by Joan Aiken
‘Well, that is excellent news,’ said Mrs O’Brien, greatly relieved. ‘Henry Edwards sounds like a sensible man. I think, Emma, that we might feel entitled to nourish a small grain of hope for our dear Sam – why child, what is it?’
For Emma was staring at her aunt, quite pale with shock, an open letter in her shaking hand.
‘It is from a gentleman – the Reverend James Clarke – he writes from Carlton House – he is the Librarian to the Prince of Wales—’
‘Dear me!’ Mrs O’Brien dropped Mr Edwards’s letter in her amazement. ‘The Prince’s Librarian? What can he have to say?’
‘He writes to inform me of the very considerable interest and moral edification which his royal master has derived from his perusal of my father’s sermons; and to express the hope that another collection of them is in preparation. And he tells me, if another such volume is in preparation, that I may feel free to dedicate it to His Royal Highness.’
‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed Mrs O’Brien, picking up Mr Edwards’s letter again and fanning herself with it. ‘My goodness gracious me!’
Chapter 13
The following day brought Sam, brilliant with joy. A message had taken him, post-haste, to the Edwards house in Dorking where he had been informed that, owing to new discoveries which had been made as to Miss Edwards’s origins, he was now free to press his suit, even invited to do so. And an interview with Mary herself had crowned his happiness. He was the accepted suitor, recognized, permitted, and encouraged.
‘I am the happiest man in Surrey,’ he told his sister and aunt. ‘And, do you know what? Mary has suggested – oh, she is an angel, no other word will describe her, she is just no more and no less than an angel—’
‘Marriage to an angel will be quite a responsibility,’ murmured Aunt Maria.
‘No, but her huge fortune will be no impediment to our happiness – neither of us will allow it to be so. And she has suggested that we buy Clissocks from Dr Harding – since he, poor man, is obliged to sell up to meet his obligations – and then we can offer a home to any members of my family – such as yourselves – do you not think that an admirable scheme?’
‘It might not be so easy for me to find music pupils, out there on the hillside,’ pointed out Emma.
‘My dearest sister, you would not be required to give music lessons! All that toil could be a thing of the past.’
‘But I enjoy giving music lessons – on the whole,’ said Emma. She marshalled her thoughts. ‘And I am very sure that wealth will not make you give up your surgical practice? Living at home, for a woman – for anybody – is too quiet; too confined; at home there is no company but one’s feelings, and they prey upon one. My music lessons are a means, for me, of keeping open a window to the world. Sometimes the lessons are arduous, troublesome; the prospect through the window is not a pleasant one; but it is a prospect, and I am enlarged by it. I learn some new thing.’
‘Well, well,’ said Sam. ‘We will not quarrel. But the offer is there. You may alter your views. (I find them a little priggish.) Keep the suggestion and think it over.’
‘We will, and with gratitude. Have you seen or heard from Mr Howard lately?’ Emma asked with seeming irrelevance.
‘No, I have not,’ replied Sam. ‘Poor fellow, I suppose his hopes are quite cut up, just when mine are opening out. He has lost his chance with Lady Osborne. I understand she is to marry her cousin in two weeks’ time. Lord Rufus made a great fortune in sugar, it is told. Her son, Lord Osborne, will give her away . . . Perhaps Mr Howard will marry Miss Osborne. That would be a far more suitable match than for him to be marrying her mother. They are more of an age. I was used to think, Emma, that he had an eye for you, but perhaps I was mistaken. He is a queer man to fathom.’
Emma was silent. She longed for news of Captain Fremantle’s ship the Laconia, but there seemed no one to whom she could apply.
Sam rose to go and Emma, as was her habit, accompanied him down to the street and warmly kissed him goodbye. ‘I am so very happy for you, dearest Sam. Mary Edwards is a kind, good girl, and you thoroughly deserve your good fortune. I believe you will be very happy together.’
Tears stood in her eyes as she made this prophecy; Sam saw them and was touched.
‘Dear little Emma! And I hope that you, too, will some day find equal happiness.’
Tom Musgrave alighted from his horse, bowed cheerfully to Emma, and having entrusted the animal to a lad, prepared to climb the stairs. Sam looked after him with decided disapproval.
‘That fellow again! I cannot understand why you permit him to call here so often.’
‘Aunt Maria is advising him about the care of his horses. She tells me that is one solid benefit from her time spent in Ireland – she has become a mine of useful information about horse-training. And Tom’s pair are to run, you know, at Epsom summer race meeting next month.’
‘Pshaw!’ said Sam. ‘You would think our aunt O’Brien had had enough of horses to give her a dislike of the whole equine kingdom. But listen, Emma: how would it be if I drove you and Aunt Maria out to Clissocks, one of these days? I wish to look at the house and discuss a purchase price with Dr Harding. And Aunt Maria has never been there – she would enjoy that, would she not? I could hire an equipage.’
‘Oh, Sam, yes! That would be a most delightful treat! We would both enjoy it of all things. And I daresay Penelope and Elizabeth, when they actually see our faces, may not be too standoffish.’
Sam nodded and rode off. Emma turned withindoors again and climbed the stairs; as she did so, she heard her aunt Maria’s voice:
‘A little good ale, or wine, Tom, never comes amiss for a valuable horse; gutta-percha should always be used for tender hoofs; soften with hot water, then mix with sal-ammoniac; of course, if you want to stop the feet, it should be done with a mix of clay and cow-dung, and you can add moss or tow; for cracked hoofs, equal parts of soap and tar; but I trust, Tom, that none of your string have cracked hoofs? Friar’s Balsam is sovereign for any wounds. And my dear husband Captain O’Brien always used a mixture of his own invention: olive oil, spirits of turpentine, tincture of camphor, tincture of opium, and the yolk of a fresh egg. But the egg must be really fresh.’
‘I will mix that up, Aunt Maria, and I thank you—’ somehow Tom Musgrave had fallen into the habit of addressing Mrs O’Brien in this manner – ‘none of my string have wounds, I am glad to say, just at this present, but they are for ever scraping themselves on briars or cutting themselves on hedgerow stakes; a mixture like that will be invaluable. But, what I really wish to know, is about my pair in training – Lost Hope and Forlorn Hope – I don’t wish to train ’em too fine—’
‘No, indeed, Tom!’ said Aunt Maria emphatically. ‘Captain O’Brien used to slack off training a little when it came towards the day of the race – he said that would make the horses keen – of course it must be remembered that his example is of doubtful efficacy, since none of his horses ever did win . . .’
‘But perhaps,’ said Emma, entering the room with her aunt’s egg-nog, ‘none of his horses were really first-class?’
‘That is probably true,’ agreed her aunt, sighing. ‘Poor Patrick was a shocking bad judge of horse-flesh. Now, Tom, as I was telling you—’
‘Aunt Maria,’ said Emma, ‘Sam offers to take us out to Clissocks one of these fine mornings.’
‘Oh yes!’ cried her aunt with enthusiasm. ‘I would like that above everything!’
Tom’s face lit up. ‘Would you have any objections,’ he asked with diffidence, ‘if I were to accompany you? It is so hard for me to gain a glimpse of Miss Elizabeth – Mrs Harding and the doctor are not very welcoming . . .’
‘And Elizabeth herself?’
He sighed.
‘I cannot say that she has given me any cause to hope. But hope is immortal, I think!’
He smiled a little. Emma was su
ddenly visited by a memory of the time when he had come to call, slightly drunk, at Stanton Parsonage, with his friend Lord Osborne. How very greatly altered he is, she thought, since those days!
‘Yes, of course you may come with us, Tom,’ she said gently, thinking, Sam will not be pleased, but Sam must be persuaded.
***
The day chosen for their visit to Clissocks was a warm, grey afternoon in late May. The bluebells lining the steep hillside under the beech trees seemed positively to glow with luminous colour, and the leaves shone a more brilliant green because of the lack of light from the sky. Sam drove a curricle he had hired for the occasion, and Tom Musgrave rode alongside.
Sam, as Emma had feared, was not best pleased to be thus accompanied, but had accepted the situation after some strong pleading from Emma.
‘Dear Sam! Being so happy yourself, you should not raise impediments in the way of those seeking similar happiness.’
‘Well I do not think Musgrave will find it with our sister Elizabeth,’ he said. ‘She has more sense than to be taking on such a flibbertigibbet.’
When they made the turn around the hill that brought Clissocks within sight, Emma found herself a little dismayed. She had expected that, by now, some months after the Hardings moved in, the house would present a settled, occupied appearance, despite the reverses that had since overtaken the owners.
But, somehow, this was not the case. Untidy piles of building materials were still to be seen. And, as they drew near, and passed the entrances to gardens, there were signs of incomplete projects and half-finished activities on every hand.
Aunt Maria sighed and shook her head.
‘Poor Penelope,’ she said. ‘As a child she was incapable of ever fully carrying out any undertaking. Never satisfied, never in full control, plans always in a muddle. And I see she has not changed.’
‘Well, events here were against her,’ Emma pointed out. ‘It must have been very hard to run out of cash just when she had so many fine schemes planned. I do pity her very much.’
‘But what a beautiful place, despite the confusion! A home for the Sleeping Beauty, with those beech hangers above, and the river below. I hope that Sam succeeds in his offer to buy it from the Hardings; it would be a shocking pity if it passed out of the family. And I daresay Mary Edwards would look after it very well. I should like to see my great-nephews and -nieces frolicking about these woods and falling into the river.’
Emma thought of little Charles Blake’s untimely end, and was silent. She did not wish to spoil a pleasant occasion with melancholy allusions. And, from poor Tom Musgrave’s thoughts, she felt very certain, the tragedy was never absent for long.
They drew to a halt in the big yard, and Penelope came out to greet them, looking vexed, although both Emma and Sam had taken pains to apprise her of the time and duration of their visit.
‘So very inconvenient!’ she said, almost before they had alighted from the carriage. ‘Purvis has chosen this time to come a-calling, without any previous intimation of his intention – and I with all the packing to plan and organize, it is really too bad to be deprived of Elizabeth’s aid, just at this juncture—’
‘Packing?’ cried Emma. ‘You are about to move, then?’
‘Why yes, it is all decided, we – that is, I – have found a little house in Dorking. It is small, but smart, and very convenient for the shops and circulating libraries. And perfectly stylish – we shall be able to maintain a sufficiently elegant manner of living there at comparatively low expense—’
Penelope was running on in her usual manner without much regard for her interlocutors, but here Emma gently interrupted:
‘Penelope, here is my aunt O’Brien. I think it is many years since you two last met—’
‘Oh, yes, very true – how are you, Aunt, are you quite recovered? Will you walk in and take some refreshment? Unfortunately Elizabeth usually sees to those matters and I do not know where she has wandered off to – It is exceedingly tiresome of her . . .’
Now Dr Harding came out of doors and with more true hostly politeness greeted Mrs O’Brien and made her welcome. Emma was sorry to observe, though, how greatly changed he was even in the few short months since she had seen him last, how stooped and aged, how slowed down in all his movements. She feared that the defection of Thickstaffe, of whom he had seemed extremely fond, had proved a severe blow to him, even worse, perhaps, than the loss of his fortune. But he greeted Emma, who had always been a favourite, very kindly, had cordial, brotherly words for Sam, and was perfectly civil to Tom Musgrave, at whom, however, he shook his head.
‘Nay, young fellow, ’tis of no use at all your coming a-wooing round here; I greatly fear your hopes are dished, once and for all—’
‘Nay, sir, what can you mean?’ cried Tom, greatly discomposed.
‘Why, I fancy Purvis has already popped the question – yes, look, there they come, shining like the rainbow—’ and the kind-hearted old gentleman beamed with unaffected pleasure. ‘Ay, ay, my sister Elizabeth is an excellent good creature, and she deserves the very best – that she surely does!’
In fact Elizabeth and Purvis had strolled round the corner of the garden wall, hand in hand, so immersed in conversation that at first they did not notice the company ahead of them. But when they did so, their faces broke into identical smiles of complete and beatific delight. There was no need for words to be spoken; their situation was plain for all to see.
Mrs O’Brien whispered to Emma, ‘But what was all that nonsense you were telling me, Emma, about your sister thinking herself so very plain? Why, she is beautiful!’
Penelope said angrily, ‘There you are, Eliza, at last. Well, well, let us all go in and have some refreshment. I do not know, I am sure, why we are all standing about here in the yard!’
But poor Tom Musgrave, with an inarticulate exclamation of despair, strode away, flung himself on to his horse, and kicked it into a gallop. Its hoofs could be heard, clattering off down the drive, after he was out of sight.
‘Ah, the poor young sprig,’ sighed Mrs O’Brien sympathetically. ‘Let us hope he don’t take some foolish, precipitate action while his mind is afflicted.’
‘Oh, I cannot see why we should trouble our heads about Tom Musgrave,’ cried Penelope. ‘He has made his bed, he must lie on it.’
But the thoughtful, benevolent face of Purvis showed deep concern, and he said to Elizabeth, ‘My love, do you think I should go after him? And try to offer some consolation? Or do you think that would be an impertinence?’
‘Yes, go,’ she said, adding softly, ‘After all, you and I have all the rest of our lives before us . . .’
The rest of the party walked indoors, and Sam drew apart with Dr Harding for a discussion about the sale of the house. The four ladies, meanwhile, sat drinking thimble-sized glasses of ratafia, while Penelope discoursed on the advantage of the new small house in Dorking and the terrible inconveniences and dampnesses of Clissocks. ‘A house like a tomb! I cannot think why Dr Harding ever insisted on settling here. So like a man! But there was no dissuading him – he would come here! I am sure I wish Sam and Mary joy of the dismal place.’
Emma told Penelope and Elizabeth about the signal honour offered posthumously to their father by the Prince of Wales. Elizabeth was struck with pleasure at the news, but Penelope simply stared.
‘How very strange! What use is that to our father, now that he is dead? It would have been more to the purpose to give him some honour, or a pension, while he was still alive. I have no patience with such futile, superfluous gestures.’
On the walk back to the curricle, Elizabeth contrived to fall behind with Emma, who congratulated her on her well-deserved happiness with unaffected joy.
‘Oh, Emma, it is so wonderful! I could not ever have believed that I could feel as I do. Even if the bliss were to cease now – this instant – it would have been worth
while, even if I lived to the age of a hundred and never felt the like again!’
Emma laughed at her. ‘I hope you do live to the age of a hundred, my dear sister, and feel it all the time. As you have a perfect right to do!’
‘Dear Emma, I was so unkind to you. I am so very sorry for it now. I felt, just then, as if all the source of joy in the world was gone for ever.’ Elizabeth caught Emma’s hand. ‘Pray forgive me! Oh Emma, I hope that some day you will come to feel as I do now! Perhaps with Mr Howard—?’
But Emma shook her head.
‘No, no, if I were married to Mr Howard I might well live to the age of a hundred and never feel as you do now. I must wait for my chance and hope for the best.’
Chapter 14
Aunt Maria felt it was hard that, while two members of the Watson family, Sam and Elizabeth, should be enjoying radiant prospects and unalloyed happiness, Emma, her own protegee, should be obliged to work so hard and have no beckoning future to encourage her, but merely more hard work and the animosity of Lady Osborne.
Mrs O’Brien decided to take counsel with Tom Musgrave, thereby, she hoped, killing two birds with one stone. Accordingly she wrote him a letter. (Tom Musgrave, his friends were relieved to learn, had not blown his brains out in despair at the loss of Elizabeth Watson, but was entirely occupied, and concentrating all his powers, on the training of the two horses that were entered for the Epsom races.)
The letter brought Tom to visit Mrs O’Brien at a time when Emma was busy with a pupil.
‘It is not right, it is not just, not at all, ‘ declared Aunt Maria, ‘that my poor girl should be growing so thin and pale and down-pin while the rest of the family are as happy as hummingbirds. (Apart from Miss Margaret, that is, we don’t know whether she is happy or not with that Thick man.) But why can’t you make an offer for Emma, Tom, dear boy? Indeed, she’s as good a little creature as ever stepped.’