‘He said – Mrs Blake told him – how very, very much our father had appeared to enjoy the company of Captain Fremantle. That she had hardly ever seen him so happy and animated.’
‘I am glad,’ Emma said, choking on tears, ‘I am glad at least to have some corroboration that our father’s last evening on earth was a happy one. But, as to the funeral, Elizabeth, who is to conduct it?’
‘Mr Howard suggested Mr Purvis.’ Elizabeth bent over a shawl that she was folding in silver paper. ‘But I told him – I said that I would prefer it if some other divine might be found – he seemed rather puzzled but asked for no explanation; and then he told me that in fact the bishop, Dr Richards himself, had offered to officiate if the family were agreeable – he held our father in great esteem. So that is how it is to be.’
‘The bishop! I am very glad of that.’
The door flew open abruptly and Penelope walked in.
‘Elizabeth! Must you be for ever lurking upstairs, fidgeting about with your things? Here are some men come to dispose of the farm tools, and not knowing which belonged to my father and which are the property of the rectory. So do pray come down at once and instruct them. And, Emma, Jane wishes you to go and assist her with the table-linen. It is a great inconvenience, I must say, that there must be this tiresome luncheon tomorrow, after the ceremony, so that all the plates and dishes must be left out. Very tiresome indeed.’
‘It is customary, however,’ Elizabeth said quietly. ‘Especially since the bishop himself is to be with us.’
‘The bishop! I see no need for that. Purvis would have done quite as well.’
Chapter 7
The funeral was past, the bishop had uttered his eulogy, and the mortal remains of Mr Watson had been committed to Stanton churchyard. Most of Mr Watson’s parishioners and three of his children had grieved sincerely; the rest had put up a respectable pretence. The funeral cold meats had been eaten, and the carriages had all rolled away.
‘I have been talking matters over with Penelope, my love,’ said Jane Watson very kindly to Emma. ‘We have been laying our heads together, and we have decided that Penelope needs you even more than I do for the next few days. You are, therefore, to go first to Clissocks – you may very easily ride there, you know, in the carriers’ cart with all the bed-linen and curtains – and it is quite certain that you will be of sovereign assistance to our dear sister during the troublesome period of arranging and settling where the furniture is to go. You and our sweet Elizabeth between you will soon have matters there just as they should be; and then it will be time for you to come to us in Croydon and enjoy some city pleasures and well-earned holiday before you begin to instruct our precious little Gussie! We shall, I promise you, show you all the sights of Croydon – the Whitgift Hospital, you know, and the famous cherry orchard . . .’
‘I see,’ said Emma.
The real reason for this rearrangement of plans had been the flat refusal of Margaret to share a bedroom with Emma in Beech Hanger, Robert’s house.
‘Why can you not put her up in the south attic, Jane, alongside Kate the scullery-maid? Emma is the youngest of us, the attic is quite good enough for her.’
‘But my sweetest Mag, the attic has no furniture in it whatsoever.’
‘Well, good heavens, a bed is easily found – and a chair and table from among the parsonage kitchen things – I do not see what there is to make such a piece of work about.’
‘I thought that you and dear little Emma would like to be together.’
‘Well, I would not! I am accustomed to be on my own. I do not at all care for Emma’s airs and affectations.’
‘And it is true besides,’ added Jane later to Emma with a little air of thoughtful solicitude, ‘that the removal to Clissocks will not be so melancholy for you, since it is close by, in the same neighbourhood as Stanton; it will be an easier transition, you know; and then, by the time you come to Croydon, the period of mourning will be somewhat past, you will be in better spirits, and more in a frame to preside over our little angel’s lessons and to enlarge her mind.’
For Jane had been seriously dismayed by Emma’s air of shocked misery during the days after her father’s demise, and had asked herself and her husband several times how they were ever to put up with such a figure of woe creeping about the house.
‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘a few days will surely mend matters. And Mag, I suppose, does have a right to a room of her own. In any case it is to be hoped that she and Hobhouse will soon bring matters to a conclusion; then she, at least, will be off our hands. The furniture from the maid’s room at the parsonage will do very well for the attic at Beech Hanger and Emma may go there in the meantime. There, she will be in nobody’s way.’
So matters were decided.
In the event, Emma did not travel to Clissocks in the carrier’s cart, but was driven by Miss Osborne and Miss Carr in the Osborne carriage.
‘I have been so anxious to do something for you, to be of some use during this sad time,’ ardently declared Miss Osborne, who had developed, for Emma, all the worshipful admiration that may be felt by a young and rather plain and clumsy girl in her teens for an older, prettier and more talented contemporary. ‘I have felt for you so sincerely! Your father was such a kind, good old man! And then I knew you had formed such a great, great friendship with dear Mrs Blake; her dreadful end must have shocked you inexpressibly.’
‘It was a hard loss,’ said Emma, touched by the young girl’s fervent sincerity. ‘But for – for Mr Howard, it must have been worst of all. To lose his sister – to whom he was so devoted – in such a sudden and – and needless manner . . .’
And, she thought, small comfort, probably, to be had from Lady Osborne.
She was a little disconcerted when Miss Osborne, continuing, seemed to echo this very thought.
‘My mother, you see, could not enter into his feelings – she had seen little of Mrs Blake – and my mother has never approved of Tom Musgrave as a friend for my brother – always considered him a shocking rattle. And so – when – when this happened – it made her very angry – she has been so angry, indeed, that – that in regard to the children – her judgement – she and Mr Howard did not—’
‘Miss Osborne,’ said Miss Carr. ‘I do not think you should be entering on this topic. What Lady Osborne does or thinks can be no concern of ours. And Miss Watson can have no interest in the issue.’
‘Well, I did wonder about the children,’ Emma could not help observing bluntly. ‘As anybody might, you know. Having seen how greatly attached their uncle was to them, and how much time he has been accustomed to spend with them, it was not unnatural to expect that – until Captain Blake comes back to claim them – they might have been offered a home at the castle – to wonder why it was not.’
‘Her ladyship did give the matter careful thought. Nothing she does is undertaken without the most earnest consideration; but the scheme was not thought to be practicable – not feasible – the children too small – the castle not a suitable environment you must know, however, that her ladyship most kindly offered to defray the cost of their removal from here to Hampshire – and to send generous hampers of fruit and vegetables twice a year – besides some toys and books which were once used by Lord Osborne and Mr Chilton and Miss Harriet here her ladyship has behaved with her usual liberality . . .’
‘That was most affable of her, indeed,’ said Emma in a dry tone.
Miss Carr, evidently considering this subject best abandoned, now made some appropriately admiring comments on the beauty of the landscape which, even in midwinter, with the tree-shrouded hillside above, the tranquil misty river below, and the narrow, winding track, might be thought to equal, or even rival the more famed glories of the Lakes or the Dales.
‘Yes, yes! In the summertime this will be so romantic! What excursions, what explorations, what picnics you will be undertaking,’ Miss
Osborne exclaimed with enthusiasm. ‘Do you not dote on picnics, Miss Emma?’
‘Unfortunately,’ said Emma, ‘I shall not, by the time that summer comes, be in residence here. So soon as my sister Mrs Harding is quite settled into Clissocks, I am to remove and go to stay with my brother and sister-in-law in Croydon. The family have arranged it so. My sister Elizabeth remains here.’
‘Oh – I am very sorry indeed for that!’ Miss Osborne looked quite stricken at this information. ‘You will be so much missed! Mr Howard will greatly regret—’ She stopped, blushing. ‘That is – I am very sure that he will miss you. And Croydon is such a noisy bustling place, because of the gravel pits and the charcoal manufactory – set by the turnpike and the canal as it is, with business people from London beginning to build their new houses on the hills around. Mamma says—’ She stopped again, looking conscious. ‘But there is an excellent dentist, Mr Pilsbrow, near the Whitgift Hospital – we sometimes consult him – I do hope, Miss Emma, that we shall not lose sight of you entirely. Perhaps – I hope – you will be coming back to pay visits to Mrs Harding at Clissocks? I shall be so eager for a view of the house, now that it is occupied again.’
They came round a corner of the hill and saw that Clissocks did appear occupied, inasmuch as the windows were curtained now, and smoke issued from the chimneys. But the approach to the mansion still zigzagged between stacks of timber and piles of stones; it was plain that structural work was by no means yet completed.
When they drove within sight of the large open courtyard they found that it was in a state of clamour and turmoil from many different conflicting elements: builders’ wagons delivering materials; coaches and carriers’ carts discharging people and furniture; builders’ men and carters’ men involved in acrimonious exchanges. Penelope stood on the high doorstep wearing a brow of thunder; Dr Harding was there too, but looking helpless among all these opposed factions; and Elizabeth slipped to and fro, in and out, evidently bearing precious items not suitable to be entrusted to paid labour.
‘Oh, good heavens,’ said Emma. ‘I can see that I am arrived here not a moment too soon. There will be a great deal to do. I wonder who that is? One of the builders’ overseers, perhaps—?’
For, evidently directing many of these activities, there stood a square-built youngish man, dressed rather too fine, it seemed, for a builder, and yet there was something about him not entirely the gentleman: the rough, easy, but jocular style in which he gave orders to the underlings – to which they responded in kind; his manner of familiarity, perhaps undue familiarity, yet mixed with a kind of subservience, when addressing himself to Dr Harding and Penelope. His dress seemed an uneasy compromise between an attempt at fashion and a garb more suited to his present occupation; he kept twitching at his cravat, arranged rather too high for all the rapid movements he was obliged to make. And his striped stockings had been a most injudicious choice for continual passage among dust, mud, straw, and the disorder left everywhere by workmen.
‘Oh dear me!’ murmured Miss Osborne faintly. Emma observed with surprise that she had turned even paler than her natural colour.
‘Are you not well, Miss Osborne?’
‘No – no. It is nothing. Nothing at all. But I can see that we are absolutely de trop here; we had best say goodbye to you at once, dearest Miss Emma, and take our departure directly. This is no moment to ask for an introduction to your sister. Is that Mrs Harding, on the step?’
‘Yes, that is Penelope. And the white-haired gentleman behind her is her husband, Dr Harding. Another time, I hope, you will allow me to make you known to them. I am so very much obliged to you for your great kindness . . .’ apologized Emma, rather distractedly.
The carriage was turned, not without difficulty, and Emma and her luggage deposited.
Seizing advantage of the noise made by a cartload of bricks, which came cascading from a tipped bogey, and the shouts of the workmen involved, Miss Carr observed to Emma in a low tone:
‘That burly dark-haired man – the one just now berating the carter yonder – his name is Thickstaffe. At one time, he acted as steward and overseer at Osborne Castle. But there were difficulties – he was found in some way unsatisfactory – I am able to tell you no more than that. Indeed I know no more. I should not wish to allege anything in his disfavour. But it makes me a little uneasy, just a little concerned, to see him so very much in command here at Clissocks. I do not know if I ought to have told you this – you will not take what I say amiss?’
‘Indeed no. I am obliged to you for the caution,’ Emma replied in the same tone.
‘Emma!’ called out Penelope, setting eyes on her youngest sister at this moment. ‘There you are at last! Here are so many things to be done, I hardly know which way to turn. Heythrop! That pembroke table is to go in the large front room on the left. And the two paintings on tin, and the elephant’s tusk, and the battle-piece, are to go in the Master’s study. See that the carpet is laid down before the desk is taken in. Emma – now you are come – you had best see what you can do to make them set all to rights in the kitchen. That woman we brought from Chichester proves a perfect fool, and has no notion at all how to set about matters.’
‘But what of my bundles? If I leave them on the ground here, someone is sure to drop a plank or a bag of mortar on them—?’
‘Oh!’ cried Penelope, as if this were the last straw, and then, her eyes lighting on the brawny Mr Thickstaffe, ‘Percy! Mr Thickstaffe! Will you pray order Baggot to take Miss Emma’s bags up to the second landing?’
‘With all the pleasure in the world, Mrs H.!’ cried Thickstaffe, and swept a flourishing bow, ignoring her curt tone and look. ‘But rather I will give myself the honour of doing that service. So this is little Miss Emma? The flower of the flock, I can see! Do they not say that all the best things come in small packets?’
Mr Thickstaffe’s survey of Emma, from top to toe, was both rapid and accomplished, and the smile accompanying it contrived to be equally expeditious and lingering. Emma thought that she had never met a man of whom she formed such an instantaneously bad impression. That he could assume an air almost of flirtation towards a person in deep mourning was an outrage in itself, let alone the manner in which he did it.
‘Whose was the carriage that just drove away?’ demanded Penelope, glancing over Emma’s shoulder. ‘Oh, the castle ladies – very obliging of them, I am sure, to bring you hither, but a mercy they would not stay – they would have been abominably in the way – Fielding! for heaven’s sake take care how you handle that sofa, you will tear the fabric.’
‘Do you care to step this way with me, Miss Emma, and I will show you where you are lodged, with your sister Miss Elizabeth,’ said Thickstaffe, nimbly finding a passage among furniture, building materials, and piles of baggage. ‘Ha! Ha! You see us at our very worst, for your sister Mrs H. was so amazingly precipitate in removing here – she would not be swayed by my words of warning, she would come directly – “Otherwise,” says she in her forthright way, “that cat of a Mrs Jane will, for a certainty, get her hands on all the best pieces” – oh dear me, now, I see that the front stairs are quite blocked by the four-post bed, just at this present, so let us betake ourselves to the back, along this passage, through the green baize door – but, forgive me, dear Miss Emma, I have not yet introduced myself, since your sister Mrs H. was too pressed to do so just then – Percy Thickstaffe, very much at your service!’
He contrived to bow again, while conveying Emma’s quite heavy bags up the back stair with an ease which suggested that he must be extremely strong.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Emma said faintly, following behind him but quite out of breath from the speed of their progress and the steepness of the stair.
‘So Miss Harriet Osborne from the castle fetched you hither, did she?’ Thickstaffe continued, embarking on a second, even steeper flight of stairs. ‘That was like her affability – she is a charming young
lady, is she not? Always so gracious, not a bit of condescension – unlike – but mum! Did Miss Harriet allude to me, I wonder? At one time, in the days when I—’
Emma was opening her mouth for an emphatic negative, when she heard Elizabeth’s voice from the landing above.
‘Emma? Is that you? Come this way, and I will show you where we are accommodated.’
Emma had had little time to take stock of her surroundings, apart from a sense of chill, damp, and considerable antiquity. The unmistakable smell of ancient stonework, ancient woodwork, was very pervasive in the narrow back stairway. A dim greenish light percolated through high, arched, very dirty windows which appeared to look out into the midst of tall trees. This mansion, she thought, would make a perfect setting for Udolpho or The Necromancer of the Forest. Ah, poor Aunt Maria, how she did enjoy those novels! Where is she now, what can she be reading?
Elizabeth led the way through a low-lintelled door into a chamber at least four times the size of that shared by the sisters at Stanton; it was low-ceiled and lit by a row of square, small-paned windows which looked straight out on to a steep wooded hillside. Down the middle of this tumbled a small rivulet between high banks.
‘Thank you, Mr Thickstaffe,’ and,
‘Thank you, Mr Thickstaffe, I am very much obliged to you,’ came from both sisters simultaneously.
Even a man so self-satisfied and impervious to rebuff as Mr Thickstaffe appeared to be could not ignore this unmistakable congé: ‘Only too delighted to be of use, ladies,’ said he, and, bowing again, retired.
‘What an odious man,’ said Emma, when the door was shut.
‘He is my brother-in-law’s man of business,’ said Elizabeth in a colourless tone. ‘Look, Emma, that is your bed, this is mine. Our clothes can go behind this curtain for the time, until a wardrobe is found.’
It is hardly worth the trouble of unpacking mine,’ said Emma, quelled by her sister’s brusque manner. ‘I am not required to remain here more than a night or two.’