‘Who that?’ she demanded, stickily, round the wet finger.
‘That is your aunt Emma, come to make you into a good girl. An impossible task,’ said Margaret, gathered up her shawl, and left the room.
***
Emma soon found that what Margaret had said was no more than the truth. Teaching little Augusta Watson was an almost impossible task, and a penitential one, as the child was by nature rather stupid, and by upbringing and usage wholly disinclined to apply herself. She would sit quiet for a moment or two, no longer, while a simple air was played to her on the pianoforte or the harp (which Jane had rather ambitiously acquired), but the notion of attempting to learn how to play these instruments herself threw her into transports of disgust; the only form of playing she enjoyed was to draw her thumb along the keys, or across the strings, or to crash her fists down on a clump of notes.
‘Dear little soul! She has such high spirits!’ said her fond mother. ‘But I am sure she has a really strong aptitude for music. You saw how she listened when you played “Barbara Allen.”’
‘Yes, but that was only because you had given her a tart, and she was busy munching it,’ said Emma flatly.
‘The angel!’
Emma soon discovered that almost the entire care of little Gussie now devolved on herself, and this was no sinecure. Jemima, the servant-girl who hitherto had charge of the child, was transferred to other duties and went with visible relief. Jane Watson had in fact acquired an unpaid servant. The promised treats and excursions about the city of Croydon did not materialize; they were in perpetual abeyance. Emma began to consider her own prospects somewhat ruefully, and to wonder how she might ever acquire one or two lighter gowns, now that spring was approaching. She had no money, apart from the hundred pounds left her by her father, and she did not wish to make inroads on that, feeling it should be kept for emergencies.
Once, fatigued after a whole morning spent in the attempt to instil some faint conception of the ABC into the recalcitrant little Gussie, she said to Jane:
‘I wonder, Jane, do you think it might be possible for me to give music lessons to a few children or young ladies in the neighbourhood here? Then I need not be a charge on you, but could pay you for my keep. I should be very glad to contribute to the household. And I might save up a little nest-egg for my old age, even!’ she added hopefully.
But Jane, entirely scandalized at the suggestion, flew into a passion.
‘What! Advertise to all the neighbours that we was too mean and poor to support you? So offer yourself in the public market? A fine notion, upon my word! I wonder at you, Emma, I do indeed!’ And to Robert, when he came home that evening, she said, ‘I suppose that sister of yours, that Penelope, has been putting ideas into Emma’s head, that we are stingy and cheeseparing and necessitous. A fine thing! And she, queening herself out there at Clissocks, giving evening parties for half the county, while half the furniture under that roof properly belongs to us!’
Robert, who came home late and tired every day from his law office, where, to do him justice, he worked long hours and exceedingly hard, listened to the familiar tirade against Penelope and said, ‘Well, well, perhaps we should give it some thought. I do not see why Emma should not give music lessons to a few persons of quality. It could do no harm. And then, it is true, she could pay for her keep.’
‘But who, then, would look after little Gussie?’
This seemed unanswerable. Robert said, ‘Well, well, we shall see. This scheme of Thickstaffe and his friend Mainbrace for a Grand Imperial Ship Canal seems to be attracting a deal of notice. There is to be a Bill in Parliament about it, I understand. The main problem is to pay off the landowners who are raising objections along the route. One can see that no farmer wishes to have a canal dug across his best grazing land. Upon my soul, though, if it was to be accomplished, it would be a fine thing, one cannot deny, for the city of Croydon; the lime, coal, and feed trade would be tripled in a year. So would my practice. Old Harding has an eye to the main chance, I see; aye, he was not such a fool as we all thought when he bought Clissocks. The property might be worth a gold mine. That Thickstaffe (though for my part I would never deal with him as I have heard some exceedingly doubtful tales about him) has put his employer in the way of what may be a very good thing.’
‘Thickstaffe!’ cried Jane spitefully. ‘Why, he is not much better than a gipsy! He has a whole troop of indigent relatives living out at Mickleham. It would not surprise me if, by and bye, they was all found to be removed to Clissocks. They are a beggarly, forward, scheming clan – I wish Penelope joy of them! I daresay she will find them just such a group as she delights in – the manner in which she got hold of that workbox of Mamma Watson was no more than a sly, underhand trick. And winding her way in among the nobility of the neighbourhood – thinking herself so very great! Lord Osborne coming to call! A fine thing! He does not come to call here!’
‘It was to press his suit – Miss Edwards was there at the time, you remember, Emma told us.’
‘Miss Edwards! She did not spare much time for him at the last Assembly.’
‘She is a very well-brought-up young lady.’
‘So she may be! But who were her parents, pray tell me?’ If the Osbornes do not trouble about it, why should we?’ said Robert reasonably.
Emma came in, looking utterly fatigued and discouraged, with little Gussie, who declared, ‘I hate Cousin Emma! Why cannot ’Mima look after me as she did before?’
***
‘Good gracious,’ observed Jane Watson some weeks later. ‘Here are two letters for Emma. And a parcel as well, from Portsmouth. Who in the world can be writing to her?’
‘And one of the letters is from overseas,’ commented Robert, equally interested. ‘Can it be tidings of Aunt O’Brien at last?’
When Emma came to the breakfast table with little Gussie, tidy for the only extended period of her day, Jane said archly, ‘Well! What a lucky young lady! It seems that you are much in demand!’
Emma, taking no notice of the letters, said, ‘Jane, I think you should dismiss Jemima. She is still filling Gussie’s head with the most shocking tales of devils and vampires and snake ladies – it is no wonder that the child has nightmares and screams so in her sleep.’
Jane was up in arms at once.
“Thank you, my dear Emma! I am perfectly capable of choosing and dismissing my own servants. I need no advice from you.’
Emma shrugged, and was silent. As soon as she had breakfasted she carried away the letters and package to her own chamber, and left them there, to be read after lesson-time was over.
Jane fumed to her husband: ‘Miss Emma is growing altogether too high-up and presuming. Jemima is an excellent servant, perfectly steady and trustworthy. And she is developing a real talent for doing my hair. I wish you will say a word to Emma, Robert.’
Robert said, ‘I wonder who those letters were from?’
***
The parcel, which seemed to contain a book, Emma laid on one side.
The first letter she opened was from Mr Howard:
Dear Miss Watson,
I have been long seeking to convey to you my deep sense of grief and sympathy at the loss of your father. At the funeral, and among your family, no private conference could be attempted. And I myself, at that time, was hardly in a fit state for rational intercourse, with the loss of my dear sister Anna such a new and pressing woe. At that moment, indeed, it struck me most forcibly that I had not entered sufficiently into your feelings at the time of our earlier conversation when you divulged to me your anxieties about your poor aunt. One’s own troubles often bring greater comprehension and insight into those of one’s friends. And I can share now more fully your sense of deprivation – trebled after the death of Mr Watson and my sister, with whom, I know, you had become very close. She often spoke of you warmly. Our mutual sorrow brings us nearer together.
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Let me take this opportunity of saying to you as I did to your sister Elizabeth that I do not pay the smallest heed to the malicious gossip and tittle-tattle which asserts that you were responsible for Mr Watson’s death; my sister had described that evening to me fully, related the whole tale of what passed, and I can assign no shade of blame. I know that Mr Watson’s end might have come at any time during the past year.
The publication of his selected sermons goes on prosperously, I am glad to tell you. I travelled to London recently for the purpose of visiting the publishers and inspecting the printed text. It is hoped that the volume will be given to the public in the course of the summer, and it has already attracted much favourable notice. It is to be entitled Discourses of a Rural Divine. Your father’s excellent sense, plain, clear language, and strong, candid devotion cannot fail to impress any reader.
I am sorry, dear Miss Emma, that I have had nothing to report from my friend Montagu in Dublin. The Mrs O’Brien of whom he had heard rumours proved to be a different person entirely (O’Brien unfortunately being a name often encountered in Ireland). But now he tells me that he is on the track of another possibility, and hopes to have news for me by and bye. I shall, of course, allow not a moment to pass before putting before you any information that comes my way.
This letter discharges a heavy burden from my heart. You have been much in my thoughts, dear Miss Emma.
Sincerely, Adam T. Howard
Emma held this letter in her hand for some time, reading and re-reading, meditating on its contents.
He has not yet made his proposal to Lady Osborne, was her conclusion. If he had, he would have felt it his duty to tell me. Why is he so slow in the business? But his sister always did say that he was slow – even dilatory – in all his actions . . .
Next Emma thought: There is sure to be trouble from Robert about the volume of Papa’s sermons, when they are published. I have not heard the last of it, by a long way. But there is no sense in anticipating that. Papa would say, sufficient unto the day is the trouble thereof.
The codicil in Mr Watson’s testament had come as a shock to several of his children. It had been drawn up in the office, and witnessed by several of Robert’s clerks, on a day when he himself chanced to be out in the country dealing with the affairs of a bed-ridden farmer. Mr Watson, visiting Croydon on clerical business, had dropped into the office and dictated the clause which assigned all the rights in his discourses ‘to my daughter Emma, who has diligently read aloud these texts to me and given me valuable assistance in collating them.’ Robert had been extremely put out, returning to the office, but, as he said at the time, ‘There’s precious little chance of publication, and, if they should come out, it’s odds that they won’t set the world on fire.’
‘But why should Emma, of all the family, have those rights?’ demanded Jane, justly indignant.
‘Oh well,’ said Robert, ‘Emma has not much else.’
***
I think Mr Howard has a feeling for me, was Emma’s final deduction, putting down his letter. He would like to say more, but he knows he cannot.
Small comfort!
Now she opened the second letter, which was somewhat stained, apparently by salt water, and written in a firm, graceful, and totally unknown hand. It was superscribed ‘H.M.S. Laconia, Sea of Marmara’:
My dear Miss Watson,
It is with the greatest enthusiasm that I take this chance to retire to my cabin and thank you for one of the most delightful evenings I have ever spent. It will be embedded in my recollection for the remainder of my days. I find it strange to sit here, under the hot Turkish sky, within sight of the minarets of Constantinople, and remember the charm and peace of an English vicarage. But I can remember it most vividly. My cousin Anna – your father – you, Miss Emma – are three of the most congenial companions I ever hope to pass an evening with. And I wish I may not tempt Providence by expressing the hope that when I return to dry land, I may spend many, many more such evenings. (Forgive me. I know that your father is in a delicate state of health. But oh, may his wide knowledge, benevolence, and wit be preserved to delight his friends for years yet to come.)
At this point Emma put down the paper and stared out of the window, over the empty garden. For a moment her fancy played with the notion of blue Turkish waters and slender white minarets.
How strange, she mused. How very strange. Captain Fremantle does not know – did not, when he wrote these words – that, out of the three companions with whom he shared that evening, two are gone. Only one is left.
Then, with an icy shiver, she looked at the date of the letter. Two months had passed since it was written. Who knows? Life at sea was hazardous. By now, Captain Fremantle himself might be no more. And it might be months later before Emma was apprised of his fate. If at all. Of the four, she might now be the only survivor . . .
She went on reading:
Is it not queer, Miss Emma, how, just rarely in life, it is possible to meet a person and know about them, instantaneously and without the shadow of a doubt, This is the one!
That was how I felt about you, while standing outside that Gothic mansion (I hope that by now your sister has moved into it?) exchanging nonsense about Caedwalla and Cwichelm (about whom I am now in a position to give you a great deal more information, the next time we meet). And I sincerely hope that we do meet again – indeed I cannot really tolerate the prospect of enduring the rest of my life without such a meeting.
You may, of course, not share my feelings at all. I have no right to hope that you do. And yet, and yet – something about the way in which you smiled at me, something about the way in which our mental processes appeared to dove-tail – something about that happy evening – gives me, I cannot precisely say why, cause to hope. I shall continue to hope, dear Miss Emma! as long as I am above ground, and you are still Miss Emma.
And, as soon as I set foot again on English soil, I shall return to continue our conversation about Caedwalla.
This comes with my friendship and devotion,
Matthew Fremantle
P.S. I entrusted an acquaintance of mine in Portsmouth, a bookseller, with the task of finding and transmitting to you a work on the history of the Saxon kings. I trust that by this time he has fulfilled this commission. When reading the work, pray spare a thought for him who thinks about you a great deal.
For some ten minutes after reading this letter, Emma sat motionless, spellbound, amazed. Then she began to smile. The letter brought Captain Fremantle before her so completely – his long, narrow, expressive face, his bright hazel eyes, his nutcracker grin. This is the one. Why did I not understand? But I did, yes, I did, right from the first moment.
If only I could write back to him!
Chapter 10
Here’s a fine thing!, said Jane indignantly to Robert when he came home one evening. ‘Mrs Tomlinson was here with her daughters – what do you think the tale is, that is going around?’
‘About the meeting at the White Hart at Guildford? It was held. They have formed a committee of nine to prepare a petition for Parliament. Now they have to choose an engineer to select the best route for the canal; Harding will be on tenterhooks, no doubt.’
‘No, no, not that precious canal. I am sure I never wish to hear the word canal or navigation again,’ said Jane pettishly. ‘No, this, this disgraceful gossip about your sister Penelope and Percy Thickstaffe.’
‘Why, what about them?’ asked Robert uneasily.
‘They are saying – oh, dreadful things! Far worse than about your sister Emma seizing the chance to hasten your father’s death.’
‘I never believed that,’ said he. ‘Why should she do such a thing? Turning herself out of doors? She stood to gain nothing from such a deed – quite the reverse.’
‘Well – that’s by the way. But now,’ Jane told him, on a note of strong condemnation, not unmixe
d with satisfaction, ‘they are saying that Penelope and Thickstaffe formed a plan together that she should marry Dr Harding so that she might gain control of his fortune!’
‘I do not believe it,’ said Robert instantly. ‘Why should Harding submit to be made use of in such a way? He is not a fool.’
‘No, but, Robert, there may be something in it. I have had such letters from Margaret since she moved out to Clissocks. She says that Penelope and Thickstaffe are for ever in each other’s pockets, meeting all over the grounds, conferring privily with each other, and that Penelope behaves disgracefully to Dr Harding, snubs and snaps at him, never for a moment minds what he says, or pays heed to his wishes, or attends to his welfare – and they have hardly been married six months!’
‘Well, Penelope was always a shrewd, contriving creature with an eye to the main chance. How she managed to ensnare Harding in the first place, I shall always wonder. And now he has got her he has only himself to thank. But she will be a fool – more of a fool than I think her – if she tosses her bonnet over the windmill with such a one as Thickstaffe. I daresay he may have insinuating ways – so you women say, though I never saw it myself, I think him a pestilential fellow – but Harding is now a man of solid property with a house that anyone might envy; whereas, what has Thickstaffe got? Nothing but a plausible tongue and a scheme for joining several waterways together which will probably never get past its first reading in Parliament.’
‘Oh, you are so like a man!’
‘I am one.’
‘And supposing your precious brother Sam invests his legacy in the canal and loses it all? Then who is going to support him?’
‘Not I,’ said Robert. ‘But I do not think Sam is such a thickhead as to do that.’
The doorbell rang.
‘Good heavens,’ said Robert, looking out of the bow window. ‘That is Musgrave’s bay hack. He always has a very tidy piece of horseflesh. But what can he be doing in Croydon?’
‘Tom Musgrave?’ almost shrieked Jane. ‘You are not going to see him, surely? After he caused the death of that poor unfortunate woman?’