by Joan Aiken
“No, not a fortune,” he said, smiling at her. “I know you always wish for the fairy-tale ending, Emma, but I fear it is not that. Yet, who knows, it may turn out even better. A friend and former commanding officer of Jane Fairfax’s father, a Colonel Campbell, has returned to this country after many years of active service overseas. He is now about to retire, due to wounds, and proposes to take up residence in London with his wife and daughter, who is about Jane’s age. He says in the letter they showed me — which is a very open, straightforward, gentlemanly worded missive — that he had entertained the greatest possible regard for Lieutenant Fairfax, who was an active, promising young man; and he had, further, been indebted to Lieutenant Fairfax for such attention, during a severe bout of camp fever, as, he fully believed, had saved his life. He was aware that the child, bereft of both parents and supported by relatives, themselves in straitened circumstances, had very uncertain prospects. These were claims, these were adversities which the Colonel does not intend to overlook, although to take action on them, hitherto, had been beyond his power, engaged as he has been on active service abroad during the five years since the death of poor Fairfax. But it is now his intention, with the permission of her friends, to seek out the orphan and take notice of her, inviting her to stay for a period with his own family in London, and, if matters turn out as he hopes, extending the visit indefinitely; he offers, in fact, to undertake the whole charge of Jane’s education.”
“And then he will leave her a fortune!” exclaimed Emma.
Mr Knightley indulgently shook his head.
“No; Colonel Campbell makes it plain that such a financial settlement does not lie within his power. He is not a wealthy man. The plan is, simply, that Jane shall be brought up for educating others. The colonel’s fortune is no more than moderate, and must be for his own daughter.”
“Educating others!” said Emma with a look of disgust. “So what is the good of her going to stay in London if that is to be the end of it all?”
“Why, my dear,” said Mr Woodhouse in his slow, pondering way, “who knows what may occur during the course of the time that Jane remains with the good Campbells, if she grows up an obliging, pretty-behaved young lady, as I daresay she will? All manner of good fortune may yet befall her. On the whole I am not in favour of residence in London; it is a great pity, to be sure, that Jane must be taken out of Highbury, where she was born, and which is such a surpassingly healthy locality; people should certainly remain where they are if it is within their power; yet, in this case, I do not know but what it may be all for the best.”
“Lucky Jane! she will see all the sights of London!” cried Isabella.
“But what is the use of that, if she must, at the end of it all, become a governess?” objected Emma.
“Hush, my love, such opinions are not very kind to our dear, good Miss Taylor — who, I am sure, is just as much a part of the family as if she had been born among us. Where is that lady, by the by?”
Miss Taylor at that moment entering the room revealed that she had been to pay a call on the Bates ladies to offer her services in hemming linen, in contriving and preparing Jane’s wardrobe for her first visit to the Campbell household, which would take place in the very near future; Colonel Campbell had announced his intention of visiting Highbury to convey Jane back to London (with her friends’ permission) during the following week, so soon as he had his own family settled in Manchester Square.
“Manchester Square?” murmured Mr Woodhouse. “Dear me; now what was somebody telling me, not very long ago, relative to Manchester Square? — But no, that was Manchester Street; ay, that was it to be sure; only I cannot just at this moment recollect who it was mentioned Manchester Street; nor precisely what it was that he said —”
“Oh, Miss Taylor,” cried Emma, “could not Jane have my figured cherry cambric gown and jacket that I have never liked? That, I think, would serve her quite well for a best gown in London?”
“That must be for your papa to say, my love —”
“And she could have my lavender sarsnet that has a tear in the back breadth; if it were taken in to Jane’s size the tear would not signify,” suggested Isabella practically.
“My loves, you are very kind, thus to remember the needs of your little friend,” said Mr Woodhouse fondly. “But then you are both of you, always, good, generous girls.”
A somewhat ironic smile hovering on Mr Knightley’s countenance, as Emma ran off to fetch the garments in question, indicated his lack of credence in the word friend; he said to Miss Taylor, “Jane Fairfax has now, for Emma, been translated into a fairy-tale princess, the heroine of a story; as such she will command considerably more indulgence than in her former role of an unfortunate neighbour.”
“I fear you are right,” replied Miss Taylor, smiling and sighing at the same time. “Emma’s inveterate passion for making up stories about her acquaintances must be the concern of all her mentors; besides being a shocking waste of time that could be more usefully spent, it tends to lead her into false views and imprudent actions. I do, I must own, endeavour to discourage it as far as I can.”
“Which means, not at all! If I am any judge of Emma’s power to go her own way — But still, I must acknowledge, she never fails to surprise one,” he broke off to add, as Emma came back, her arms draped over with garments and carrying, also, in her hands, a little rosewood desk.
“Papa, may I give this to Jane? It is the one, do you recall, that my cousin Eliza in Kent sent me for my seventh birthday, and, as you know, I have Mamma’s, which I like much better, besides very seldom needing to write letters to anybody; and this one is very nicely fitted up, you see, with the ink well and the wafers and sand-box and little drawer for seals and pens and the lock and key; if Jane is not to live in Highbury any more, she will often be wanting to write letters to her aunt and grandmamma —”
“Softly, softly, my dear, you talk so quick I scarcely understand you; and nobody, you know, has yet said anything about poor little Jane quitting Highbury entirely; this time, at least, it is only for a visit —”
Emma’s face fell. She said, “But I thought — Mr Knightley said — there was talk of ‘extending the visit indefinitely’?”
“Well, that may be so if all the parties take a liking to one another,” explained Mr Knightley. “As, indeed, there is no reason why they should not. I have always found Jane an intelligent, responsive, good-hearted girl,” he added, looking directly at Emma and, because he saw a cloud come over her brow, he went on, “But it was a truly kind thought, Emma, to wish to give her your desk, and I think it is an offering that, coming from you, she would particularly appreciate, since the two of you have never — have never found yourselves able to make friends. — And, after all, if Jane returns to Highbury at the conclusion of this visit, she will be leaving behind her a new set of connections in London, with whom she will certainly wish to maintain a correspondence. Your present will serve her well, whether she is there or here. If you concur, my dear sir —” to Mr Woodhouse, “I think the gift should be made.”
“Ay, that will be best,” agreed Mr Woodhouse. “Poor little Jane. I daresay she will get a great deal of use from that desk — it was well thought of. And Emma has her mother’s, after all; my poor dear Mary,” sighing deeply. “But still it is very sad that the child should be obliged to go from the place of her birth …”
Three other persons who found it sad that Jane must go from her native place were Jane herself and her aunt and grandmother. During the process of setting Jane’s wardrobe to rights for this bold venture into the world of London, and adapting such gifts from neighbours as proved suitable, their tears fell copiously and almost continuously.
“Aunt Hetty, Grandmamma, do I truly have to go?” was a question put by Jane over and over again. And, “Yes, my dear, you must,” was the answer invariably returned by the two ladies as they sat at their stitchery. “It will be a most dreadful loss for us, indeed,” said her Aunt Hetty, wiping away the tear
s that would fall on the muslin kerchiefs she hemmed, “and there is no denying that we can hardly bear to part from you, our own dear, dear, good child; but you must remember, my love, that Grandmamma and I are not growing any younger; the day might come when she may be laid up, and all my care will be needed to nurse her —”
“But I would help you, Aunt Hetty —”
“My love, I know you would, and with the greatest goodwill in the world; but then, you should be learning at your books, not having to tend grown folk; and then too, you see, I am not so young any more myself — for your poor dear mother was so much younger than I — and if I should fall sick, there would be nobody but Patty to look after you —”
“But if you were ill, Aunt Hetty, then who would take care of you?” cried Jane, horrified.
“Why, my dear, I do not at all suppose that such a thing is likely to occur, for I am, I am thankful to say, remarkable stout and healthy as a rule, as indeed is dear Grandmamma; but it will be such a relief to us to know that you are comfortably established with kind Colonel Campbell and his good lady in their house, and that we need not be worrying our heads any more about your future, for that will all be taken care of by the Colonel; such a kind, excellent letter as he writ: ‘to provide for her entirely is out of my power,’ says he, ‘but she shall be trained up for educating others; and I am glad to undertake this in token of the very great esteem in which I held Lieutenant Fairfax (your dear father, you know, my love) who, I am persuaded, was the cause of saving my life when laid low with a severe attack of camp fever.’ Just think of that, my dear! No good action ever goes unrewarded! To think of your excellent father’s kindness bearing fruit so very long after the event.”
When neighbours came in, Mrs Goddard, Mrs Pryor, or Miss Taylor, the tears were quickly wiped away and smiling faces shown. The kind gifts that the visitors brought, sets of handkerchiefs, watch-cases, thimbles, needle-books were admired and displayed and thanked for most earnestly; the Bateses and their child could hardly have done praising a beautiful little work-basket offered by Mrs Pryor, who told them with sincerity how much she would grieve to lose her best pupil.
“But where you are going, my dear, you will have the best masters, I don’t doubt, and will very soon have gone far beyond what I could teach you.”
Jane acknowledged all these kindnesses very prettily, for her manners were excellent, but when the good ladies were departed she was obliged, sometimes, to lie down upon her bed for many minutes in stricken silence.
When Emma’s charming little rosewood desk was sent down from Hartfield by a gardener, and unwrapped from its felt and sacking, Jane asked, “Need I accept this, Aunt Hetty?”
“Oh, my dearest child, what a question! How can you possibly think of not accepting such a kind, kind thoughtful present — precisely what you will be needing in London, you know, for Grandmamma and I shall be so eager to hear from you as often as it is possible for you to write — every day would not be too often for us, would it, ma’am? — if it were not for the cost of postage — and that is, I do believe, little Emma’s very own desk, the one that Mrs Goddard told us about that was sent to her last year from those great-cousins of Mr Woodhouse in Kent; but, however (and who could blame her?) Emma has always preferred to use her own dear Mamma’s desk, Mrs Goddard said. But it really is the most useful convenient piece of furniture that I have ever seen, fitted with all that you might possibly require, and we must be fully sensible of Emma’s great kindness in remembering you, especially as the two of you have never quite seemed to … Therefore the best thing you can do, indeed, my dear, is just to sit down this very minute and write dear Emma a nice note of thanks for it.”
Accordingly Jane sat down as instructed and wrote, “Dear Emma: thank you very much for the beautiful desk. It is just what I need.” Then she sucked the end of her pen and, after a few minutes, added, “It will remind me of Hartfield.”
“That is right, my dear,” said Aunt Hetty, satisfied. “That is doing as you ought. Now give the note to Patty, when you have it folded, and she can take it up when she goes with the bread to Mrs Wallis to be baked —”
“May I not take it myself, Aunt Hetty?” said Jane. “I shall be glad to, for, you know, I have sat indoors most of the day sewing — and I want to say goodbye to all our kind neighbours —”
“True, child, that is well thought of and shows a proper attention; yes, you should go to the vicarage — and Mrs Goddard — and the Perrys — only wrap up warmly for these autumn afternoons grow chill.”
With this franchise Jane ran out into the cobbled street where she had lived all her life: the street of humble, unpretentious little houses, some brick, some stone, some tiled, some thatched, each of which, with its occupants, she knew nearly as well as her own. Here lived Mrs Ford, here old John Crow, here the Otways, here the Perrys. Here John Saunders, the blacksmith, blew a bright fan of sparks with his bellows, and Jane stood and watched for a moment, beside the patient cart-horse, as she always did. Sometimes Mr Knightley could be found here, having a horse shod, exchanging news with a farmer; he was not here today. Over the way was Mrs Wallis, the baker, with a few gingerbread men and glossy halfpenny buns still in her bow window.
After Jane had paid her duty calls she walked to where the houses ended, where the fields began, on the road to Donwell, and looked wistfully in that direction. Every hedge, every gate, every puddle, every pollard had some part in her own history. The apples in the vicarage orchard hung red and heavy, ready for picking; I shall not see them picked, thought Jane. I am obliged to leave, I have to go from here, and why? It is no fault of my own. I love this place, it will break my heart to go from it. In London all the faces will be strange to me.
Still she lingered, but at last turned back along the dewy, silent road. Plumes of blue smoke rose from the chimneys. The villagers were at home. Evening meals were in preparation.
Jane let herself in through the faded blue door in the high brick wall which protected the extensive grounds of Hartfield from the public view. She walked, as she had done so many times, quietly up the winding path among the laurel-bushes. As usual, the side door stood unlocked, and she could make her way to the music room without much risk of encountering any member of the household.
Seated at the old piano she laid her head for a moment on the keyboard lid, with its faded brown velvet cover, then raised it, revealing yellowed keys, and began softly to play. This evening she embarked on no classic airs, no concert pieces, but an old friendly tune, taught her when out riding by Mr Knightley:
Dulce, dulce, dulce domum
Dulce domum resonemus
Home, sweet home …
She had not been playing more than a few moments when the door gently opened and Mrs Hill the housekeeper tiptoed in.
“Oh, Miss Jane dear —! And is it really true that you are off to London tomorrow?”
“Yes, Mrs Hill. I just came to — to say goodbye to the old piano. And to give you this note for Emma. And to thank you,” said Jane with a tight throat, “for all the pieces of cake you have brought me in this room.”
“Oh! Miss Jane! Such a pleasure as it has been to all of us — to hear you play. And when I think of how poor Missis used to enjoy listening to you —” The housekeeper dabbed her eyes with her apron. “Serle and James ask me to say goodbye to you, Miss, and to wish you the very best of good fortune in London. Which I am sure you will have, miss; if only because of your beautiful music; why, His Majesty himself would think it a treat to listen —”
“Oh, Mrs Hill, I am afraid that is not true. Though it is kind of you to say so. But I am very sorry — very sorry indeed — to leave Highbury — and my aunt — and Granny —”
“Never fear, miss, we’ll see they go on as they should; Master’s a good soul, he will not forget them, you may be sure. And nor will I. I’ll see that James steps down there, every two-three days —”
“Oh thank you, Mrs Hill. Here is the note for Emma —”
“Se
rle shall give it to her.” The housekeeper took the paper, folding her lips inward. “There’s one as walks with her nose uplifted. Has a high notion of herself. You’d ha’ thought — but there! Dreadful pity it was that her ma died when she did. Such a sweet, good mistress, Mrs Woodhouse. No puffed-up conceit about her. And yet she was a true lady, never forgot what was anybody’s due. Which one could not say the same — never mind! My lips are sealed.”
Since, despite this declaration, Mrs Hill’s lips plainly were not sealed, Jane made haste to take her leave, and ran out quickly into the dusk.
To her surprise — and considerable dismay — on approaching the shrubbery she encountered Emma who, she had reckoned, would be safely indoors at this time preparing for dinner, which the Bateses ate at a much earlier hour than their rich neighbours. Emma had been sitting on the bench under the cedar tree and now stood up as Jane was obliged to pass her.
“Oh — there you are — Emma —” stammered Jane, much confused. “I came — that is — I brought a note — a note thanking you for the desk — it was very good of you —”
Emma seemed almost equally at a loss. She stood silent for a moment, then said stiffly, “The desk was nothing. I use Mamma’s, you know, which I like far better. And Isabella was given a handsome one, all her own, made of walnut, by Mr John Knightley. So nobody needed this one. — Well, and so you are going to London.” Her tone lightened, as if she were relieved by the prospect, Jane thought. “Are you glad?” she asked.
“Glad?” said Jane in surprise. “No, why should I be glad? I am sorry — very, very sorry — to be leaving Highbury — and my house — and Aunt Hetty, and Grandmother —”
“But you live in those tiny dark rooms — where there is so much furniture that you can hardly walk about — and your grandmother is so very old — and your aunt talks all the time — you said so yourself — how can you bear it?”