the present. Goodbye, boys.’
And he cantered away after the phaeton.
‘Oh, botheration!’ said Charles. ‘That means that we cannot walk as far as the ice-house – does it not, Mamma? Since it is much too far for Frank to walk both ways.’
‘I am afraid that is so,’ agreed his mother. ‘(Do not let me hear you say botheration, my love. It is an ugly word.) I believe the ice-house must be a treat we shall have to reserve for another day, when Uncle Adam can give us more of his time. Never mind! You have plenty of treasures at home to show Miss Emma. I think, my dear, if you do not object, we would do best to turn back now,’ she added to Emma. ‘Frank is a doughty walker, but this is about the limit of his capacity.’
A slight cloud had overspread her countenance. Emma did not greatly wonder at it. Lady Osborne’s dismissal of Mr Howard’s pair of female companions had verged on ill manners; and her single glance at Emma had, surprisingly, been chilled by pure cold dislike. As a powerful neighbour, just across the park, Lady Osborne must, Emma thought, present something of a liability to Mrs Blake. And if, as Jane Watson had hinted, the lady really did entertain matrimonial intentions towards Mr Howard, this might, for his sister, constitute an anxious and not particularly agreeable prospect, and one likely to put an end to many pleasant family habits.
Of course Emma did not give voice to any of these thoughts. Instead she said, ‘Does Lady Osborne engage in a great variety of charitable work?’
‘Oh – yes indeed – she has many benevolent interests,’ Mrs Blake answered rather vaguely. ‘She and my brother – he is chaplain to the castle, you know, as well as vicar of this parish – they work together a great deal on such affairs. She is very clever and able – besides, of course, being so elegant and charming.’ She sighed.
George and little Frank had got ahead of the others, running races across the grass towards their home. Charles, however, walked by his mother, holding tightly on to her hand. Looking up, he said, ‘Will Uncle Adam marry Lady Osborne, Mamma?’