George thought nothing of age gaps. He might be older than Isabella, but he was nonetheless amused by her. He compared her with some of the girls he had met at university: in a few years she would be exactly like them, he thought – a county girl itching to find the right husband from the ranks of those young men who would make up her social circle. It was a harmless enough fate, even if a rather predictable one.
He was not so sure about Emma. She was a good dozen years younger than he was, and so when he returned to Donwell at the age of twenty-one she was only nine – a mere child. Over the years that followed, though, he saw the uncoordinated adolescent grow into a self-assured and rather beautiful young woman. He often saw her when he went to visit Mr Woodhouse, but it seemed to him that he was largely invisible to her. That, of course, was because he was a friend of her father and therefore of no interest to her other than as a vaguely avuncular figure. In spite of her indifference to him, he found himself appreciating her rather intriguing manner, her frequently unexpected, not to say mischievous observations, and her independent, insouciant manner. Emma, he thought, was growing up interesting.
Now Mr Woodhouse remembered what it was that George Knightley had said to him. He had told him that his brother had become something of a success as a photographer and had actually won a national competition a year or two earlier. ‘John has a bit of an eye,’ he said. ‘He always has had one. Odd, really, given that I can’t take a snap myself.’
Mr Woodhouse had not paid much attention at the time, but now it came back to him and he thought that the simple solution to his quest would be to invite John Knightley to take the picture.
He asked George for his brother’s number in London. Then, when he made the call, the telephone was answered after only one or two rings – always a good sign, thought Mr Woodhouse – and John Knightley came on the line.
‘We haven’t seen one another for some time,’ said Mr Woodhouse, trying to remember when it was that he had last seen John and wondering whether he still had an unhealthy complexion and rather lank hair.
‘Ages,’ said John. ‘Yonks.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘I see your brother quite a bit, of course. He often comes round here.’
‘He hasn’t got much to do,’ said John.
Mr Woodhouse sounded peeved. ‘He keeps busy enough, I’d say. He runs the farm rather well.’
‘With a manager, yes,’ said John, and then added, ‘Good old George.’
Mr Woodhouse ignored this remark. ‘You still taking photographs, John?’
‘Yes, Mr Woodhouse. That’s my job. I’m a fashion photographer in London. Vogue. Vanity Fair. Tatler. That’s me.’ He paused. ‘You won’t have seen my work, of course.’
Mr Woodhouse cleared his throat. This was a very irritating young man – very different from his equable and well-mannered brother. ‘I need a photograph of my daughter.’
‘Which one? The tall sexy one?’
Again Mr Woodhouse bit his tongue. ‘Isabella. She’s seventeen.’
‘Great age,’ said John. ‘You want me to do it?’
‘Yes. Can you?’
‘Do dogs bark?’ replied John. ‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’
Mr Woodhouse frowned. ‘What?’
‘The answer’s yes. Happy to oblige, old son.’
The tone now became formal. Mr Woodhouse would expect John the following Saturday for the taking of a couple of portrait shots in the house and gardens. This was agreed and the conversation came to an end.
Mr Woodhouse sat and reflected. It was all most unsettling: John came from a good county family, and had he not gone off to London might well have ended up helping his brother run their small estate. He had had a perfectly good education, too; like his brother George he had gone to Marlborough, yet here he was using the language of a cockney barrow boy – if barrow boys still existed – and if cockneys still existed too. Old son! Is the Pope a Catholic? What had the Pope got to do with it? Mr Woodhouse asked himself. And of course dogs barked; did they not understand that in London?
Isabella required no persuasion to have her photograph taken. ‘In a mag?’ she shrieked. ‘He’ll put me in one of his actual mags? Are you serious?’
Mr Woodhouse realised that they were probably thinking of different magazines. He knew that Isabella liked to read glossy magazines full of ephemeral news about celebrities and their doings; he had come across these magazines left lying about the house and occasionally sneaked a look at their contents. They were absurd, of course, and the people they featured were without any interest at all – highly made-up, unhealthy-looking specimens who appeared to have no other purpose in life than to evade the paparazzi who pursued them. But occasionally the very same hounded celebrities opened their doors to admit the photographers to their homes, and the resultant features, plastered with high-definition pictures of white sofas and opulent swimming pools, gave an indication of just how little taste these people had. And yet there was a certain fascination in seeing them in their natural habitat and he had occasionally had to drop a magazine hurriedly and guiltily as a daughter came into the room. ‘Tidying,’ he would say quickly. ‘Why do you girls insist on leaving all these ridiculous magazines about the place?’
Isabella was rarely fooled. ‘What do you think of that photo of her?’ she might ask. ‘Can you believe that he actually bit her? Did you see the love-bite – it’s on her left shoulder – you can just make it out?’
‘Most unhygienic,’ he muttered. ‘A human bite can be a very toxic thing. There are numerous germs on people’s teeth.’
‘Not celebs,’ retorted Isabella. ‘A bite from a celeb is different.’
Now he was faced with something of a moral dilemma. Should he tell Isabella that the destination for her photograph was not to be some glossy gossip magazine, but Country Life, where photographs of humans are often outnumbered by photographs of horses and dogs, or sometimes of old houses?
He decided to be honest – or at least a bit honest. ‘It won’t be one of your glossy mags,’ he said. ‘It’s another magazine altogether. A bit more sedate, but still.’
He need not have worried. ‘I don’t care where it goes,’ she said. ‘It’s enough to have your photo in anything. Think what they’ll say when they see it at school. They’re all still sitting in the classroom and I’m posing! That’s seriously cool.’
‘I’m glad that you’re pleased,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘The photographer will be coming tomorrow. He’s George Knightley’s brother. You’ll remember him. He went off to London for some reason best known to himself.’
Isabella looked thoughtful. She did remember John Knightley. She remembered thinking that he was rather good-looking and had long hair when everybody else around him seemed to have his hair cut short. And he had gone to London, she thought. A London photographer is coming to do a shoot with me. With me.
While most people drove sedately up the drive that led through the parkland to Hartfield, enjoying the trees and the view of the shrubbery in the distance, John Knightley arrived at speed on a 1982 Ducati motorcycle, a throaty roar announcing him well before anybody saw the handsome Italian bike and its equally handsome rider. Mr Woodhouse went out to meet him and shook hands with the leather-clad brother of his neighbour.
‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ said John. ‘There was a pile-up on the motorway and I had to stop and get a few shots of it. Not my usual stuff, of course, but in my business you’re always looking for things you can sell to the red tops. They love a bit of gore, those editors.’
Mr Woodhouse struggled to keep his composure. ‘An accident? You took photos of an accident?’
John took off his helmet. ‘Yup. I don’t go in for anything too gory – not like some. There’s a chap I know in London who does the really bad scenes – you know, hands and stuff lying about. Not for me.’
‘I should hope not,’ said Mr Woodhouse.
‘You’re looking at respectability,’ said John, smiling. ‘You’re looking at the upper echelon
s of the profession.’
Mr Woodhouse availed himself of the invitation to examine John Knightley. He was a very striking-looking young man – tall, as he had remembered him, but with a bit more weight than he recalled him having. The face, though, was by no means chubby, but had a sparse, sculpted look to it, and the head was topped by a mane of flowing dark hair. John Knightley, he decided, looked rather like a lion; an absurd idea, he told himself, and then went on to think: Long hair requires frequent washing if it is not to become a sanctuary for microbial life. His gaze descended to the leather jacket and tight-fitting trousers and then to the boots with metal attachments on the heel – spurs? he wondered; surely not. How quickly, he thought, could one effect a transition from one world to another; from the world of George Knightley, with his faultless taste, his life of understatement and simple English decency, to this world of leather jackets and … He had noticed the tattoo; he had missed it at first because it was so discreet, but now, as the sleeve of the leather jacket inched up following a movement of John’s arm, he saw the small picture of an angel, or what looked like an angel, on his visitor’s wrist and underneath it a few tiny words, illegible at that distance. He caught his breath; the social descent seemed to him to be complete, and terrible. Tattoos were unacceptable; they just were. People could argue as much as they liked that conventions had changed and a tattoo now meant nothing; that they said nothing about you; but tattoos, in Mr Woodhouse’s mind, constituted a line in the sand that one simply did not cross. John Knightley had stepped across that line.
‘I think Isabella’s in the morning room,’ Mr Woodhouse said. ‘Would you care to come with me? We’ll see her there.’
John nodded. ‘I remember this place. We came here to a party once – my brother and I – when we were kids. He was sick in the conservatory, as I remember, and I tried to clear it up before anybody noticed.’
‘You’re a loyal brother,’ said Mr Woodhouse.
‘Poor George.’
‘It sounds as if you feel sorry for him,’ said Mr Woodhouse.
‘Yes, I do. Being stuck out here in that great barn of a house and the tedium … My God, how does he manage it: having to put up with the same old people year in, year out?’
Such as me, thought Mr Woodhouse.
‘Mind you,’ said John. ‘I can’t picture him in London, can you?’
Mr Woodhouse felt that he must defend his friend. ‘I can’t see myself in London either,’ he said.
John threw him a sideways glance. ‘No, possibly not.’
They reached the morning room, a large rectangular room with French doors giving out on to a terrace beyond. It was a favourite room of the girls, and Isabella was waiting, nonchalantly pretending to read a magazine.
For all his preoccupations Mr Woodhouse was not an unobservant man, and he noticed immediately the spark of response in Isabella’s expression. As he did so, his spirits sank; it had been a mistake to invite John Knightley to take Isabella’s photograph, and even as he made this admission to himself he came to the further realisation that the consequences of this introduction could be serious, and long-lasting.
‘I’ll start in here,’ said John. ‘I’ve got my gear in my backpack.’ He turned to Mr Woodhouse. ‘OK. Thanks a lot. I’ll see you before I go.’
It was clear to Mr Woodhouse that he was being dismissed, and it was equally clear to him that Isabella was anxious that he should not linger.
‘Can’t I help you in some way?’ he asked. ‘Hold a light, or something?’
John shook his head. ‘It’s easier if just two people are present at the shoot,’ he said, and then added, ‘Chemistry, you know. Energy flows. More intimate.’
Isabella smiled. ‘See you later, Pops.’
Mr Woodhouse resisted the temptation to lurk in a corridor or peer out of a window when the shoot moved outside. Burying himself in his library, he spent the next half-hour paging through an issue of Scientific American but retaining very little of what he was reading. He was convinced that John Knightley would take completely unsuitable photographs of Isabella, and that all that he would receive from Country Life would be a polite note about their inability to feature many young women who clearly would merit inclusion if only there were more room. The photographs would be gimmicky, he feared, with Isabella being draped seductively over the bonnet of a car or sprawled out wantonly on a pile of leaves; they would completely fail to embody the qualities of demure Englishness – mixed with an appealing and modest confidence – that could attract the right sort of husband.
He sighed, and laid Scientific American aside. It was important to have an understanding of particle physics – he had been reading about the Higgs boson – but the intellectual challenge of Scientific American was definitely secondary to a father’s duty to protect his daughter. Rising to his feet, he retraced his steps into the morning room. This was deserted; Isabella and John had presumably left for the formal garden and the outside shoot. But when he looked out of the window he saw that they were not there, and nor was there any sign of them in the shrubbery, of which the morning room had an equally commanding view.
The unease he had felt up to this point was now replaced by real concern. Leaving the morning room by a French window, he made his way quickly round the outside of the house, scanning neighbouring fields for any sign of the young people. There was none; the ripening barley, swaying in the breeze, showed no signs of intrusion; sheep grazed in a neighbouring paddock undisturbed by human presence; it was a landscape quite without figures. It was only when he turned the corner of the house and reached the broad turning circle at the head of the drive that he spotted them.
They were standing by the shining red Ducati. John Knightley, having packed away his photographic equipment, was now busy extracting a helmet from a large metal pannier behind the motorcycle’s seat. Mr Woodhouse breathed a sigh of relief at the realisation that the photographer would be leaving, but then he noticed that there were two helmets: the one being taken from the pannier and the one that John was already wearing, the unfastened strap dangling casually under his chin. He watched as the photographer handed the spare helmet to Isabella, who took it, and laughed as he showed her how to secure the strap.
He called out, and she looked up sharply.
‘Daddy,’ she shouted, as he approached. ‘Look at me. John’s going to take me for a ride on his Duc … Duc …’
‘Ducati,’ prompted John. ‘Just as far as Cambridge. We’ll be back by eight tonight.’
‘But …’ protested Mr Woodhouse. He felt a sudden tightening of his chest, a symptom, he knew, of extreme panic. It was now, he thought, that he should have a stroke; at such a time as this, when fear sent the blood through his veins under such pressure that somewhere, in some obscure corner of the brain’s plumbing, a tiny vessel might rupture and fell him just as surely as would a great blade. It was every bit as bad – worse indeed – as he had feared. ‘But you can’t, Isabella. These things …’ He gestured helplessly at the motorcycle; in his distress, words seemed to fail him. ‘These things … these things are Italian.’
She burst out laughing. ‘What? Italian?’
He corrected himself, ashamed because John was smirking. ‘Lethal. I meant to say: these things are lethal.’
He wanted to weep. He was convinced that as he watched her go down the drive it would be his last glimpse of his beloved daughter. He should do something to stop her: throw himself in front of the machine; or seize the key – if these things had keys – from John and run off with it, back to the house, ignoring his shouts. The most outrageous act on his part – even fetching his shotgun, his father’s old engraved Purdey – and pointing it at John would be justified in order to save Isabella from this dreadful folly.
‘It’s perfectly safe,’ said John. ‘I’m a pretty careful rider, Mr Woodhouse. Your daughter will be quite safe with me.’
‘See?’ said Isabella. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, Daddy.’
‘You mus
tn’t, my darling. Please, please, I beg of you: you mustn’t.’
He did not think she heard him, as the flaps at the side of the helmet had now been fixed in position. She mouthed the word Goodbye. If only she hadn’t done that, he thought. If only she hadn’t tempted Nemesis to oblige and make it a real and final goodbye.
In slow motion – or so it seemed to the agonised Mr Woodhouse – he watched Isabella mount the pillion seat. It was so prolonged, so deliberate – just as some article on human perception in Scientific American had explained it would be, because our minds register an event like that with heightened clarity, and that makes it seem to happen slowly.
‘Isabella!’ he called out. But his voice was drowned by the roar of the Ducati and the crunching sound of its wheels on the gravel, and she did not hear him. She waved, though, and waved again when they rode past him in a spray of tiny stones.
5
‘Dearly beloved,’ began the vicar. ‘We are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation …’ The echoing opening of the Wedding Service, couched in the Cranmerian prose of the Book of Common Prayer, could not but move every one of the one hundred guests attending the wedding of Isabella Woodhouse to John Knightley. Emma listened to each word, and was impressed by the sheer solemnity of what she heard: ‘… which is an honourable estate … and first miracle he wrought, in Cana of Galilee … and therefore is not by any to be enterprised, nor taken in hand, unadvisedly, lightly, or wantonly …’ The resonant language brought home to her the significance of the occasion. This was her Isabella, her sister, taking such an irrevocable and adult step, leaving the security of her childhood home and venturing out as a married woman, as Mrs Knightley. It was hard for her to accept that this was actually happening; it was all so sudden, and so dramatic – almost an elopement, but not quite.
She looked about her at the congregation almost filling the small Norman church in Highbury. The Knightley family was led by George, and was well represented by an assortment of cousins, even if somewhat distant ones; there were fewer Woodhouses – not because various relatives had been passed over, but because they were a smaller family. Then there were people from the village: Miss Bates, an unmarried woman in her fifties who occupied, on a fixed rent, a cottage in the village, and who lived a narrow life in severely reduced circumstances; James Weston, a widower whose Georgian house of eight bedrooms was barely a mile from Hartfield, and who had always been a good friend to Mr Wodehouse; Mr Perry, an exponent of alternative medicine, regarded as a charlatan by some (but not by Mr Woodhouse), and his wife, an illustrator of educational textbooks; and a number of friends whom Isabella had known at Gresham’s: Rosie Slazenger, Timmy Cottesloe, Kitty Fairweather. Emma knew them too, although she was a few years younger; Mr Woodhouse had heard their names before and had met some of them from time to time, but could never tell which one was which.
Emma: A Modern Retelling Page 5