by Joan Aiken
The winter sun was beginning to rise. Just about now, thought Emma, Captain Fremantle will be climbing aboard the Portsmouth coach. It may be many months before he hears of this. Perhaps he will never hear at all.
A cold, paralysing sadness laid its grip on her. Another part of my life is lost, gone for ever, she thought.
It was going to be a very long day.
***
In fact the day that followed the death of Mr Watson seemed, to his daughters, to continue for weeks. Messengers must be sent to Robert and Jane in Croydon, to Sam in Guildford. A letter must be despatched to Penelope and Dr Harding in Weymouth. More messages must go off, to young Mr Marshall the curate, and to Mr Tyrwhit, the future incumbent of Stanton parish, who lived, at present, in Hindhead with a large young family, and was known to be most anxious to accomplish the move as soon as it might be arranged. Yet more messages went to Mr Sindell the apothecary, to the Edwards family, to Mrs Blake, and other neighbours.
‘Do you think we should send to inform Lady Osborne at the castle?’ asked Elizabeth, harassed and ink-stained, at her father’s desk.
It was the first direct question she had asked Emma for some hours. She had been so inexpressibly shocked and grieved, on her arrival home, at receiving the unhappy news, that she had hardly spoken to her sister for the rest of the day; among Emma’s many miseries lay a fear that her sister held her in some way responsible for the fatality. And this apprehension was confirmed during the visit of Mr Sindell.
‘His heart gave out, Miss Watson, that is all,’ said the apothecary soothingly. It might have occurred, you know, at any time these last nine months. Indeed I wonder that he has been with us so long as he has . . . Yes, well, it is true that an evening of lively conversation may have been instrumental in hastening matters – that, certainly, and a rich and stimulating stirrup-cup of hot chocolate with rum in it – imprudent, yes, no doubt a trifle imprudent – but who, after all, is competent to pronounce in these matters? There would be no purpose, no purpose at all, in ascribing blame, or laying responsibility at such a time, my very dear Miss Watson.’
Nonetheless, Emma felt that responsibility was laid, and was laid firmly at her door. And this was made plain to her, first by the unaccustomed silence and reserve in Elizabeth’s manner to her, then by the behaviour of Robert, Jane, and Margaret, who were the first of the family to arrive at the parsonage.
‘Gave him hot chocolate? With rum in it? What can you have been thinking of? What put such a wholly extravagant and ill-judged notion into your head? And that following a long, tiring, unnecessary argument with this Captain Whoever-he-was—’
‘How can you have been so shockingly, so wickedly inconsiderate? So regardless of my poor father’s welfare? Let alone the rest of us.’
‘But he himself suggested it! He asked for it, he wanted it! He was enjoying such a lively, animated discussion with Captain Fremantle about the Saxons—’
‘Saxons, indeed!’ said Robert.
Emma felt herself in undeserved disgrace. Mr Watson had had a thoroughly happy evening for his last on earth, had entirely relished the visitors and the refreshment. I must try to hold on to that and remember it, Emma thought. It is of no use to dispute, and would be the height of indecorum; I must just endure this trouble as best I can. I do wish, though, that Mrs Blake would come up to the parsonage. She, I am very sure, would sympathize with me, and bear witness to the fact that Papa was in excellent spirits last night, and had said repeatedly that he was delighted with his company.
But Mrs Blake, perhaps feeling that the Watson family had no need of outsiders at such a sad period, tactfully stayed away.
Robert, as the family attorney, had, several years previously, supervised the framing of his father’s Will, which therefore contained in it no surprises, and very little pleasure. The main part of Mr Watson’s estate, not a large one, was divided between his two sons; the daughters received one hundred pounds apiece. The parsonage, of course, was not his to bequeathe, and must at once pass into other hands. Emma privately grieved over the loss of the orchard, the duck-pond, the garden, and the copse; and she had an unhappy fear that Elizabeth’s heart was well-nigh broken at the prospect of quitting these much-loved refuges; but Elizabeth’s heart was at present closed to her.
Emma had never even been given a report on the Dorking Assembly by her sister, and that was a particular sorrow, for she longed to know if all the care and pains lavished on her sister’s appearance had been to any purpose. Nor was it possible for her to exchange comments – as she longed to do – with Elizabeth on the ferocious, if unacknowledged and genteelly conducted warfare which now began to rage among the family regarding the disposal of Mr Watson’s personal effects, furnishings, and household goods.
During his life, moving from one vicarage to another, Mr Watson had always taken along with him a considerable supply of china, plate, and linen, as well as much excellent, solid, if old-fashioned furniture which he had himself inherited from parents and grandparents. Some of these pieces, previously despised as being out of the mode, were now, by the arbitrary whim of fashion, held once more in high esteem; and various other articles such as towels and table-linen edged with Mechlin lace, and several unblemished sets of Crown Derby china, received long ago as wedding presents, must command respectful attention at any time.
Penelope (who had now arrived, post-haste, from Wey-mouth, with her husband), Margaret, and Jane were all at daggers drawn over the disposition of these items, many of which were not individually assigned in the Will.
‘You have your house already furnished, my dear Jane, so what need can you possibly have for any more plates or towels, let alone chairs or tables? You are amply supplied in this regard. But Clissocks is all to furnish, and those rooms are so very big that I shall be at my wits’ end to know how to fill them – Papa’s desk would go so very well, be just the thing for the room that is to be Dr Harding’s study—’
‘Papa’s desk must indubitably go to Robert, as the eldest son,’ said Jane, white about the nostrils with rage. ‘There is absolutely no question as to the propriety of that. And we should also certainly have the pianoforte, since our little Augusta is the only member of the younger family at present, and the dear little angel shows decided musical talent – or would if she had any instrument to play on. Besides, a handsome Broadwood like that would be wasted at Clissocks. The damp would ruin it in a month.’
‘My sister Emma should have the piano,’ said Sam, who had hitherto remained silent. ‘She plays so beautifully.’
‘Emma? Where could she put a pianoforte? She has no home of her own. Nor likely to have one.’
‘I do not see why the lack of homes should deprive the girls of some valuable possessions,’ said Sam sturdily. ‘They could be stored.’
‘Stored?’ shrieked Jane and Penelope, in unison for once. ‘With the cost of storage so high? Preposterous! And it is quite disgraceful that Emma is to have all those papers – ridiculous – unsuitable. Where is she to keep them, pray?’
‘I am going to look after them. And,’ persisted Sam, ‘items such as the piano could be allotted to the girls but kept, for the time, in one of your houses, on the understanding that they are a loan, to be reclaimed should they marry and set up homes of their own.’
‘A wholly unpractical plan!’ And a most improbable eventuality, declared Penelope’s out-thrust lip and chin.
Poor Dr Harding, exposed for the first time to a full conclave of the Watson family, could be seen to find it a decidedly quelling experience, and retired in silence to a corner. If asked his opinion by his wife or brother-in-law, he resorted to one unvarying defence:
‘I don’t want disagreeables! I never like disagreeables. Why can’t we all be pleasant and easy-going with one another?’
Emma, Elizabeth, and Sam, the three genuinely grieving children of Mr Watson, were no match at all in acquisitiven
ess against Robert, Penelope, and Margaret, let alone against Jane, who, before she had been inside the parsonage for half-an-hour, had set aside a large empty trunk, and was piling into it items of crockery, cutlery, tableware, vases, and candlesticks.
Even her husband was a little taken aback at this.
‘Should you not wait until after the funeral, my love? Would that not be best?’
‘But Sam Hitchens is returning to Croydon tonight, Robert; he may just as well take this load with him. You know that it will save carriers’ fees.’
Penelope, for months, if not years to come, would be conducting a furious inquest into all those articles and heirlooms ‘which Jane made away with on the day after Papa died.’
The funeral was fixed for three days hence, to allow a sufficiency of time for bombazine and crape to be purchased and made up into mourning garments. The service was to have been conducted by Mr Howard; but another most untoward and tragical happening now disrupted this plan.
Emma, two days after her father’s death, chanced to be in the kitchen, conferring with Betsey from the village and old Nanny about arrangements to satisfy the appetites of the extended household with a large but economical dinner.
Inspection of some jars of preserved blackberries reminded her of the bramble-hedges in Osborne Park, and she remarked, ‘I wonder that we have not yet had a call from Mrs Blake. That is passing strange. It is not like Mrs Blake to be tardy in a visit of neighbourly sympathy.’
Betsey gave a great gulp of horror.
‘Oh, Miss Emma! You’ve not been told yet – in truth, we didn’t like to tell ye – so friendly as you were with the lady—’
‘Tell me what?’ Emma demanded, wheeling round sharply to look at the two colourless faces and shocked eyes that confronted her.
‘Mrs Blake is killed! And so is little Master Charlie!’
‘Killed? That cannot possibly be true. What can you mean?’
‘It’s Bible truth, Miss Emma. We hadn’t the heart to break it to you, so grieved as you are over poor Master—’
‘But what happened?’
‘Thrown from the phaeton, they were! Mr Tom Musgrave was driving – and if ever there was a useless, feckless, reckless, worthless young castaway, he’s the one—’
‘He was a-bringing of them up here, to pay a visit of sympathy like you said—’
‘Yesterday evening, it was—’
‘Poor Mr Howard would a brung them hisself, but Lady Osborne had just sent for him, most urgent—’
Now they were properly embarked on the narrative, the two women could hardly speak fast enough, and kept interrupting each other. Emma brought them to the point.
‘But how could it happen? Was Tom Musgrave drunk?’
‘Ah! Bosky he was, no doubt of it at all. Three sheets in the wind—’
‘As he often is these days—’
‘Almost always, Mrs Suckling she says—’
‘Turning the corner by Cathanger Lane, one wheel went into the ditch—’
‘The lady and the little lad was thrown out, clean on to their heads—’
‘On the hard road—’
‘While, as for Master Musgrave, all he suffered was a scraped knee!’
‘Of course, now, he’s properly gravelled. Won’t show his head out of doors. Lurks inside, mute as a fish—’
‘As one should hope, indeed!’
‘But this is terrible – terrible!’ Emma ran distracted fingers through her hair. ‘Does my sister know?’
‘Miss Elizabeth?’
It was plain that old Nanny hardly regarded Penelope or Margaret as qualifying any longer for the appellation. ‘No, she don’t, Miss Emma; leastways I haven’t had the heart to tell her. Not after Master Tom distinguished her so particular at the Assembly: four dances he took with her, everybody was remarking on it! So I heard from Patty Wilson, the chambermaid at the White Hart.’
‘Oh, gracious heavens! I must go and tell Elizabeth at once.’
Emma found Elizabeth in the bedroom they shared, silently and tearfully putting her possessions in order and beginning to pack them up.
‘Our future has been decided,’ she remarked shortly, without lifting her swollen eyes to look at Emma. ‘It has all been planned by the others, without reference to us. I am to live with Penelope at Clissocks, you with Jane and Robert at Croydon. Penelope has apparently come to the conclusion that I may very easily earn my keep at Clissocks by my services as a housekeeper; and Jane has decided that your proficiency in music may compensate for your argumentative nature. (Miss Osborne sang your praises to her, it seems, at the Dorking Assembly.) So you are to teach little Augusta. The pianoforte will not be wasted.’
‘Elizabeth! Have you heard about Mrs Blake?’
‘Yes; I have. Sam – Sam told me.’ Now Elizabeth did raise her eyes. They were brimming with tears.
‘But what will become of those three children?’
‘Sam says that a sister of Mrs Blake’s, Mrs Chivers, may have them; she lives in Hampshire.’
‘Would you not think that Lady Osborne would have made an offer—?’
‘Would you?’ said Elizabeth in her new dry tone.
‘Poor, poor Mr Howard! He was so very attached to his sister. How can he bear it?’
‘We all have to bear what we must,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Oh, Eliza!’ Emma knelt down and put her arms around her sister. ‘I shall miss you so much! Pray, pray do not be angry with me! Indeed, truly, I am as unhappy about Papa as you are. But I do not think—’
Elizabeth quietly detached herself from Emma’s clasp and stood up.
‘There is no use to talk about it,’ she said. ‘He is gone, and we have to reconcile ourselves to our loss.’
There came a knock at the door. It was old Nanny.
‘If you please, Miss Elizabeth, Mr Howard is here. He particularly wishes to see you and Miss Emma, to explain why he feels he can’t take Master’s funeral.’
‘Why can he not talk to my brother Robert?’
‘He asked to see you and Miss Emma, special, miss. I have put him in Master’s study, as the family are all in the parlour.’
‘You go and see him, Elizabeth,’ urged Emma. ‘My presence is not necessary.’
‘He asked to see you too, Miss Emma.’
With the greatest reluctance, both sisters went down. Both were in a state, at present, of such acute sensibility that the smallest new occurrence, the briefest or most trifling encounter, would have seemed almost intolerably painful. And the sight of Mr Howard, pale and distracted, moving restlessly and miserably about their father’s half-dismantled study, gave evidence that he was in the same condition of extreme mental affliction. With a few broken phrases and half-finished ejaculations, he took their hands in turn; this proved too much for Emma, who, after one brief, strong clasp, one momentary meeting of eyes, almost ran from the room and made her way blindly to the orchard, where a burst of tears relieved her overcharged sensibilities. Then, feeling heartily ashamed of herself, she returned to the house. Here she discovered that Mr Howard had already left, and Elizabeth was once more upstairs, occupied with her packing.
‘Mr Howard asked me to give you a message,’ she said tonelessly to Emma. ‘He had a letter from his friend Montagu in Dublin, who had heard that an English lady was shortly expected to come and take up residence at a lodging house that he knows of; but he had not as yet been furnished with her name. He hoped to have more information within a week or so, and would supply the news as soon as he had it. He did not with you to think he had forgotten the matter.’
‘Oh. That was kind of him. I wish, so much, that we had more certain information. After all, there must be many English ladies in Dublin. And, if it were indeed our aunt, where was Captain O’Brien? Can she have left him? We ought to write to her – about my father
– but where to send the letter?’
Elizabeth made no response to this, but continued her occupation of folding muslins and sorting ribbons.
‘Penelope wishes to leave for Clissocks as soon as the funeral is over,’ she said in explanation of this activity. ‘And she thinks it best if I accompany them immediately, so that I can make myself useful in helping to set matters straight there.’
‘Good heavens! But will the house be ready for occupation, so soon?’
‘Penelope thinks so. They spent this morning over there, it seems, giving directions to the builders. And Penelope has come to be of the opinion that it will be best if she and Dr Harding are in residence; then the work will go faster.’
‘You will all be exceedingly uncomfortable.’
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth without expression.
‘But, concerning our father’s funeral? What did Mr Howard say about that?’
‘Poor man.’ For the first time, Elizabeth’s chilly tone faltered. She said, ‘He is in such anguish over the death of his sister. And that he must break the news to Captain Blake. He told me – he told me how he himself had proposed to drive her up here – but Lady Osborne suddenly summoned him – she wished for his opinion on some parish matter – that was how Tom Musgrave came to offer his services – he does not blame Tom Musgrave – he, he feels no indignation—’
‘Tom Musgrave will never be able to show his face again in the neighbourhood—’ began Emma, and then stopped short, recalling old Nanny’s gossip – ‘Master Tom distinguished her so particularly at the Assembly.’ Had this proffered service to Mrs Blake been suggested in order that Tom Musgrave might see Elizabeth again? Could he have been serious in his intentions?
‘Mr Howard also told me,’ Elizabeth went on, speaking with evident difficulty, ‘that – that his sister had given him an account of the evening that she and Captain Fremantle spent here . . .’
‘Oh?’