But, in truth, whom will she invite? thought Emma. Which of our former neighbours would be prepared to come so far, along a muddy road? And most of those were old – and poor. A ball is not at all the kind of entertainment that would attract them.
She noticed Sam’s eyes straying to the window. By now the state of affairs in the front courtyard was more orderly, less chaotic; Emma, following the direction of Sam’s glance, saw a carriage come round the sweep and pull up out of sight.
‘Gracious! I declare, more visitors!’ cried Penelope in high feather. ‘Who can it be this time, I wonder?’
Emma was suddenly, piercingly reminded of a morning at Stanton Parsonage, when Mrs Blake had come calling with the children; that was the same day, she thought, on which Penelope turned up to announce that she was married. What a deal of things have happened since then, and all of them sad . . .
She was plucked from these unprofitable thoughts by Fielding’s announcement of Mr Edwards, Mrs Edwards, and Miss Edwards.
Emma realized at once, from a swift glance at Sam’s conscious countenance, that he had been privy, beforehand, to this intention of the Edwards family, and had planned his own visit accordingly; she wondered if the same was true of Lord Osborne. Sam, of course, in his profession, received intelligence from every door and window in the country; and Lord Osborne, as the accredited suitor of Mary Edwards, might be supposed to be in communication with her; certainly he did not seem at all surprised at her arrival.
Mary Edwards was twenty-one, a year younger than Margaret; she was not pretty, her complexion was too colourless, but she had a very sweet countenance, pale blue eyes, and a quantity of very soft, fair hair, which would not stay tidy but continually tumbled out of its curl; she had delicate manners, was rather shy, and looked anxiously and often for guidance to her parents. She reminds me greatly of somebody, thought Emma, who had seen her only once before, at the first Dorking Assembly; now who can it be? Mr and Mrs Edwards were correct and civil, but somewhat stiff; the lady particularly so, with a reticent air, as if she were reserving judgement on this new, lavish establishment that had been so hastily set up in the neighbourhood; Mr Edwards had a much easier and more communicative manner, and was soon on cordial terms with Dr Harding, chatting about fishing rights, and coppicing, and the excellent properties of the chalybeate waters at Epsom.
Penelope, in vigorous conversation with Lord Osborne, was saying, ‘A hunt breakfast! Now that is a capital idea! Dr Harding would be delighted to give one, and so meet many of our neighbours in a lively and informal manner. Formality, you must know, is our abhorrence! Consider the thing settled, dear Lord Osborne! When do your hounds next meet in this country? Oh, by that time all these great piles of stone will be gone, I promise you, the house and grounds will be quite completed. We shall greatly look forward to seeing you in all your glory. By the bye—’ she lowered her voice – ‘what has become of poor Tom Musgrave? I hear he is all to nothing, poor fellow, after what happened?’
Lord Osborne looked extremely grave. He muttered, ‘I think – I believe – I do not know – not quite certain . . .’ Emma could not hear the rest of what he replied.
Mr Thickstaffe had entered the conversation with Mr Edwards and Dr Harding.
‘Very good in its way, as far as it goes, the Wey and Arun Ship Canal,’ he was saying, ‘but what is urgently needed hereabouts is a Grand Imperial Ship Canal from London to Portsmouth – a route from Dorking via Wotton and Abinger to Ockley might be possible – perhaps a canal down the valley of the river Mole – or, possibly, communication by means of the Surrey Iron Railway at Merstham.’
‘Mule-pulled trucks are far more efficient than horse-drawn barges,’ objected Mr Edwards. ‘And speedier, too.’
‘But the cost, my good sir, the cost! Think of laying all that track! It would be far better to extend the Croydon Canal to Portsmouth.’
‘Ay – by chopping through lord knows how many hillsides, building tunnels, and viaducts, and re-routing waterways—’
‘An Act of Parliament will be needed in either case—’
Good God, said Emma to herself, visited by a sudden shaft of illumination. Can that be why Dr Harding has purchased this house? Because of its situation beside the river? Because the property may be of considerable value, should one or other of the schemes they are canvassing ever come into being?
She glanced out of the window. The morning-room, situated on the south-east corner of the house, had a clear view down the wooded slope, and across the road, to the narrow river below, which wound peacefully between its bushy banks, reflecting a sky for once clear and spring-like. Emma tried to imagine it busy with river-traffic, barges filled with coal, charcoal, and lime, tow-ropes flashing through the water, massive horses plodding along the bank, the shouts of carters, perhaps a wharf at the foot of this very hill . . .
‘Well, my dear sir, you had best consult Osborne about it. He sits in the House of Lords—’
Lord Osborne, now talking to Mary Edwards, appeared most unwilling to be approached.
‘I know little of such matters – I do not – I have not – I cannot undertake . . .’
Mrs Edwards was bidding a gracious goodbye to Penelope. ‘Such an interesting house. Such a challenge for you to undertake. We shall often be wondering as to your progress. Of course too far to come so often as dear Stanton. Come, Henry, come Mary my love, you must remember that we have considerably farther to go, now, to the turnpike. Goodbye, Miss Watson, goodbye, Miss Emma.’
To Sam she contrived not to say any goodbye at all.
‘She was not a bit pleased that I was here,’ Sam said to Emma and Elizabeth after the visitors had all departed.
‘Well, Sam, I did rather wonder that you were able to take time off from your work,’ replied the literal-minded Elizabeth. ‘And, very likely, Mrs Edwards thought the same. And she did not like it at all that you were talking to Mary Edwards, over by the window, for such a long time. Indeed, I wondered at it myself.’
‘She is not engaged to Osborne yet,’ said Sam doughtily.
Old Nanny pottered into the room at this moment, picking up glasses, and caught the last remark.
‘Miss Edwards engaged to Lord Osborne!’ she squawked. ‘The idea! I should hope not, indeed! That would never do! My gracious goodness! The very idea!’
‘Why, Nanny?’ said Emma, puzzled. ‘I know he is above her in rank, but she has inherited all that fortune, you know, and the Edwardses are very respectable people. Many would think it a fair bargain. And so might we, if it were not for our poor Sam.’
‘But,’ said Nanny in a voice of doom, ‘like as not Lord Osborne don’t know it, but Miss Edwards is not their true daughter. She was adopted.’
‘Well, but, Nanny, everybody knows that. She’s their niece. The daughter of Mr Edwards’s sister who died.’
Emma’s thoughts strayed away. The word niece carried her to Aunt O’Brien. Now that Mr Howard was in London, doubtless enjoying the pleasures of the Season, there would be even less chance of hearing through him about the possible movements of Aunt O’Brien.
Sighing, Emma returned to the pantry, and her catalogue of spoons and forks.
Chapter 9
Emma was driven into Croydon by Mr Thickstaffe on a rainy, misty March morning with a chill wind blowing, when, perhaps, in other company, it might have seemed highly agreeable to exchange a damp, cold, silent and remote country residence for a modern abode in a growing city full of activity and bustle.
Emma was not pleased either with her company or her destination, but she had been given no choice in the matter. The convenience of others came first. Mr Thickstaffe was bound on several errands for his employer, Dr Harding: he had to visit the bank, an attorney, an estate office, and make various inquiries regarding taxes and grazing rights; also he was required to pick up and bring back with him Miss Margaret Watson, who now wished to rem
ove herself from her brother Robert’s house in Croydon and pass some months with her sisters at Clissocks.
Elizabeth had had a letter from Robert about it:
The truth of the matter is, my dear Eliza, that Hobhouse sheered off like lightning the very moment he knew that Mag was to receive no more than a hundred pounds under my father’s Will. I cannot say that I blame him. I would not take her on myself with ten times the money. I was afraid he might shab off; and he did. So Mag wishes to quit the scene of such a humiliation and try her luck elsewhere. Jane would write to Pen about this, but, as you know, they are at daggers drawn at present over that stupid business of my mother’s embroideries. Heaven knows why Penelope should want them; you would think she had sufficient of Mother’s things, including that very valuable marquetry workbox which she removed from Stanton without consulting anybody’s views but her own. However I was never one to repine, as you know, and there is no more to be said on the matter except that I have never witnessed a more ill-judged, scrambled affair than that distribution of my father’s effects; if you can persuade Pen to send back the workbox it would be a good thing. The whole business was a crying shame and you may think yourself lucky, my dear Eliza, that you were not very greatly involved in it. At least nobody can blame you. The codicil about the sermons, leaving them to Emma, was quite disgraceful. But that is by the way, and there is no more to be said. If Jane refuses to write or speak to P., the duty must devolve on me, though the lord knows I have work enough of my own. Candidly, sister, I shall be glad of M.’s departure, for she has been dismally bad-tempered of late and, as you know, even at the best of times she can be very tediously fretful and complaining. Also she eats an amazing quantity of butter. I hope that country air may improve her spirits and looks, which have fallen off shockingly; & that P. may have better fortune in finding her a husband. All kinds of talk is flying about the countryside as to P.’s lavish style of entertainment at Clissocks, and her card parties and hot suppers. Well for Dr Harding’s purse, is all I can say.
Yr affc bro: Robert
By the bye, Jane says, little Emma may as well come in by the equipage that removes Margaret, for she may now have Mag’s room & commence teaching young Gussie, who badly needs a firm hand.
Did you know that Purvis’s wife was brought to bed of a dead infant & it is said she herself is not expected to survive.
‘I have been hoping for a chance to talk to you privately,’ said Thickstaffe, driving along the turnpike. ‘But you are always so elusive, Miss Emma. Like a little will-o’-the-wisp, you are!’
‘Oh?’ said Emma. ‘What did you wish to say to me, Mr Thickstaffe, that could not be spoken out in company?’
‘First, I wish very much that you will drop a word in my favour in the ear of your brother Mr Sam Watson.’
‘Why in the world should I do that?’ said Emma, very astonished.
‘Because he is very fond of you, and would listen to what you say.’
‘But what is all this about?’
‘I have asked him to take a stake in my Grand Imperial Ship Canal venture.’
‘Invest money, you mean?’ She was astonished. ‘But my brother Sam has no money to invest.’
‘On the contrary, he has now about seven thousand from your father which, following my counsel, he may readily double – treble – quadruple – without the least risk to himself.’
Emma distrusted the veracity of every word in that statement.
She replied coolly, ‘And what was the second thing you wished to ask me, Mr Thickstaffe?’
He said slowly, ‘I have noticed that Mrs Harding pays heed to what you say. Oh, she does not appear to, but she listens and marks; I have heard her, sometimes, bring out observations made by you, as her own opinion, later on. I think it is because of all the time passed by you with your wealthy aunt Maria in Shrewsbury; Mrs Harding takes account of that and respects what it stands for, though she will not openly acknowledge the fact.’
‘Well?’
‘Well!’ He clucked to the horses. They were now entering the outskirts of Croydon, untidy with gravel-pits and loading sheds; the traffic had become very heavy; the continuous rumble of carts and drays, the bawling of newsmen, muffin-men and milkmen, the clash of pattens, and the hoots and whistles of barges plying along the canal made a very unwelcome accompaniment, so far as Emma was concerned, to their conversation.
‘Well!’ resumed Mr Thickstaffe, when he had the horses under firm control. ‘All I can ask is that it be suggested to Mrs Harding, ever so mildly and delicately, that her husband’s resources are not bottomless, and that his patience may not be inexhaustible. I know she is but new-married, and had been waiting many years for such a chance; but a word of warning, a word of warning, Miss Emma, may be very well advised. She is kicking up her heels just a bit too high, Miss Emma, if you follow me?’
He gave Emma a frowning level glance, then quickly turned his attention back to his reins. ‘Croydon is a fine town, is it not,’ he observed chattily. ‘I believe there are above one hundred and sixty houses in it by now; your brother’s, perhaps, is the hundred-and-sixty-first. The town possesses a very fine hospital, the Whitgift, and the sales of walnuts, gravel, coal, and charcoal are prodigious. There is also a notable great cherry orchard – you will be able to admire its blossom in a couple of months’ time.’
Emma found little else to admire. The High Street, which had once been handsome, was now overlaid with shop fronts and raucous with traffic.
Robert’s house, a smart white villa, stood on a hilly slope by the upper Addiscombe Road, on the eastern outskirts of the town. The garden was still bare and rudimentary. Emma thought how bald and unfinished it appeared, in comparison with the tree-girt and hoary antiquity of Clissocks.
‘Well, I will think about what you said, Mr Thickstaffe,’ she said, as he pulled up. ‘But I cannot promise to say anything to my brother.’
Surprisingly, though, she felt a tinge of respect for Mr Thickstaffe; it was the first such feeling she had entertained towards him.
At Beech Hanger they were greeted with the information that Margaret was not ready to leave yet, would not be packed up for at least half an hour.
‘Very well,’ said Thickstaffe, unperturbed. ‘I will drive down into the town, perform my errands, and return.’ And he departed among the raw new houses, the unfinished chalky streets, and the clattering traffic.
Despite the fact that Robert’s house was called Beech Hanger, there was not a beech tree in sight. Emma’s first impression was how cramped the house felt, and how crowded with furniture, compared with the large dim spaces of Clissocks. Penelope’s taste in colour, to be sure, was rather strident, but her glaring hues were diminished in the distance of the great empty rooms; whereas Jane’s neat, crammed quarters continually distracted the eye with clashing colours and variegated patterns.
It was no new experience for Emma to discover that by travelling a few miles, and moving to a different circle of society, a person could feel they inhabited a completely different world. She and Elizabeth had been happy at Stanton, in the gentle ecclesiastical orbit of their father and his pastoral duties. And, she thought, in time to come Elizabeth might recover some sort of happiness at Clissocks; true, Penelope was selfish, dictatorial, and erratic, but the peace and quiet of the house itself, and the mild vagueness of Dr Harding were elements that promised, for the future, a certain degree of harmony and stability (if Mr Thickstaffe’s precepts were attended to).
But this new house of Robert’s produced a painful effect, a jarring effect, upon each one of the five senses.
Being so new, it was noisy and draughty; doors slammed, feet clattered upon stairs, voices echoed against hard, raw surfaces; it smelt strongly of fresh paintwork and opulent new fabrics; lights glared and windows, opening on to vacant spaces, dazzled too brightly; corners were sharp, the whole atmosphere harsh and unrestful. This wa
s due, too, in some degree to the personality of Jane Watson, a restless indefatigable housewife, who spent her days in pursuit of her servants, harrying and exhorting them, and her nights in complaint about them.
***
‘You may as well help me to finish packing my things, since you are come,’ said Margaret to Emma, and set her to work folding shifts and cambrics and rolling stockings into balls.
Margaret’s room, which was over the front door, seemed small and cramped compared with Emma’s previous quarters, and she was very glad she had not to share it with Margaret, who at once launched into a long and bitter catalogue of angry objurgations against the faithless Mr Hobhouse, against Jane and Robert for not taking her part more vigorously and fetching him back, against all the other people in the world who had better luck than she.
‘Why should Penelope, so ill-natured as she is, have plucked such a plum? It is entirely unfair!’
‘Oh, come, Margaret,’ said Emma, eventually tiring of all this self-pity. ‘We have all had our troubles, you know. And no doubt Penelope did lay herself out to be pleasant to Dr Harding, instead of grumbling all the time.’
‘Well! You have not done so badly, sister,’ retorted Margaret, turning on her venomously, ‘you as good as killed our father, everybody says so, you are as good as a murderer, and what is your reward? You are invited to Clissocks, fed on dainties there, meet a whole procession of guests continually calling – so we hear—’
Emma could feel herself turning white with shock.
‘Who says such a thing about me?’
‘Oh – everybody. It is common talk in Croydon. Ah – there is Mr Thickstaffe come back at last. He took his time! I must say I shall be glad to part from Robert and Jane. He is so purse-proud! And she nags continually. And I certainly wish you joy of her – ’ she snapped, as a valedictory, pointing to a fat pale little girl who just then sidled into the room and stood with her finger in her mouth staring first at the luggage, then at Emma.