The Watsons and Emma Watson Page 7

  ‘Yes! And tell them how I have been ill-used and thrown off. I do not require her triumphant compassion. I have no wish at all to appear in Croydon as a kind of Cinderella.’

  ‘It was very unkind of our Aunt Turner to use you so,’ observed Elizabeth, reverting to a well-used and familiar theme. ‘How could she throw herself away on an Irish captain, and that only two years after Mr Turner died? And after she had brought you up in expectation of becoming her heir? It was very bad – very bad indeed. And then to leave you behind when they went to Ireland—’

  ‘There, I believe she acted not from her own wish but on the persuasions of Captain O’Brien,’ said Emma. ‘But – to tell truth – I did not greatly care for him and should not have wished to travel to Ireland with them, even if I had been invited. I will not assert that he was not to be trusted – but a friend of mine, Miss Squires, considered him quite a profligate and told shocking tales of his flirtations with other ladies; and once or twice he has given me such a pinch, or such a look, that I would by no means venture myself alone with him in a strange country.’

  ‘And this is the person that our aunt has thought fit to marry!’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Emma, ‘he is certainly a sad contrast to our uncle – who was always like a kind father to me, so thoughtful, so sweet-natured; but Captain O’Brien is very diverting, and our aunt was quite captivated by him, anybody could see that. I hope she may not live to rue the day she married him.’

  ‘Ireland is such a long way off, should any ill befall her.’

  ‘I know it. I must acknowledge I miss her sadly, and am often anxious about her – how will she go on without me, who know all her ways and her likings – but, Eliza, who is this, coming up the hill in a carriage? It is not our brother back so soon, surely?’

  ‘Mercy on us!’ cried Elizabeth. ‘Who can it be? And the wash-house still all in puddles, and old Betsey King but just now arrived to help – surely it cannot be Tom Musgrave and his friend the lord, yet again?’

  ‘No,’ said Emma, shading her eyes against the sun, ‘for Tom Musgrave drives a curricle and this is a gig.’

  ‘A gig? Who can it possibly be? And they must be coming here – the road leads on no farther than our house. Good heavens! I must warn my father!’

  Elizabeth fled indoors, casting off her apron, and Emma soon followed her, pausing only to pick up a few scattered clothes-pegs.

  The front hall of Stanton Parsonage was small and dark, with doors opening on to the parlour and dining-room. When Emma arrived there, she found the hall apparently swarming with people, but most of them seemed to be very small; opening the parlour door to throw light on the scene she discovered that the morning visitors consisted of a lady and four children.

  ‘Mrs Blake!’ Elizabeth was saying in nervous, hasty tones that only imperfectly concealed her astonishment. ‘How very—! I am so—! But I must run upstairs to my father’s study and inform him. He will be so very – he is a trifle hard of hearing and most probably was not aware of your arrival. We are in a little disorder today as our old Nanny is ill – and I am only sorry that my brother and sisters are from home, which is such a pity, for it is probably they whom – but now you will pray excuse me if I go to inform my father – ah, there you are, Emma, why do you not take Mrs Blake into the parlour? There is sweet cake on the beaufet – perhaps the children – or they may like to try our baked apples, which are particularly good this year . . .’

  ‘Please do not put yourself out, dear Miss Watson,’ said Mrs Blake kindly. But Elizabeth, who dreaded and detested morning visits, had already fled upstairs.

  It was left to Emma, more collected and more at ease in company, to usher the unexpected guests into the parlour and offer them refreshments.

  Mrs Blake was a lively, pleasant-looking little woman of five- or six-and-thirty. Her dress was plain to a degree, but in admirable taste. Her children, three handsome little boys and a baby girl, resembled her to a marked extent, and all appeared very tidy and well-behaved. The boys clustered around their mother, the baby lay in her arms and gazed about her with silent interest.

  ‘I would have waited on you sooner, my dear Miss Emma,’Mrs Blake was saying, with a very pleasant, unaffected earnestness, ‘but two days ago I received a lightning visit from my husband. We naval wives, you know, cannot command our time, we are always liable to be swept from one side of the country to the other, or dropped in upon with no notice at all. And so it was in this instance – my husband wished to bring me news of his promotion in person – though he had but thirty-six hours in which to ride from Southampton and return there again.’

  ‘Papa is promoted captain,’ one of the smaller boys told Emma solemnly.

  ‘Is he indeed, my dear? That is very grand! I am so happy for you all.’

  Now Elizabeth returned, breathless and apologetic.

  ‘My father hopes that you will excuse him, Mrs Blake – but, you know, he is a sad invalid—’

  ‘Oh, my dear Miss Watson, I would not disturb him for the world. Besides – to tell truth, it was really your sister Miss Emma whom I am come to see – to thank her again for her unexampled kindness to my little Charles here.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Elizabeth, surprised, amid her hospitalities with the sweet cake and the baked apples. ‘I did not know. That is – what, when was this?’

  ‘Did Miss Emma not tell you about it? Fie, for shame! You hide your light under a bushel, my dear!’

  ‘It was so very trifling a matter,’ said Emma, smiling and blushing. ‘Anybody – anybody without a heart of stone would have done likewise.’

  ‘It was at the Assembly the other evening – when my poor boy here was disappointed of the two dances he had been promised by Miss Osborne – she choosing at the very last minute to renege on her engagement and dance with Colonel Beresford—’

  ‘—which, my mamma says, no true gentleman or lady would ever do,’ interposed little Charles, looking up at Elizabeth with serious grey eyes.

  ‘So, without an instant’s hesitation, Miss Emma steps forward. “I shall be very happy to dance with you, sir, if you like it,” says your sister – so sweetly – and restores all my poor boy’s happiness in a twinkling – did she not, Charles?’

  ‘Ay, indeed! We had a famous dance of it – did we not, Miss Emma? And, you know, you have promised, as well, to come and see the pony from the castle stable that I sometimes ride, and play at bilbo-catch, and walk out to look at the ice-house in Osborne Park, and see George’s and my great collection of horse-chestnuts.’

  ‘Indeed I have,’ said Emma, laughing. ‘And I will not go back on my promise, I assure you. I can take my afternoon walk in your direction on any fine day that you care to designate.’

  ‘Ay, it is not above a mile from here,’ agreed Elizabeth. ‘Mrs Blake’s is the small white house, Wickstead Cottage, not far inside Osborne Park gates – you may see it from the road.’

  ‘Or Charles and the children and I will be happy to come and fetch you,’ said Mrs Blake. ‘Shall we not, children?’

  ‘Yes, Mamma!’ they all chorused. ‘And now may we go and look at Miss Watson’s ducks on the pond?’

  ‘Another time, my dears,’ said their mother, rising to her feet. ‘For now I suspect that Miss Watson, on a busy Monday morning, is wishing us all at the other ends of the earth. Come, Charles – come, George, come, Frank – say your goodbye and we must be off.’

  Mrs Blake was as brisk as her words. In a moment she had her children marshalled and out of the house. But, climbing actively into the gig, she turned to say, ‘Oh, by the bye, Miss Emma, my brother asks to be remembered to you most kindly. The two dances he enjoyed with you are, he avers, by far the pleasantest recollections he has of the ball. And he was sorry not to be able to accompany me this morning, but had to ride out with Lord Osborne on an errand of Lady Osborne’s.’

  ‘It is of no consequence
– I mean – I am greatly obliged to Mr Howard,’ said Emma, colouring deeply.

  ‘Now we must be off. Come up, pony!’ And the gig dashed smartly away.

  ‘Well!’ said Elizabeth, turning back into the house. ‘What a thing! But how was it that you never told me about your dance with the little boy?’

  ‘I thought I had done so – that was how I came to dance with his uncle, Mr Howard, and I am sure I told you about that . . .’

  ‘Indeed you did, and I was very much astonished, for he is quite one of the great and grand ones. But his sister, I must say, seems to be very affable and unassuming, and I shall be glad of her further acquaintance.’

  ‘Only just now you wish her at the devil,’ said Emma laughing, ‘because she comes to the house on a Monday morning. Now – shall I take up our father’s egg-nog, or do you prefer to do that while I make a start on the ironing – I believe the cloths will now be full dry enough in this fine breeze.’

  ‘You take up his egg-nog, Emma, a pleasant chat with you is just what does him good at this time of day. And then you can come and get up the frills on the pillowcases and tuckers with the tongs, for that is what you excel at.’

  Elizabeth hurried back into the wash-house.

  Mr Watson was a small elderly clergyman who had once been robust, but was now very frail. He suffered severely from asthma, and had been obliged to relinquish many of his parish duties to others, but still conducted a service whenever he could. In appearance he strongly resembled his youngest daughter Emma, having her bright dark eyes, nut-shaped head, small stature, and clear brown complexion. But his scanty hair was now snow-white, soft as thistledown, and he bore a settled air of ill-health, though he was seldom heard to complain. He spent most of his days in a small, snug upstairs study on the sunny side of the house. His window commanded a pleasant prospect of the walled garden, the row of spruce firs, and the home meadow beyond, overhung by tall elm trees.

  ‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said, receiving the egg-nog from his youngest daughter. ‘It is very pleasant to hear voices of children again from downstairs. I only wish I were well enough to take more part in entertaining guests. But I find that to have Robert and his wife with us in the house is tiring enough, quite tiring enough, I cannot undertake more. Jane’s voice is so very loud and quick! It was civil, though, of Mrs Blake to call – very civil. Her brother, Mr Howard, is a man for whom I have a true respect, he is a scholar and a gentleman; I recall what a very pleasant, kindly attention he paid me only last week when, on the day of the Visitation, he helped me up the steep stair – it struck me as highly becoming in so young a man. By the bye, he made an inquiry, then, after one of my daughters – did I remember to tell you of that? I am not sure which one of you he had in mind, but I suppose you will know among yourselves . . .’

  ‘That was most obliging of Mr Howard,’ said Emma warmly. ‘And I like his sister extremely. Now I must leave you, Papa – if you have all that you require?–for it is not fair that poor Elizabeth should bear all the burden of the great wash on her shoulders.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear, yes indeed, I am well placed, and have all I need.’

  But, as Emma ran down the stairs, she was aghast to catch the sound of yet another set of carriage wheels on the gravel sweep outside the front door.

  Poor, poor Elizabeth! she thought. Who in the world can it be this time? On a Monday morning?

  Without pause or hesitation she ran to the front door and threw it wide. Perhaps whoever it was could be sent swiftly on their way . . .

  Outside, a barouche-landau was drawing to a halt, and a smartly uniformed groom had sprung down to open the carriage door.

  Out from the carriage emerged a couple who, at first sight, were utter strangers to Emma: a portly, red-faced elderly gentleman who walked slowly with a cane, and a very dashingly dressed lady with a great many feathers on her bonnet.

  The lady started violently at sight of Emma, and then exclaimed, in a shrill, affected voice: ‘Why, heavens above! Can this indeed be Emma – my little sister, Emma? Dear, sweet reminder of days long ago and our departed mother! What a charming surprise – what a gratifying encounter!’

  Emma stared, coloured, hesitated, and doubted.

  ‘Are you,’ she then ventured, ‘can you be my sister Penelope?’

  ‘Why yes, indeed, who else? Certainly I am she!’

  Emma’s last recollection of Penelope was as a rather plump, fair, ill-tempered girl of eleven, who ordered her younger sisters about a great deal, but was often in trouble herself for not completing her tasks. Could she have been transformed into this dazzlingly dressed fashionable stranger? But yes, the look of slight permanent ill-temper was still there, in the frown marks etched between her brows and the deep-cut lines at the corners of her mouth. At this moment, however, she was all smiles.

  ‘Ah, the dear old home,’ she sighed. ‘Humble, but so charming.’

  For once, Emma was quite as lacking in composure as her sister Elizabeth. ‘I – you – I did not – I think you were not expected?’ she stammered. ‘Will you – will you please to come in?’ Surely there had not been the least intimation that this arrival was impending? ‘I will summon Elizabeth directly – but I fear that Robert, Jane, and my sister Margaret are from home – have gone out for the day, paying calls on old friends – they will be back this evening, but . . .’

  But her heart sank at the thought of how all these people were to be accommodated. And who was the elderly gentleman? So far he had not spoken a word. But he was looking alertly about him.

  ‘So Robert and Jane are here as well? Why, that is capital – most advantageous – we can impart our joyful news to one and all at the same time!’ declared Penelope with a series of arch nods, a triumphant smile, and an expressive flutter of the eyelids. She bore, Emma now realized, quite a strong resemblance to Elizabeth in her colouring and shape of face, though she was a great deal plumper. Her lips were thinner, and her blue eyes smaller.

  Elizabeth, who had evidently been apprised of the new arrivals from her post in the back regions of the house, now made her appearance, looking flushed and harassed.

  ‘Good gracious! Penelope! This is wholly unexpected. Indeed we had not the least idea that you were about to return to us. Why—’

  ‘And nor did I myself! And neither am I returning!’ declared Penelope exultantly. ‘For – only fancy! – this is my husband, Eliza! This is Dr Harding!’ With a radiant smile. ‘And we are on our wedding journey, just passing by! But of course we felt that we must pause here in our itinerary so as to impart our festive tidings. Pray, where is my father?’

  ‘He is up in his book room,’ said Elizabeth, looking moithered, as if she had hardly yet taken in her sister’s words. ‘He spends most of his time there these days – of course I must summon him – dear me – the chaise had better go in the yard – had it not? Oh gracious me – your men? You must know that our poor old Nanny is laid up at present with a bad foot – I do not quite know . . . were you proposing to pass the night here? There is, of course, the attic – but I fear it may be sadly damp – my own room I already share with Emma, so – but of course we must turn out for you—’

  ‘Pray don’t put yourself in a pucker, my dear creature!’ cried Penelope gaily. ‘Our men may procure themselves a nuncheon at the Bird in Hand without giving the least trouble to anybody – and if you can find us the merest morsel of cold meat and a drop or two of Madeira . . .’

  ‘I will go to my father directly. Emma, pray do take them into the parlour.’

  Elizabeth disappeared up the stairs, plainly in need of a moment or so to collect her wits. Emma civilly ushered the new arrivals into the parlour, heartily wishing that she had thought to remove traces of the Blake children’s invasion before taking her father his egg-nog. There were cake-crumbs scattered on the floor, and three small dishes with spoons and traces of baked apple on the pembroke
table.

  ‘Ah, this dear old parlour!’ cried Penelope, quite in a rapture. ‘Scene of so many happy childhood hours. Quite half my life has been passed in this room, imagine it, Dr Harding!’

  Emma, reflecting that this could hardly be the case, since the family had moved to Stanton when she herself was four and Penelope ten, and she knew that Penelope and Elizabeth had been sent to boarding school in Epsom when they were eleven and fifteen respectively, invited the new-married pair to be seated.

  Dr Harding still seemed somewhat confused. He spoke at last.

  ‘Eh? Eh? Ahem? And – and who would you be then, young lady? One of Penelope’s sisters – eh? Is that it? I know that she has a deal of sisters?’

  He spoke with something of a north-country accent – Emma, wholly unfamiliar with those parts of the kingdom, knew not whether it might be Yorkshire, Cumbria or Scots. He seemed a kindly, unassuming, well-meaning person, a little dazed, perhaps, by the rapidity of the change that had overtaken him.

  ‘Yes – I am the youngest sister, Emma. And, later, you will meet Margaret, and our brother Robert, and Robert’s wife.’

  Her heart much misgiving her at the thought of such a gathering, Emma whisked away the apple saucers, and returned with the Madeira decanter, some biscuits, and a tray of glasses. By now she could hear her father’s slow footsteps on the stairs.

  ‘So you intend travelling still farther today?’ she inquired, breaking in on Penelope’s guided tour of the family miniatures round the parlour walls – but the Hardings’ destination that night seemed to her a point of high importance, essential to have established without loss of time. ‘May I ask whither you are bound?’

  ‘Why, my dear,’ cried Penelope, ‘you see, my husband’s daughter Martha, by his first marriage, is herself getting married – in Northampton, next week – and he, naturally, wishes to solemnize the occasion with his presence – and, believe it or not, Martha and I have not yet met.’

  ‘Surely you cannot expect to reach Northampton today?’