Emma: A Modern Retelling

21

Mr Woodhouse could tell that something was wrong. ‘I may not be the most observant man in Norfolk,’ he said to Emma over breakfast, ‘but I cannot help but notice that something is … well, biting you. It’s not me, I hope.’

Emma tried to make light of her father’s observation. ‘You, Pops, have never bitten anybody – as far as I am aware. Of course, one never knows – one’s parents may lead secret lives and be biting people left, right and centre, but in your case, I think not.’

Mr Woodhouse reached for the marmalade. ‘Your bons mots are very bons, Emma, but they conceal nothing from me. You’re upset about something.’ A disturbing thought crossed his mind. ‘You aren’t unwell, are you? Sometimes a raised temperature can cause mood disturbances, you know. Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Of course I am. I’m fine.’

‘You would tell me? You would let me know if your temperature went up, or anything like that?’

She smiled benignly at her father. ‘Of course I would. It’s just that I’ve been thinking about my business and about how I need to make a start. I need to get more samples.’

That was true – to an extent. Emma had begun to weary of her empty summer and had already placed an advertisement in East Anglian Living offering her services as an ‘interior decorator and design consultant: kitchens, bathrooms, living rooms, bedrooms’. It had been a large advertisement, occupying half a page of the magazine, and she had been slightly concerned that some of its claims – such as the description of herself as an ‘award-winning designer’ – were slightly ambitious, or even misleading, although not completely untrue, if one considered the class prize in design at the University of Bath to be an award. It was, she told herself, every bit as much an award as any other prize that people won – even better, perhaps, as it was academic and not commercial.

The advertisement, although placed, had yet to appear, and she was nervous as to what would follow. In her more pessimistic moments she imagined the conversation that might ensue if a client asked her about her experience in designing kitchens, which of course was non-existent.

‘You’ll have done plenty of kitchens before, of course. You’ll know the issues.’

‘Oh, the issues. Yes, I’m aware of those.’

‘Any photographs of your previous work?’

‘Not to hand, but let’s talk about what you have in mind. I’m very keen on islands in kitchens – as long as you put them in the right place.’

‘Photographs?’

‘Of islands? I can get some for you.’

‘No, of your work – your kitchens.’

It made her feel uncomfortable even to think of it. Of course, she could always tell the truth and confess that there had been no previous kitchens; she could even make something of her inexperience. ‘My very first kitchen, you know, and I’m bursting with ideas.’ And then they would move on to the firmer ground of fabrics for the drawing room – ‘I suggest a subtle red – you’re north-facing, you know, and you can do with a warm colour.’

‘You know, I think you’re right about that.’

‘Thank you.’

Yes, truth might be the answer; in which case she might be slightly dismissive of the advertisement: ‘Oh, that … the advertising people went a bit over-the-top, you know – made me sound so experienced, and I’m not really, but at least my charges won’t break the bank.’

But it was not just these concerns over her incipient career that were responsible for Emma’s distracted state; there was something else worrying her that she would never confess to her father. This was her anxiety – not to say anger – over Harriet’s behaviour. She and Harriet had parted coolly at the end of the bus journey back from Cambridge. On her way home in the Mini Cooper, Emma had reflected on just how treacherous Harriet’s conduct had been. She – Emma – had raised Harriet from nothingness – and she was nothing – and introduced her to all sorts of people she would never have met on her own. She had gone to the trouble of lining up Philip Elton, even if that had not worked out; she had invited her to Hartfield; she had done a pastel portrait of her and had been prepared to pay for its framing; she had bought her an expensive cashmere jersey dress and a pair of suede ankle boots; she had helped her with her wretched foreign students and their gabbling on about the way to the railway station – and all for what? For Harriet to use the entrée – and the clothes – she had provided her with to set her cap at one of her oldest friends, George Knightley, who was far too decent and vulnerable to be able to defend himself against this sort of ambitious manoeuvre. How dare she! How dare she sit in her … her disused airfield and plot her assault on Donwell Abbey!

She tried to imagine the consequences of a successful campaign by Harriet. George was not all that old and a difference of fourteen years or thereabouts in their ages was nothing. Harriet could well persuade him to marry her, and if that happened, she would be Mrs George Knightley of Donwell Abbey – the largest and most important house for miles around. Indeed, Donwell Abbey could hold its own with any large house in the county, including Sandringham. Of course Harriet would want that; of course she would. Emma thought grimly of the details. There would be a newspaper announcement of the engagement, and that would make people sit up and take notice. ‘The engagement is announced between Mr George Knightley of Donwell Abbey, elder son of the late Mr and Mrs Basil Knightley, and Miss Harriet Smith, of a disused airfield, daughter of the late Miss Smith and an unknown, but much-loved, donor.’ Hah! People would have a good laugh at that, but then they would think: That goes to show how far one can get if one’s ambitious enough. But then she thought: That’s not why I’m upset. I don’t care about property and money because I have plenty of both. What I care about is him. Just him.

It was not the advertisement, though, that brought Emma’s first commission, but something far closer to home. In fact, the commission came from virtually next door – from Miss Taylor and James. Ever since Miss Taylor had moved in with James, she had been planning to do something about Randalls and the general state of shabbiness into which it had fallen under James’s ownership. The barns and outbuildings were all kept in a very good state, of course, as James was a conscientious farmer, but when it came to the house he showed the indifference that men living on their own often have to their surroundings. The house had not been painted for almost fifteen years, no chairs had been re-covered in that time, nor carpets cleaned or repaired, and the plumbing arrangements in the cold and uncomfortable bathrooms would hardly have been out of place in a museum.

‘We need to get somebody in,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘We can’t do it by ourselves.’

James did not see why not. ‘I don’t think you need an interior decorator,’ he said. ‘Just get a painter to come round and freshen things up, and a plumber of course. These plumber chaps are jolly good at ripping old stuff out. A couple of days’ work at the most.’

‘It’s not that simple,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘We have to replace all the curtains. We have to get new flooring for the bathrooms as well as new baths and whatnot. The kitchen has to be tackled from scratch.’

James sighed, but he would deny Miss Taylor nothing. ‘Oh well, you’re the one with the good taste.’

‘You have it too,’ she said. ‘It requires very good taste indeed to live in a state of disrepair.’

He laughed. ‘Genteel decline?’

‘Perhaps.’

He was concerned about cost; the farm and the outbuildings were expensive – everything was expensive. ‘I suppose you’ll want some fancy Classic Interiors type to come prancing down here and charging the earth.’

‘No,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘I’ve had an idea. Emma. This is exactly what she wants to do. And she’s got a very good eye – she always has had.’

James looked thoughtful. ‘And she won’t charge the earth?’

‘I’m sure her charges will be very modest – and we’ll be keeping it in the family, so to speak.’

‘In that case …’

‘Good. I’ll give her a ring.’

Emma took no persuasion. She would do the job for nothing, she insisted, firmly refusing the offer of a fee. ‘After all,’ she said, ‘I’m not a real interior decorator – just yet.’ She had by now received consignments of samples from wallpaper and fabric companies, and these were loaded into the back of the Mini Cooper, along with paint charts, tiling booklets, and all the other accoutrements that served as the tools of her new trade. She was excited by the prospect of redecorating Randalls – a house that she had long admired but which she felt had been badly neglected. Her excitement was tempered, though, by the unavoidable prospect of seeing Frank, who was still staying at Randalls and whom she had last seen at that disastrous picnic. He had not apologised to her for stalking off in a huff when he failed to identify his own wine, and for her part she had felt that she had nothing to say sorry for: the incident had in no sense been her fault. But whatever view one took of that debacle, the fact remained that she and Frank were currently not on speaking terms and that any meeting at Randalls would probably be a fraught one.

Miss Taylor came out to meet her when she parked the car at the head of the Randalls drive. ‘We’re going to do great things, Emma, you and I,’ she said. ‘This poor old house is going to be utterly transformed.’

‘V. exciting,’ said Emma, reverting to a favourite abbreviation of very she had used in her childhood.

Miss Taylor lowered her tone conspiratorially. ‘But be careful not to frighten the male department,’ she said. ‘Everything needs to go – top to bottom – but you know how men are: they like to hang on to things.’

Emma nodded. ‘I shall be v. tactful.’

‘I’m sure you will be,’ said Miss Taylor, although in reality she was not at all sure.

They walked towards the house, the gravel of the driveway crunching underfoot in a satisfactory way. ‘I see ochre tones,’ said Emma. ‘I get a very strong feeling of ochre.’

‘Interesting,’ said Miss Taylor.

‘Except for the bathrooms,’ Emma continued. ‘I see white, and pale blue. Eggshell, perhaps.’

Miss Taylor nodded. ‘One would not want ochre in a bathroom, I think.’

They entered the house.

‘All of this will have to go,’ said Miss Taylor, gesturing towards the hunting prints that lined the walls of the hall. ‘And all that stuff too.’ This was the ungainly coat rack, the umbrella stand, the protruding hall table with its heavy Victorian legs, and an uncomfortable-looking oak hall chair on which a pile of old newspapers rested.

Emma cast an eye about her. ‘I see one of those nice Farrow and Ball greens,’ she said. ‘Once we’ve thrown everything out, of course.’

‘V. good,’ said Miss Taylor.

They went into the kitchen where Miss Taylor prepared Emma a cup of tea. There was discussion of the kitchen cupboards, which they both decided would have to go, and of the kitchen floor, which it was agreed would have to be taken up and replaced. Tea was poured, and it was just after this that the telephone rang. Miss Taylor took the call, and Emma indicated by pointing out of the door that she would take her tea into the conservatory adjoining the kitchen.

‘Go ahead,’ said Miss Taylor, cupping her hand over the telephone mouthpiece. ‘I’ll only be five minutes or so.’

Emma walked through into the conservatory and examined the vines that had been trained up one side of the structure. The furniture, she noted, was shabby and would need to be replaced. And then she stopped. She had not seen him when she entered, but Frank Churchill was sitting in a chair at the far end. He had been reading a book, which fell to the ground when Emma came in.

For a long-drawn-out minute neither said anything. Then both spoke at once.

‘Oh,’ said Emma, and then, ‘Oh,’ again.

‘Um,’ said Frank. ‘So …’

They paused. Then Emma said, ‘I suppose you do live here.’

The remark seemed to surprise both of them.

‘I mean, here you are,’ said Emma.

Frank shrugged. ‘I’m staying here.’

‘Of course you are,’ said Emma.

The silence resumed, to be broken eventually by Frank, who said, ‘I think I should say sorry.’

Emma listened impassively as Frank continued. ‘I heard from my father that he had taken bottles of our wine to the picnic. I know now that you didn’t intend to show me up.’

‘I didn’t,’ said Emma, quick to assume the role of the wronged party. ‘That’s what I told you.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Frank. ‘But … well, I suppose I’m still a bit cross with you.’

‘But I didn’t know it was your wine.’

‘No, not about that – about something else.’

Emma was cautious. ‘What exactly?’

Frank had risen from his chair and had turned to look out of the conservatory window. His back was towards Emma.

He turned round again. ‘You shouldn’t have spoken to Jane.’

Emma’s mouth dropped.

‘Yes,’ said Frank. ‘You shouldn’t. I told you what I told you in confidence. I didn’t expect you to go broadcasting it round half of England.’

Emma reddened. The back of her neck felt warm.

Frank continued with his accusation. ‘You told her that I wasn’t interested in women.’

She decided to defend herself. ‘That’s what you told me.’

‘Well, it’s not true,’ said Frank. ‘As it happens.’

Emma’s voice rose. ‘Then why did you tell me what you told me?’

Frank hesitated, and Emma noticed a certain sheepishness come over him. ‘I wanted to flirt with you without any … without any misunderstandings.’

It took her a moment or two to be offended. ‘Oh, I see. You wanted to use me?’

Frank nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘But why?’

‘Because I wanted Jane to see me getting on well with another girl.’ He paused. ‘I can see that you don’t believe me.’

‘No.’

‘Well, it’s true. I wanted to make Jane jealous because … well, you see, she and I have known each other for a couple of years—’

She interrupted him. ‘How …?’

‘We met in Australia. She came with a friend on a working visa. They worked in a hotel in Fremantle. I met her there. We kept in touch when she came back to England. Anyway, we were pretty close but she’d decided to give the relationship a rest.’

‘And you wanted to give her a shock?’

‘Yes. I wanted to show her that she wasn’t the only fish on the beach.’

‘Pebble,’ corrected Emma. ‘Fish in the sea. Pebble on the beach.’

‘Whatever.’

‘And did it work? This … strategy of yours?’

He nodded. ‘It did. We’re back together. But not without a big row over what you told her.’

Emma now understood, but she was uncertain what to say. Perhaps he was right in saying that she had betrayed a confidence, but then she reminded herself he had misled her, he had used her. Both of them, it seemed, had something to feel sorry about.

‘Yes,’ Frank continued. ‘You can just imagine. She accused me of deceiving her. She said that I should have told her right at the beginning. She asked me why I’d bothered with her if I wasn’t really interested. She started to cry.’

Emma winced.

‘But eventually I got through to her and explained. It took ages. Three days. But we sorted it out.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ said Emma. ‘I didn’t know that it would get out of hand.’

‘There’s more,’ said Frank.

Emma bit her lip. Her world suddenly seemed like a jersey from which a loose strand of wool had been pulled, resulting in the rapid unravelling of the whole. ‘Yes?’

‘She knows my friend, Geoff – the one I told you I was going to be travelling with.’

Emma waited.

‘And she told him that I had said I was gay and that she believed I fancied him.’

‘Oh.’

Frank spoke with heavy irony. ‘Yes. And that can really help a friendship, you know.’

Emma made a gesture of helplessness. ‘I don’t think you can blame me for that.’

‘What’s the point of blaming anybody? The whole thing’s a mess.’

Emma asked about Jane. ‘I suppose she hates me.’

‘Yes,’ said Frank. ‘Sorry about that.’

Emma said nothing. She hates me. It had never occurred to her that she might be disliked.

Frank sighed. ‘You may as well know: Jane and I are engaged.’

She tried to look pleased. ‘That’s really good news.’ It sounded flat. She repeated herself; it was still flat.

Miss Taylor came in. Emma noticed that she gave Frank an enquiring glance, and she interpreted this to mean that Miss Taylor knew and that she wanted to find out if Frank had told her about his engagement.

She was right. ‘I’ve told Emma,’ said Frank.

Emma looked at Miss Taylor. She felt the tears welling up in her eyes. Jane hated her: that had been spelled out to her. Frank took the view that she had grossly complicated his life through her indiscretion. Harriet regarded her as a rival, and Philip no doubt blamed her for his downfall and disgrace. Nobody, it seemed, liked her – apart from her father, and possibly George, and even then he had been cross about her rudeness to Miss Bates, even if he later gave her credit for trying to make amends.

All of these people, she thought, could so easily see me as an enemy. And she remembered something she had read in the newspaper that morning – an obituary for a Polish baker who had established a chain of cake shops and become a philanthropist. ‘He had no enemies,’ said the obituarist. The line, written often enough to become an obituary cliché, had stuck in her mind, and came back to her now. It could not be said of me, she thought, I have enemies to spare – all of my own making.

Miss Taylor realised that Emma was too distracted to continue with the task of advising on the redecoration of Randalls. Frank Churchill did not linger long in the conservatory after Miss Taylor came in, but mumbled an excuse about having to go to the gym and left.

‘What gym?’ Emma asked Miss Taylor after Frank had gone.

‘He doesn’t use a gym,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘It’s an entirely metaphysical gym, as many gyms are. A lot of people who talk about going to the gym actually have no idea where the gym is. It’s aspirational – what our dear, misguided Roman Catholic cousins would call an intention.’

‘So he just wanted to get away?’

Miss Taylor put an arm around her. ‘I believe he’s cross with you over some misunderstanding. Don’t pay too much attention to it.’

‘Everybody’s cross with me,’ said Emma. ‘Or so it seems.’

‘I don’t think so. I’m not. I’d never be.’

Emma felt the warm reassurance of her former governess’s presence. Nothing had changed, and she was eight once more, listening to Miss Taylor explaining the world, telling her not to be afraid. ‘I’m going to try to improve,’ she muttered. ‘I really am, this time.’

‘It’s not called improvement,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘It’s called growing up. All of us do it – well, most of us, perhaps not absolutely all. There are some who never do. You can spot them if you survey the landscape.’

For a moment Emma pictured Miss Taylor gazing out over the countryside, searching, hawk-like, for immature personalities. But now Miss Taylor was looking at her with concern. ‘My little Emma,’ she said fondly. ‘Don’t be disheartened. Life isn’t an easy business for any of us, you know. We feel our way through it, and we make a lot of mistakes on the way. And when I use the word mistake, I don’t use it in the way in which politicians use it. They call their misdeeds – plain, old-fashioned misdeeds – mistakes. They aren’t. There’s a big difference between a mistake, which is all about harm that you didn’t intend, and a misdeed, which is harm that you did intend. A big difference.’

Emma listened.

‘Your mistake,’ continued Miss Taylor, ‘has been to interfere in the lives of others. It’s a common mistake – possibly the commonest mistake in the book – because it’s one that so many parents make. They try to make something of their child that the child doesn’t want to be. They try to hold on. They mean well, of course, but it’s a mistake. You’ve just made that mistake in another way, I suspect. I’ve watched you with Harriet Smith, you know.’

‘Harriet latched on to me.’

‘Of course she did – because you let her. She’s much weaker than you. You should have thought of that … Sorry, I don’t mean to upbraid you – I really don’t – but that’s what happened, isn’t it?’

Emma made a tiny, resigned sound, an acknowledgment of the truth of what had been said.

‘Yes?’ prompted Miss Taylor.

‘Yes.’ Emma was not going to argue. Miss Taylor had always been right. As Mr Woodhouse had once observed to Emma: ‘When Miss Taylor pronounces on something we must remember that it is really Edinburgh speaking, and speaking with all the authority of the Scottish Enlightenment, of Hume, of Adam Smith. We cannot argue with Edinburgh.’ But now she raised the fear that had been nagging away at her since that ill-fated trip to Cambridge. ‘Harriet says that George has invited her over to Donwell for lunch. Just her. Not me. Just her.’

Miss Taylor digested this information. ‘I see. Donwell. For lunch?’

‘For lunch. By herself. And she’s going to wear a cashmere jersey dress that I bought her in Cambridge. And suede ankle boots.’ Oh, the injustice of it, she thought, the sheer, crying injustice!

Miss Taylor had dropped the arm that she had placed round Emma’s shoulder; the physical closeness was gone, but now there was something more powerful than that: a complicity, in a sense, an acute understanding.

‘You’ve always liked George, haven’t you?’ said Miss Taylor. Her voice was measured, as would be the voice of a diagnostician.

‘Yes, I have.’

Miss Taylor took a step away and looked up at the vine, as if seeking inspiration from the plant. The grapes were far from ripe, but were there already, in luscious little clusters.

‘Wasn’t Harriet friendly with that young man from that hotel?’ asked Miss Taylor.

‘It’s just a B&B,’ said Emma.

Miss Taylor looked at her sharply. ‘They think it’s a hotel,’ she said. ‘That’s what they want it to be. Maybe that means something to them.’

Emma was chastened. ‘I’m sorry. Yes, that hotel. He’s called Robert Martin.’

‘And what happened?’ asked Miss Taylor.

Emma did not answer. Miss Taylor repeated her question. ‘What happened, Emma?’

Emma took a deep breath. ‘I ruined it for her,’ she said. ‘I put her off him.’ She stared at Miss Taylor defiantly, as if to challenge her to react to what she had said.

But Miss Taylor did not scold her; she simply shook her head. ‘I suspect you know what to do,’ she said.

Emma waited.

‘I’m not going to spell it out,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘I’m no longer your governess. You’re going to have to make your own decision here and act accordingly.’

‘Please …’

‘No. Definitely not. And I don’t think we should try to make any decorating decisions today.’

Emma went back to the Mini Cooper and drove down the drive. Miss Taylor watched her from the drawing-room window, with James Weston at her side.

‘Will you play the piano for me?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What would you like?’

‘ “Take a pair of sparkling eyes”,’ he said.

The Oak Tree Inn served lunch in the bar. The day’s specials, chalked up on a small blackboard in the shape of a fish, were potted shrimps, steak and kidney pie, and sticky toffee pudding. There were several customers already eating when Emma arrived, although it was barely midday. She did not feel particularly hungry, as she had eaten a late breakfast, but she nonetheless took a seat at the one of the small bar tables and began to study the menu. The choice was a large one for a small hotel, but it was only the steak and kidney pie and the sticky toffee pudding that appealed to her.

The bar was unattended when she arrived, but within a couple of minutes a door slammed somewhere and a young man appeared. Emma recognised Robert Martin, who spotted her, smiled, and came over to her table. He was wearing a white apron of the sort sometimes worn by French waiters, and he had a small notebook in his hand.

‘Emma?’

She returned his smile.

‘I thought it was you,’ he said. ‘It’s just I didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘I’ve been meaning to come for some time. I felt hungry and thought: why not?’

He opened the notebook. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages.’

‘No. I saw you the other day in the village, but you didn’t see me. Obviously.’

‘No. Have you finished at Bath?’

‘Yes. That’s it. The world of work beckons now. And you?’

‘I did a hospitality course in Norwich.’ He made a gesture to encompass the bar and the hotel. ‘It’s for this place.’

She nodded. She had been studying him discreetly. He was rather good-looking, she thought; he used to be a bit too thin, she thought, but now he had grown into himself – that was Miss Taylor’s expression: You’ll grow into yourself. She and Isabella had not really known what it meant, but had taken comfort in it as an assurance that somehow everything would be all right. And have I grown into myself now? she asked herself. Have I?

‘I’d better get on,’ said Robert, nodding in the direction of the kitchen. ‘We’re short-handed. We’ve got one Polish girl at the moment and that’s it.’

‘They work so hard,’ said Emma, and thought, Unlike me.

Robert agreed. ‘She’s fantastic.’

Emma placed her order, which appeared on her table quickly. At the end of the meal, as Robert took away her plate, she said what she had come to say. ‘Do you get any time off? This afternoon?’

The question took him by surprise. ‘Yes. A bit. I have to be back to help with dinner, though.’

‘Of course.’

‘Why?’

She tried to seem casual. ‘Because I wondered if you’d like to drop by my place. Tea, maybe.’

He looked at his watch. ‘I could come at four, or maybe a bit earlier.’

‘Do you play tennis?’

‘I used to – a bit.’

‘Bring trainers.’

She rose from her chair and gave him her credit card for the bill. He seemed puzzled by her invitation, but was polite. A certain distance, though, crept into his tone, as may happen when one accepts an invitation that one is not sure about, that is suspected of concealing an agenda.

Emma left. Now she telephoned Harriet and issued her invitation. Again she was careful to sound casual. ‘If you’re dong nothing, come round to my place. I’ll maybe ask one or two other people. Tea – something like that. Maybe a game of tennis – bring some trainers. We’ve got racquets.’

‘I didn’t know you had a tennis court.’

‘We do. It’s at the back of the house, near one of the barns. I hardly ever use it. I’m a hopeless player.’

Harriet said that she would come by bicycle. One of the students had lent her an electric bicycle and she would ride over on that.

‘It’s such fun to use,’ Harriet said. ‘I’ll give you a go, Emma, if you’d like. You can have a go and I’ll watch.’

It was such a childish invitation, thought Emma, but then she said, ‘Thanks, Harriet, I’d love to. You could show me how.’

‘Oh, it’s easy. It’s just like riding a bicycle.’

‘It is a bicycle.’

‘Oh, silly me, of course it is.’

Mr Woodhouse said, ‘I’m going out. What are you doing?’

‘I’ve invited a couple of people round. We might play tennis later on.’

They looked at each other with interest; he because he wondered who her guests would be, and she because he very rarely went out.

‘Who?’ he asked.

‘Harriet.’

‘And who else?’

‘Robert Martin – you know, his parents run the Oak Tree Inn. They …’

‘I know exactly who they are,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘They had the health inspectors in there last year. They looked very closely at the kitchen.’

‘I’m sure it’s pretty clean. It seems well run.’

‘Oh, I’m not suggesting that it’s not well run, but why, one wonders, would the health inspectors be there? Somebody must have called them.’

She did not think that this necessarily followed. ‘They can do random checks. If I were a health inspector, I’d descend without notice.’

‘In my view,’ said Mr Woodhouse, ‘somebody must have experienced a stomach problem and reported it. Diarrhoea. I read that book about what goes on in restaurants and hotel kitchens. Yes, I read all about it. It would make your hair stand on end. Apparently twenty per cent of people who eat in restaurants get diarrhoea as a result. Twenty per cent, Emma!’ He paused to allow the statistic to sink in. ‘Now that’s an average across the country – just imagine, just imagine what the figure for London must be like. Much, much higher. Probably something of the order of fifty or sixty per cent, I should imagine.’ He shook his head at the thought. ‘One eats at one’s peril in London.’

Emma tried not to smile; she knew that if she smiled, her father would say: ‘Diarrhoea is nothing to smile about.’

‘But Isabella lives in London,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t spend all her time in the loo. We would have heard about it if she did. And John and the children – they don’t look as if they have diarrhoea.’

‘Diarrhoea is nothing to smile about, Emma,’ he said. ‘It can kill, you know. Look what it did in India during those great cholera epidemics in the nineteenth century. That’s when Dr Collis Brown invented that chlorodyne of his. He knew how to deal with diarrhoea.’

Emma looked at her watch. ‘But what about you, where are you going?’

He waved a hand in the direction of Holt. ‘For a drive. I might call in somewhere for tea. Who knows?’

She looked at him sideways. ‘Be careful. Remember what happened to Philip. Avoid ditches.’

This brought a sympathetic reaction. ‘Poor Philip. I gather that he really misses being behind the wheel of his BMW Something-something. Sid said that he saw him being driven around in the village by that new friend of his, Hazel. Apparently she reversed all the way down the High Street for some reason, with Philip directing her from the back seat.’

‘The important thing is that they should be happy,’ said Emma.

‘That’s very kind of you. Is this a new Emma?’

The remark, not intended critically, went home, and stung. A new Emma, not unkind like the old Emma …

Harriet arrived first, as Emma had planned, riding the electric bicycle up to the front door and coming to a halt with a flourish.

‘I hardly had to pedal,’ she said. ‘You just sit there and this little electric thingy does all the work.’

They went inside. ‘I put the net up on the court,’ said Emma. ‘And I found you a racquet and one for Robert.’

They had been walking down the corridor towards Emma’s sitting room. Harriet stopped. ‘Robert?’ she said.

Emma looked innocent. ‘Robert Martin. You know him, of course.’

Harriet was flustered. ‘Yes, yes … Robert.’

Emma shrugged. ‘I’m not sure if he plays much tennis – I don’t think he does, but I asked him anyway.’ She paused. Harriet had coloured. She was blushing. ‘Have you seen him recently?’

Harriet did not answer, but suddenly continued on her way down the corridor. Emma followed.

‘I have to speak to you,’ Harriet said when they reached the sitting room. ‘I have a confession to make, Emma. You’re the closest friend I have at the moment and I’ve been deceiving you. I feel awful, but I have to tell you.’

Emma gestured for her to sit down, and then joined her friend on the sofa. ‘So?’

‘I hate to deceive people,’ said Harriet.

‘Nobody likes doing that.’

‘You see, you’ve been so kind to me, Emma.’

Emma wanted to tell her to get on with it, but did not.

Harriet sounded as if she was close to tears. ‘And then I go and reward you by going against your advice.’

‘What advice?’

‘The advice you gave me about Robert. I’ve been seeing Robert all along.’

Emma’s immediate reaction was one of relief. The whole point of the game of tennis had been to bring them together because she thought that they were right for each other. ‘Great,’ she said. ‘That’s really great.’

Harriet’s demeanour registered her surprise. ‘You think it’s a good idea?’

Emma reached out to touch Harriet on the forearm. ‘Of course I do. He’s really nice. I think that he and you are ideally suited. It’s perfect.’

Harriet uttered a cry of joy. ‘That’s such good news! Such good news!’

‘I’m glad you’re pleased.’

‘Robert and I are going to go off on a gap year together – in a year’s time. We’re going to go to New Jersey for a couple of months and then on to Canada. Robert’s uncle has a motel in New Jersey – we might be able to stay with him for a while and help him. Then we’re going to go to Banff, where Robert has cousins. They stayed with Robert’s parents and they’re keen to reciprocate. It’s good if you can pay people back for things, isn’t it, Emma?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Emma. ‘It’s good to pay back.’

Harriet’s smile faded. ‘There’s another thing.’

Emma looked at her. ‘Yes?’

‘George Knightley.’

Emma stiffened. Had Harriet been seeing George behind her back too? That would be another matter altogether, and the sweetness and light of the moment might prove short-lived.

‘I’ve been talking to him,’ said Harriet. ‘And we were going to meet in a couple of days’ time.’

‘I know that,’ said Emma quietly, and thought: You were going to meet him wearing the cashmere jersey dress that I bought you – and the suede ankle boots too.

‘George likes you,’ said Harriet. ‘And I’ve been encouraging him.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Emma. ‘I’m not quite with you.’

‘I said to him that he should let you know how he feels. I was going to arrange to have you both round for dinner at Mrs God’s.’

Emma stared at her. ‘You were matchmaking?’

Harriet giggled. ‘Yes, I suppose you could call it that.’

Emma drew in her breath. ‘You thought that I needed your help?’

‘I wouldn’t say you needed it, but I thought it might be useful.’ Harriet paused, studying Emma’s reaction to her words. ‘It’s the same with Mrs God and your father. I did my best to bring them together. He’s there right now.’

‘He’s with her? With Mrs God?’

Harriet nodded. ‘They’re like a couple of love-birds.’ She reached out to Emma. ‘You’re not cross with me, are you, Emma? Please say that you’re not cross with me.’

Emma Woodhouse, pretty, clever, and rich, was cross with her friend Harriet Smith, but reminded herself that Harriet had very little in this life, even if she had the faithful affection of Robert Martin, a good friend in Mrs God, and all the attention that exceptional looks can bring. That was something, but it was so much less that she, Emma, had and therefore it was grounds for the dulling of anger. So Emma forgave Harriet, and reminded herself that she had done worse herself, not least to Harriet. It had been an important summer for Emma, as it had been the summer during which moral insight came to her – something that may happen to all of us, if it happens at all, at very different stages of our lives. This had happened because she had been able to make that sudden imaginative leap that lies at the heart of our moral lives: the ability to see, even for a brief moment, the world as it is seen by the other person. It is this understanding that lies behind all kindness to others, all attempts to ameliorate the situation of those who suffer, all those acts of charity by which we make our lives something more than the pursuit of the goals of the unruly ego.

George came to see Emma. They walked in the garden and he said to her, ‘I’ve never been very good at expressing my feelings; other people are so much better at that. But I want you to know that I’ve been in love with you, Emma, for a long time. I just have. Not a day, not a single day has gone past but that I’ve thought about you.’

His words swam about her, and she stood quite still, as if stopped by an invisible wall. It took her a while to respond, but then she said, ‘I’m glad you’ve told me, because I’ve always been fond of you.’

‘Just fond?’

She smiled. ‘Seriously fond.’

He looked away, and she noticed. She reached out to him and began to say something, but it made no sense. He said to her, ‘I was hoping you’d say something else.’

Not more than a second or two passed. It was like leaping off a building. ‘But I want to say it,’ she whispered. ‘I’m in love with you too. Yes, I’m in love too.’

She thought: In love; not by love or with love, but in love. It was a state of being; it was a state of immersion, like being in the sea. And love was as powerful as the ocean itself, as embracing, as strong as the sea is. Love. She was like a child playing with a newly learned word; there was the same sense of delight, of discovery. She was astonished by its force, and was struck by the insight that it seemed to bring with it. It was as if a great searchlight had been switched on in the darkness and was bathing all before with its light, its warmth. Now the world made sense because she could see it. Now she knew why she should cherish what she saw about her: other people, the world itself, everything. Embarrassment had stopped her saying it, but now she saw that embarrassment for what it was, and it lay dismantled before her, the ruins of selfishness, of pride, of insensitivity.

It seemed as if he could sense what was happening within her, for he said nothing, as if awed by a moment that would only be defiled if he were to speak. But he embraced her with tenderness, and simply held her for a while before they drew apart and looked at each other as if they were two people who had just witnessed something miraculous. He then said, ‘I do wish you’d come to Donwell and redecorate it.’

She thought for a moment that this was an odd thing to say at a time like this, but then it seemed right to her; it seemed just perfect. It was the best thing he could possibly have said. And she replied. ‘Yes, I will.’

‘And we could go to Italy too. Would you come with me to Florence?’

That was an offer of the world; to which she replied, ‘Of course.’

Mr Woodhouse saw a great deal more of Mrs Goddard, and they too went abroad for a while, in their case to Vero Beach, Florida, where Mrs Goddard had a small apartment. Philip Elton married Hazel, and Hazel sang ‘Non, je ne regrette rien’ at the wedding. ‘Just as well she has no regrets,’ observed Emma to Mr Woodhouse at the ceremony. He whispered, ‘Let us not be without charity, dear girl.’ And she lowered her eyes at the gentle reproach, for she had learned her lesson, even if there would be occasional, but only very occasional, relapses; for none of us is perfect, except, of course, the ones we love, the things of home, our much appreciated dogs and cats, our favourites of one sort or another.

Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill eventually married in Western Australia. There was a house on the wine estate that had been prepared for their use. Jane gave piano lessons to the children of other farmers and in due course had twin boys. Nobody ever worked out who gave her the Yamaha piano, but there were theories. One of these, put forward by Mr Woodhouse, was that the piano was bought by Miss Bates, who was only pretending to be poor in order to defeat her creditors at Lloyd’s. According to this school of thought, she had squirrelled away most of her funds and was easily in a position to buy violet creams for herself and a piano for her niece. ‘That woman never fooled me,’ said Mrs God, who claimed to be a good judge of character.

Emma was happy. She realised that happiness is something that springs from the generous treatment of others, and that until one makes that connection, happiness may prove elusive. In Italy with George, that thought came even more forcefully to her when, in a small art gallery in an obscure provincial town well off the beaten track, she saw a seventeenth-century picture of a young man giving his hand to a young woman. And the young woman takes it and holds it, cherishing it, as one might cherish something that is fragile and vulnerable, and very precious. The eyes of the woman are not on the young man, nor upon the hand that she holds, but fixed on the one who views the painting, and they convey, as do so many of the figures in art that would say anything to us, this message: You do it too.