by Joan Aiken
She seemed highly satisfied with the turn events had taken.
‘What is all this about?’ inquired Dr Harding.
‘Oh, that odious little Gussie pulled up some plants, and Emma reprimanded her, so now Emma has been turned out of the house.’
‘It did not happen precisely like that,’ began Emma, but then she fell silent. Her thoughts were too much occupied with what she might find at the end of the journey to be concerned with self-justification.
‘You really think it may be Aunt O’Brien in Epsom?’ demanded Margaret, when the contents of the message had been made known to her. ‘But what shall you do if it is? Or if it is not?’
‘How can I tell?’
Dr Harding looked moithered, as he did more and more often these days.
‘We should certainly wait in Epsom – we must undoubtedly do that – at least until you discover precisely who has wrote this note. But then – I do not know – I do not like to keep the horses standing. Perhaps you should plan to come back to Clissocks with us?’
‘Oh, no, I am sure Emma should not do that!’ said Margaret hastily.
Emma glanced at her in slight surprise, but said to Dr Harding, ‘No, my dear sir, you must go on your way home, or Penelope will be wondering what has happened to you.’
Dr Harding seemed relieved at having the decision taken from him, but said they would at least remain outside the house while Emma made inquiries.
‘Ay, ay, Epsom is not a bad little place,’ he observed, as they drew up. ‘If Thickstaffe has his way it will also be on the Grand Canal – give a new lease of life to the place, that would, by gum! Here you are, Miss Emma, here’s the address you seek – just by the High Street, close to the Parade, couldn’t be handier. Now, I will walk my nags while you discover what’s toward – pray do not be longer than you can help . . .’
Emma consulted the paper in her hand and looked for Number 2, Church Street. She found a doorway beside an apothecary’s shop.
With fast-beating heart, she rang the bell.
Chapter 11
‘Are you Miss Emma Watson? Oh, I am so happy to see you!’
The shabby, shaggy woman who answered the door spoke with a strong Irish accent, which removed Emma’s last doubt.
‘Is Mrs O’Brien here?’
‘Yes! And she’s in such a bad way, miss! Indeed, indeed, I’m at my wits’ end! For there’s that strength of spirit about her, she won’t have any one of ye fetched – and yet, by my soul, there’s not an inch of ground between her and the grave – not unless action is taken, immejit! But step upstairs and see for yourself, miss, do—’
‘Well, I will, but – just a moment, I had better tell my brother-in-law that I am come to the right place.’
Emma returned to the street and said to Dr Harding, ‘It is indeed my aunt O’Brien, sir – I have not seen her yet, but the servant tells me that she is in very poor case, so I cannot be sufficiently grateful to you for having brought me to her. I must certainly remain here and tend her. I thank you again, and I shall be obliged if you will convey this news to my sisters Penelope and Elizabeth. And Sam, when you see him.’
‘That I will,’ said he. ‘And – see here – if the poor woman’s in straits, you may find yourself in want of the ready.’ He had been struggling in his breeches pocket, and now put a folded banknote into her hand. He looked a trifle shamefaced, as if he knew he ought to be of more active help, but simply lacked the will, or perhaps the energy. Margaret looked merely eager to get away from what might be a potentially awkward situation. So Emma made no demur about accepting the note. She said, ‘Thank you, sir, you are very kind. I will write and let you know how I go on. Thank you again – goodbye, goodbye!’
Retrieving her bundle, she fled up the narrow stair. Here at the top she was faced by two doors. One room, a small cramped parlour, looked out on to the street; the maid beckoned her into the other, a dark and equally cramped bedroom which contained little beyond a narrow bed, a table, and a chair.
‘Aunt Maria?’ breathed Emma.
On the bed, resting against pillows, lay an emaciated figure.
‘Aunt Maria? Is that you?’
The figure opened its eyes.
And then a cry of such pain and rapture broke the silence that Emma was obliged to clench her hands and strain her eyes to prevent the tears spurting out.
‘Emma! My little Emma! Is it really true? Can it be so?’
‘Oh – Aunt Maria!’
Emma hardly dared touch her aunt, so worn, so frail, so spectre-thin with suffering was she; a gentle kiss on the cheek and butterfly contact with the skeletal fingers must suffice; and, for the same reason, it seemed wrong to try her strength by any questioning as to what had brought her to this pass.
‘I am so happy to find you,’ said Emma. ‘But I must not tire you by too much talk. Would you drink a little wine, if I brought it? Or some beef tea?’
A couple of tears ran down Mrs O’Brien’s cheeks.
‘Beef tea!’ she whispered. ‘Oh, yes! Brigit is a good, good girl – only she does not know – none of the Irish do – how to make beef tea.’
Emma went into the other room, where she wrote down a list of purchases and gave some money to Brigit. ‘And can you find a doctor?’
‘Yes, miss, I’ll be glad to. Missus would not allow it, for she was feared she’d not enough for the fee – but ’tis plain she needs one, desprit bad.’
‘What is wrong with her, do you know?’
‘’Twas the rheumatic fever, miss, she picked up in Knocka. And then in Dublin it grew worse. And then – the master—’
‘Well, tell me all that when you come back. And bring the things. But first, a doctor. I daresay the people in the apothecary’s shop downstairs will tell you where to find one.’
When the doctor came, he confirmed the diagnosis of rheumatic fever and prescribed salicylate of sodium, with iodide of potassium, given every three hours; also port wine, beef tea, and beaten eggs. Since there was much risk of the heart being affected, he recommended the services of a professional nurse to help Emma look after the poor lady, and said that he would send one.
Now began a queer, quiet, and at first a terribly anxious time for Emma. For at least a week it remained uncertain whether the patient would live or die. Emma found herself a room close by, and shared the care of her aunt equally with Brigit, the servant-girl, and Nurse Fletcher, a kindly, sensible woman provided by the doctor.
Fortunately Emma was well supplied with money: the folded note proffered by Dr Harding proved to be a bill for fifty pounds, and without it she hardly knew how they would have managed, for poor Mrs O’Brien was found to be completely at the end of her resources. Her passage from Ireland to England, and by coach as far as Epsom, had taken the last of what she had.
Little by little Emma received the story, partly from Brigit, partly from Aunt Maria, as she began to improve in strength.
‘Never marry a gambler, my love! They are the worst of all. Indeed it is worse than a vice – it is an addiction, like some terrible drug. And, I must say, poor Captain O’Brien had shocking luck – unbelievable! He had only to put money on a horse for it to break its legs. Time after time I have said to him, “My love, what you should do is to pick a horse and then not bet on it – that way it is sure to win.” But – he would never heed what I said. He always thought he knew best.’
Listening over a period of several weeks to her aunt’s narrative, Emma came, in the end, to the surprised conclusion that, though he had used her without the least consideration, and frittered away her entire fortune, Aunt Maria did not feel the least rancour against Captain O’Brien; in fact she still loved him.
‘Ah, he was such a charmer! Such a dear man,’ she sighed. ‘And he meant well, always, God rest him. There was no harm in him, not a whit. Only the dreadful propensity for gambling. “Th
is time,” he’d say, “this time I’ll make your fortune, Maria.” Only he never did, bless his heart.’
‘What has become of him?’ Emma finally dared to ask.
‘Ah, he put a bullet through his head, the poor fellow. “Maria,” he said to me, “I’m no good to ye at all, at all,” and then he did it.’
Evidently through habitude, Mrs O’Brien had acquired a touch of her husband’s brogue.
‘And I felt so dreadfully low about him, poor man, and in myself, that I was sure I was bound to die also. But I’d a very strong wish to die in my own land, not in Ireland, which, I must say, my love, though it has some kindly people in it, is the most untidy, neglected, forlorn little island it has ever been my misfortune to visit.’
‘But why did you choose Epsom?’ asked Emma, when her aunt was a little stronger.
‘Ah, you’ll think it a foolish, fond reason, my love, but Captain O’Brien always had a very strong wish to visit Epsom; because of the Derby race, you know; so, thinks I, I’ll just leave my bones where he would have liked to come one day.’
‘But why did you not send a message to me?’
‘Ah, no! I could not be putting such a weight upon you, poor child! And you set up in such comfort, snug among your brothers and sisters.’
Emma had not yet chosen to enlighten her aunt as to the complete lack of comfort and snug family feeling among the said brothers and sisters. Hitherto, the only one to show sympathy and offer practical advice or help had been Sam. Emma had written notes to Robert, Penelope, and Elizabeth, but had no answers. Sam, though, rode over from Guildford, discussed Aunt Maria’s case with Henfold, the doctor, ratified his treatment, and cheered the patient with friendly conversation. He also supplied Emma with a little money.
‘I wish I could do more, Emma,’ he said, ‘but I have sunk most of my legacy in Thickstaffe’s canal scheme. He says, and I hope he’s right, that my money will be trebled in a year. I daresay Harding will help you, however, if you need more. He is a kindly fellow and feels a trifle guilty that he did not do more. I would not place any dependence on Robert; Jane has him too tightly by the purse-strings. But perhaps he can do something in the legal way – bring a suit against Captain O’Brien’s family about all the money he had off her.’
‘I would not place any dependence on that,’ said Emma.
Sam looked thin, and tired, and anxious; she sighed over him as he rode away. No announcement had yet been made as to the engagement of Miss Edwards and Lord Osborne, but it was spoken about and expected daily.
From her sisters at Clissocks Emma finally received answers that disappointed, but did not surprise. Penelope was adamant in her refusal to do anything at all for Aunt O’Brien.
‘She never raised a finger for me. You were the one she chose to adopt, and if you choose to succour her now, that is entirely your affair. And Dr Harding says he has done what he can – more than she deserves, I daresay, if the truth be known. So she must just manage as best she can from now on.’
Elizabeth wrote regretting that she had only the hundred pounds from her father’s legacy and felt she must preserve that against future contingencies. So she has turned Tom down, thought Emma. ‘But as soon as I can I will bring over some Preserves and some Cowslip Wine made last year at Stanton, and some Cloths,’ she wrote.
Robert sent Emma a great scold. ‘I will not particularize as to your monstrous behaviour against your kind sister Jane,’ he wrote, ‘though that is shocking enough in all conscience. But to be setting up, in lodgings, with your disgraced Aunt in this indigent way must cast a slur on the whole family and lower us most dreadfully in public esteem. How could you stoop to live over an apothecary’s shop (for such, I am told, is your situation)? It is enough to blacken the name of Watson. And offering music lessons on a card in a baker’s window! I am wholly disgusted at you, Emma, and fear that I am now obliged to cut the connection completely. Yrs etc.’
‘Well, he does sound a proud, stiff-rumped fellow,’ sighed Aunt Maria, when, in the end, Emma could find no way to avoid telling her about this response to her application for help. ‘I must say I cannot feel that his friendship is any loss. But how fortunate it is, dear Emma, that you are having such success with your piano lessons. And now the harp too, you tell me?’
For the card in the baker’s shop window had rapidly attracted a number of inquiries as to lessons; it seemed that young ladies in Epsom were crying out for instruction on the harp and piano. Emma, to her own surprise, had been able to hire a piano and was now provided with a small, but steady and growing income, so that a large portion of Dr Harding’s fifty pounds was still unspent, and this despite the fact that Aunt Maria was now recovered enough to be able to go into the warm bath three times a week, with most beneficial effects on her swelled and aching joints.
One day Emma had been surprised and pleased to receive a call from Miss Osborne, who, shy and blushing, asked if she might contribute to the hire of the harp.
‘Mamma does not know that I am come here,’ she confessed, ‘And I am not sure that she would quite approve! But I think you are such a hero, Miss Emma! And so does Mr Howard, I am sure.’
Emma found, to her own satisfaction, that she was now able to inquire after Mr Howard’s health without the acceleration of heartbeat that would once have accompanied such a question.
‘Well – we have not seen very much of him lately. Mamma’s cousin has come home from Antigua – Lord Rufus Bungay, you know – and he is a great original and very entertaining, and has brought so many curiosities back with him that Mamma’s attention has been quite occupied. Mamma had lost money over the abolition of the slave trade,’ Miss Osborne added naïvely, ‘so she is glad to ask Cousin Rufus for advice on such topics . . .’
By this time Mrs O’Brien was well enough to sit up in the parlour for some portion of each day, and she was interested in meeting Miss Osborne.
‘I was used to know your father, my dear, many years ago, when I was a vain sportive young girl at the Dorking Assemblies, and he was a handsome young lord, quite the beau of the ballrooms – oh, and with such a reputation! Tell me, when did he die?’
‘Oh, fifteen years back, ma’am, I can scarcely remember him.’
‘And your brother, does he resemble his father?’
‘I think he is quite like Papa in appearance, judging from Papa’s portraits,’ said Miss Osborne hesitantly, ‘but not so much in his nature. My brother is shy and retiring in his manners.’
‘And is Lord Osborne really going to marry Miss Mary Edwards? Is it announced yet?’ inquired Emma, thinking of her poor brother Sam.
Mrs O’Brien gave a great start, and dropped the glass of port wine which she had been about to convey to her lips.
‘Oh, mercy! How shockingly clumsy of me. I am still rather weak, I fear. But what a spillage I have caused. I am so very sorry—’
‘Pray don’t regard it, dear aunt; I will have it all tidied up in a trice—’
Miss Osborne rose to leave, with apologies and fears that she had overtired the invalid. When she was gone, ‘My dear!’ said Mrs O’Brien, ‘a marriage between young Lord Osborne and Mary Edwards certainly must not take place. Why, they are brother and sister!’
‘What? No, no, I cannot believe that!’
‘True, nonetheless. Clara, Mary’s mother, was my great, great friend, in those far-off days when we were young. She was the sister of the Mr Edwards that you know. And Osborne was her lover. Oh, he was a wild young sprig in those days! Of course, when the child was born it was all passed off-hushed up – and she went out of the country, and then she died, poor dear, and the Edwardses, most benevolently, took and brought the child up as their own. But who would have thought it would come to this? Such a marriage must not be, it certainly must never be. I had best write a letter to Henry Edwards, he would die of horror if he knew the risk they run – I suppose poor Clara never tol
d him – I was her only confidante
‘Great heavens,’ murmured Emma, half to herself. ‘Now I come to think of it, there is quite a strong resemblance between Lord Osborne and Mary Edwards – they both have the same fair colouring and fresh complexions and blue eyes . . .’
Mrs O’Brien called for pen and paper and set to work on the composition of her extremely difficult letter. Meanwhile Emma was thinking, what a strange, what a shocking revelation! How differently people must have behaved then from the way they do now, when all is so orderly, so smooth, so proper, so well-regulated. But, my dear brother Sam, this piece of news does seem to improve your prospects immensely!
So soon as Mrs O’Brien found herself able to move unassisted, and walk about, and then venture on her own two feet into the street, Emma suggested that they should find more comfortable lodgings, and a pleasant set of rooms was discovered over a bakery in Burgh Heath Road. Here Emma could have her own parlour, with piano and harp, for music lessons, while Mrs O’Brien need not be disturbed.
‘Though indeed, to hear you play the piano, Emma dear,’ she said, ‘takes me most happily back to old times.’
Now that Mrs O’Brien was on the road to recovery, she and her niece were re-establishing, with the greatest delight and amity, that excellent relationship which had been the basis of their comfort all through Emma’s childhood. The only impediment to complete happiness was the aunt’s remorse and regret over the loss of her fortune, so pitifully squandered.
‘If only I could contribute something to the household,’ she sighed, over and over.
‘I beg you, Aunt Maria, do not be troubling your head over such a minor matter. Think of all the love and care you spent on me, and the expensive musical education which is now bearing useful fruit.’
They moved into the superior lodgings and found that more friends came to call – old friends, some of these, acquaintances from long ago in Mrs O’Brien’s girlhood, the Hunters, the Nortons, the Frenshams, the Deverells.