Emma: A Modern Retelling

11

On that Saturday, a few days after Emma’s meeting with Harriet Smith in the Highbury coffee shop, George Knightley called at Hartfield, as he did once or twice a week. These meetings tended to be spontaneous, with George dropping in without prior notice; he knew that Mr Woodhouse never went anywhere, and that he would therefore always find him in. Both of them enjoyed these visits; in spite of the age gap between them they found they were able to converse with all the ease and intimacy of coevals. This was because both Mr Woodhouse and George had that relatively rare talent of dealing with other people equally, without regard to age. For his part, Mr Woodhouse could talk to a seven-year-old with the same seriousness and respect as he could talk to a seventy-year-old; it simply made no difference to him, and he always felt slightly taken aback when a young person addressed him with deference or held back in a conversation.

‘I don’t see why age should make the slightest difference between people,’ he once said to Miss Taylor. ‘I suppose that people who’ve been around a bit longer know a bit more …’

‘Not all of them,’ interjected Miss Taylor. ‘There are some people who start off knowing very little about the world and end up years later knowing even less. Never underestimate the capacity of the human mind for ignorance.’

Mr Woodhouse found this very amusing. ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right. And, in addition to having a great capacity for ignorance, some people seem to enjoy concealing what they know. They act as if they are less intelligent and less well informed than they really are.’

‘Precisely,’ agreed Miss Taylor. ‘That particularly applies to politicians. Those people do not wish to appear elitist and seem to believe that to be well-informed and to speak correctly – that is, to use subjects, objects and verbs in their sentence, indeed to use sentences at all – is a sign of elitism and therefore to be avoided at all costs.’

‘Not me,’ said Mr Woodhouse.

Miss Taylor smiled. ‘I shall assume that the verb in that sentence you’ve just uttered is implied, and that the phrase that you had in mind was That doesn’t include … which would, of course, justify the use of the accusative me, rather than the nominative I. I assume that.’

‘Splendid stuff,’ said Mr Woodhouse.

Mr Woodhouse never had that sort of conversation with George Knightley, who was not really interested in the grammatical points from which Miss Taylor derived such enjoyment. He and George talked about just about everything else, though; George’s background was agricultural – he had a degree in land management from Exeter University – but he was interested in scientific matters too, and much appreciated the copies of Scientific American that Mr Woodhouse passed on to him after he had finished with them himself. They also talked about art, farming, national politics, and local affairs, although Mr Woodhouse knew relatively little about the last of these, as he never went out.

Although George Knightley bore some resemblance to his brother, John, the London photographer, the two men were in many respects very different. George was courteous and considered; he was tactful in his dealings with people, and he occupied his position as a substantial landowner with an unassuming modesty and a strong sense of social responsibility. He encouraged people to picnic and ride on his land, and had gone so far as to create a cycle track through his woods to allow local children to race their bicycles through the mud and over small, artificial hillocks specially created for them. The children loved this, as did the horse-riders who galloped across his fields or the kite-fliers who launched their kites from the parkland surrounding George’s house, Donwell Abbey.

Anglers were not forgotten. A good trout river ran through the land and fishing permits were granted on this to locals on the payment of two pounds – one pound in the case of boys and the retired. This liberality was appreciated even by the neighbourhood poachers, Ted and Morris Worsfold, who went so far as to report three outsiders who fished without first obtaining a permit. ‘There’s no excuse for poaching on that river,’ said Morris. ‘No excuse at all.’

His generosity went even further. Donwell Abbey, a substantial Strawberry Gothic building, was an ideal setting for a wedding. There was a large hall in which the ceremony could be conducted, and the walled garden to the west of the house was perfect for receptions if the weather allowed. A money-conscious owner would have recognised this potential and made the house available for rent for such purposes, but not George Knightley. Rather than charge for the use of the house, he made it available free as long as the bride or groom lived in Highbury or in one of the five villages within the immediate vicinity. This meant that a young couple without much money could have a wedding that would normally have cost thousands of pounds, allowing them to keep such funds as they had for the deposit on a mortgage or the purchase of furniture for their new home.

Such generosity may be unappreciated, as people often resent those who help them. This was not so here: everybody in Highbury liked George and passed on news of how he had helped this young couple or that; everybody knew that if a local cause needed help, then he was the first port of call, even if he was not always in a position to give a major donation.

The fact that he was a bachelor was regarded by many local women as a tragedy. ‘How can such a nice man still be single?’ people asked. ‘Why?’

There was a simple answer to this, although not many in the locality knew it. George might at this stage have been by himself, but this was not always so: for four years he had been closely involved with a woman a few years older than he was, Caroline Throke, a potter who lived in King’s Lynn. Caroline was an attractive redhead whom George had met when he was at university in Exeter, and with whom he had fallen in love. This had been reciprocated, and they had enjoyed four years together, although living separately. George spent weekends with her in King’s Lynn, and she came, although less frequently, to spend time with him in Donwell Abbey. They regularly went off on holiday to France or Italy and they had also spent two months travelling in India and Sri Lanka. They were ideally suited, their friends said, and nobody ever imagined that Caroline would suddenly fall for the young installer who came to fit the solar panels on her roof.

This solar-panel installer was called Ronnie, and he was good at his job. He had two main interests in life: solar energy and football. He was a supporter of Norwich United football team and prided himself on attending every game Norwich played, whether at home or away. He had a yellow scarf and a yellow sweater that he wore in honour of his team, which was known for its yellow colours. He also had a canary called Robert that he had bought in honour of the football team, which was fondly known as the Canaries. Ronnie still lived with his parents, and Robert filled their house with song from morning until evening, at which point a towel was draped over his cage to keep him quiet.

Caroline had made Ronnie a cup of tea when he first came to install the panels, and she had clumsily spilled some of this tea on his forearm. He had winced from the scalding, but had quickly recovered his composure and told her that it had not hurt at all and that he was always spilling tea over himself anyway. This reaction struck her as charming, and she had watched him thoughtfully as he climbed up his ladder and began to put the panel fixings on her tiled roof. By the time he came down from the roof two hours later, she realised that she was destined to become Ronnie’s lover. She knew nothing about him, but was drawn towards him by a curious force that made her feel like a swimmer in a powerful current. She could not struggle against it; she simply had to remain afloat while the current took her away. It was entirely physical.

Ronnie felt this too. He had lived with his parents long enough and wanted to have his own place. Here was an apparently unencumbered woman who was also attractive and friendly. He had noticed her watching him, and had correctly interpreted her gaze. He understood such looks, as he was undeniably attractive himself, and knew what it meant when people said something to you and then let their eyes linger on yours before they slipped down, as if drawn by some internal bodily gravity, to the chest. He knew what that meant.

Caroline was dismayed to discover that she felt so little for George as to be able to abandon him for a solar-panel installer whom she had just met. She did not deceive him, though, and she told him immediately.

‘I’m very sorry, George,’ she said. ‘I never thought this would happen, but it has. I’ve fallen for somebody else. I didn’t set out to; he came to me. It just happened, and rather than hurt you in any way by prolonging things, I’ve decided that we should each go our separate ways. I’m so sorry, George, because you’re the kindest, nicest man in Norfolk and I would never, never, do anything to cause you pain.’

Except leave me for a solar-panel installer, thought George, but did not say it, of course. Others were more direct. ‘She obviously wants a bit of rough,’ said one friend, adding, ‘Stupid girl.’ Another simply said, ‘D. H. Lawrence,’ and sighed.

George was resilient, and hid his sense of betrayal, but he had become wary, as people who are hurt by others may do. To some of his friends he now seemed to be slightly distant, to have become more of an observer than a participant; it was as if he was standing on the sidelines, watching, while others got on with the business of life – and of love. In many circumstances, when others might have commented on something, or joined in the cut and thrust of an argument or debate, George would hold back; he would smile in a slightly wry way and keep his views to himself. ‘Come on, George,’ they encouraged. ‘Tell us what you think. You must think something.’ He would not rise to the bait. ‘Of course I think something,’ he might say. ‘Who doesn’t think something?’

The truth of that observation was undeniable. We all think something, all the time – the human brain being so constructed – even if it is not necessarily of great consequence. This does not deter many of us, though, from sharing those thoughts – even those of decidedly little consequence.

There was one exception to this reticence, and that was in George’s relations with Mr Woodhouse, Miss Taylor, and with Emma herself. When he came to Hartfield, he appeared ready to relax and open up. Not only did he have wide-ranging conversations with Mr Woodhouse, but he also spoke freely to Miss Taylor and Emma, with whom he had developed a more relaxed relationship in recent years. Certainly, the distance that had existed between them during her childhood had faded, and they had become used to having fairly lengthy – and frank – chats during his Hartfield visits. So the exchange that took place between them on that Saturday, after George had said goodbye to Mr Woodhouse in his library and was making his way to the front door, was not atypical, even if the intensity with which views were expressed was rather unusual.

It started innocuously. Emma had been playing the piano. When, on leaving the music room, she bumped into George coming down the corridor, neither was surprised; she knew that he had been drinking tea and chatting with her father in the library, and he had heard her practising the piano when he arrived in the house.

‘I see that Emma’s playing Erik Satie,’ he said to Mr Woodhouse. ‘That’s one of the Gymnopédies, isn’t it?’

‘I believe it is,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘I don’t care for it very much. In fact, it gives me the creeps. It’s the sort of thing a spider would play if spiders played the piano.’

This amused George. ‘I suppose the intervals are a bit … how would one put it? Elongated? Yes. It’s meant to stretch the hands. And it’s languid – it’s certainly languid. It makes me think of Paris on a wet afternoon in a quiet time of the year. Drops of raining falling on the Seine. Cobbled stones. The streets quite empty, and faintly, drifting down from one of those mansard windows, the sound of somebody playing Satie.’

Mr Woodhouse’s eyes widened. ‘Spiders?’ he repeated, a note of concern on his voice. ‘I suppose that a piano is an ideal place for a spider to make a nest. All those nooks and crannies between the keys: a spider could well find it a very attractive place to be.’

George made a dismissive gesture. ‘Oh, surely not. What if the spider went for a walk about the sounding board and somebody started to play? He could be hit by the hammers coming down on the strings, couldn’t he? No, a piano would be a lethal place for a spider – let me assure you of that.’ He was aware of his friend’s tendency to anxiety, and sought to change the subject by asking about the long-range weather forecast that he knew Mr Woodhouse followed with some interest.

‘Not good,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘There are signs that a storm is building up out in the Atlantic and will be heading our way. There are bound to be people washed off beaches down in Cornwall. Why do they go there? Don’t they know it’s dangerous to stand within reach of waves when the sea is so rough? Why won’t people stay inside, George? Can you explain that to me? Why do they have to go and court danger?

The conversation had improved, of course, as it usually did after any initial issues had been disposed of, and after half an hour of talk about government policy on agricultural subsidies – a matter that had some effect on the finances of both friends – George said goodbye, insisting on showing himself out.

‘I know the way,’ he said. ‘And there’s nothing much that can happen to me in the corridor.

For a second or two a shadow passed over Mr Woodhouse’s face. But he said nothing, and George closed the library door behind him and began to make his way down the corridor. It was then that he heard the piano stop, Satie having been replaced by Beethoven’s ‘Für Elise’, not particularly well played. He hesitated, and then Emma appeared.

‘George,’ Emma exclaimed. ‘I have had an audience, it seems. And I thought that this was a purely private performance.’

George laughed. ‘I like your Satie. Your dad doesn’t, but I do.’

‘He has very conventional tastes, I’m afraid. Poor old Pops. He doesn’t really like anything twentieth century. It’s the same with opera. He goes for Mozart and so on. Not that he ever gets to see an opera these days.’

‘Maybe we could take him to one,’ said George. ‘We could go to Covent Garden. Perhaps even Glyndebourne, if we were feeling adventurous.’

‘It’s impossible to get tickets for Glyndebourne,’ said Emma. ‘You have to put yourself down years in advance. Do you know there are children of five on the waiting lists? Parents put them down for seats for when they’re eighteen. Can you believe it?’

‘No,’ said George. ‘I can’t.’

‘I can’t imagine thinking that far in advance,’ said Emma. ‘It’s like planting an oak tree. You know that you’re not going to be around to enjoy it, but you still do it.’

‘And just as well that people take that view,’ said George. ‘Otherwise we wouldn’t have …’ He waved a hand in the direction of Ely. ‘Otherwise we wouldn’t have cathedrals.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Emma. ‘Perhaps you’re right. But I still find it hard to worry about things that are going to happen after I’m gone. Global warming, for instance.’

‘That’s happening right now,’ said George. ‘That’s not the future – that’s the present.’

‘Oh well,’ said Emma. ‘Did Pops offer you any cake? Mrs Firhill’s been baking and we have cake coming out of our ears.’

‘He did, thanks very much. I had two slices.’

They walked together towards the front door. In the hall, standing beneath the large Venetian canal scene – ‘our non-Canaletto’ as Mr Woodhouse called it – George remarked that he had seen Harriet Smith in the village with a group of English Language students from Mrs Goddard’s.

‘She’ll have been showing them the way to the railway station,’ said Emma.

George frowned. ‘Railway station?’

‘A metaphor,’ said Emma lightly. ‘There are real railway stations, of which we have none in the village, and metaphorical railway stations, of which we have as many as anybody else – perhaps more.’

George smiled. ‘Emma, you’re very opaque sometimes.’

‘At least I’m not transparent,’ said Emma. ‘I should hate to be seen through.’ She paused. ‘So you saw Harriet Smith?’

‘Yes. And then, when I went into that new coffee place, she was there – by herself now.’

‘I see.’

‘I had coffee with her. We had an interesting chat.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes. She has an interesting story, that girl.’

Emma was intrigued. She had been hoping to get Harriet’s story out of her, but no opportunity to do that had presented itself so far. Could George tell her?

‘I didn’t hear it from her,’ he said. ‘I heard it from Mrs Goddard. She and I are on the Lifeboats Committee – we raise money for them, you know. Anyway, she told me a bit about her.’

‘Is she a sort of orphan?’ asked Emma. ‘Or not quite an orphan, but heading towards being an orphan?’

George smiled. ‘You could put it that way. Mind you, you could say that about everybody, couldn’t you? All of us are either orphans already or destined to become orphans.’

‘But what about Harriet?’ pressed Emma.

‘It’s a very strange story. Her mother, apparently, had a dance studio in Chichester: the sort of place where little girls go to ballet lessons, with floors covered in French chalk – that sort of thing. Anyway, she was unmarried and there was no prospect of anybody turning up. But she wanted a child – pretty desperately, apparently. That’s understandable, of course. And so she looked for a man who would oblige.’

Emma smiled. ‘There are such men,’ she said, adding, ‘So I’m told.’

‘Not in the usual way,’ George went on. ‘This was a case of home-based artificial insemination.’

Emma drew in her breath: Harriet had been an AID child. She knew, of course, that such people existed, but she had never met one.

George continued with his story. ‘This fellow, apparently, did the decent thing, and the result was Harriet. But there was a firm agreement in place, as I believe there often is in these cases, that his identity would be kept secret. And you can understand that.’

‘Of course,’ said Emma.

‘Because if you didn’t have that, then you wouldn’t get donors to donate, would you? A man could find himself faced with quite a few children if he’d been helpful more than once.’

‘I can see that,’ said Emma. ‘But then what happened next?’

‘Just a couple of years ago, when Harriet was eighteen, her mother died and she found herself …’

‘… alone in the world,’ supplied Emma.

George ignored the provocation. He had been about to say exactly that, and he saw nothing wrong with the expression. ‘Yes,’ he said, and thought: And you could find yourself alone in the world too, Emma. ‘The dance studio was sold and raised a bit of money, but that wasn’t really enough to keep Harriet. Mrs Goddard came to the rescue. She and Harriet’s mother had been penfriends when they were children, and had kept up with each other. She effectively took Harriet in.’

‘Poor Harriet,’ she said.

‘Well, at least she had somewhere to live,’ said George. ‘And then came the big surprise. Harriet was contacted by a lawyer in London, who said he was acting on behalf of a client who did not want his identity revealed. He was, the lawyer explained, the man who had helped Harriet’s mother to become pregnant. He was the father.’

Emma listened enrapt as George continued.

‘All that the lawyer would reveal was that this man was a teacher. He did not have a great deal of money but he wanted to make a contribution to his daughter’s expenses until she was in a full-time job. He said that he would pay a small sum into her bank account each month. He wished he could give more, but he couldn’t.’

Emma let out her breath. ‘Astonishing,’ she said.

George agreed. ‘So there are least some decent people left,’ he said.

‘Does she know?’ Emma asked. ‘Does she know that the person sending her money is her father?’

‘Yes.’

‘But does she know that he’s only her father in a biological sense?’

He shrugged. ‘What does it matter? The biology’s much the same whether it’s a natural or assisted conception.’

‘So she doesn’t know how she was conceived?’

‘Apparently not. She thinks that her mother had an affair with the man who was her father.’

‘I’m glad,’ said Emma. ‘It must be difficult to accept something like that about yourself.’

He did not agree. ‘I don’t see it that way,’ he said. ‘I really don’t see that it matters a damn how one comes into existence.’

George now made for the door. ‘You won’t tell her, will you?’

Emma promised him that she would not say a word to Harriet.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘She’s a nice girl and I wouldn’t like to think of her being distressed. I suspect her life is hard enough as it is. Mind you …’

Emma waited.

‘Mind you, she’s having a bit of romance, at least. There’s that boy from the little hotel outside the village.’

‘B&B,’ said Emma quickly. ‘Actually, it’s a B&B.’

‘Well, it’s him, anyway: Robert Martin. His father happens to rent one of my fields. They have a couple of Jacob’s sheep they keep there. He said to me – the father, that is – that his son was cock-a-hoop because he was going to have dinner with Harriet in a Chinese restaurant. Apparently the father had never seen his boy so happy.’

A trace of a smile appeared on Emma’s face. ‘No, he’s not,’ she said.

‘Not what?’

‘If he thinks he’s having dinner with Harriet Smith, he’s got another thing coming,’ she said. ‘She’s going to cry off.’

George seemed to be intent on examining the non-Canaletto. ‘Oh yes?’ he muttered. ‘She’s told you that, I suppose.’

‘She has,’ said Emma. ‘She’s already texted him to let him know. No Chinese restaurant. No date. That’s it.’

George turned round gradually. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘And you had nothing to do with that, Emma?’

Emma’s eyes were wide with innocence. ‘Me? I’m not the one he invited.’

‘That’s not the question I asked. I asked you whether you had anything to do with Harriet’s refusal of his invitation?’ He was staring directly at her now, and she flinched. ‘Did you?’

Her reaction had given him his answer. ‘Emma, you disappoint me,’ he said.

Now injured innocence returned. ‘I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Knightley.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t call me Knightley,’ he snapped.

‘But that’s who you are,’ she replied. And then smiled sweetly. ‘It’s fond, I promise you. It’s not formal.’

He looked at his watch. ‘I have to go, I’m afraid. Somebody’s coming to see me at Donwell.’

‘I wouldn’t want to keep you,’ said Emma.

He showed no signs of leaving. ‘All I’d be interested to know is this: what have you got against Robert Martin?’

Had Emma not answered, George’s departure might have been less acrimonious. But she did answer.

‘He’s not up to her,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’

It took a few moments for this to sink in. Then he said, ‘I simply don’t believe what I’m hearing. Not up to her? Not up to Harriet Smith?’

She was too far committed, and decided to stand her ground. ‘No, he isn’t. He’s a sort of waiter in a B&B. You may think that’s fine, but I don’t. If she went off with him – and just think of it for a moment – if she went off with Robert Martin, what would she become? I’ll tell you. She’d be working in the parental B&B with him, that’s what.’

George drew in his breath. ‘He hasn’t asked her to marry him, for God’s sake. He’s asked her to a meal in a Chinese restaurant. And, anyway, what exactly is wrong with working in a B&B?’

Emma laughed. This was a mistake.

‘Oh, you think that’s funny,’ said George, his voice rising. ‘What do you do, Emma Woodhouse? What useful contribution do you make to society?’

He regretted it the moment he said it. He was surprised, too, at the pain this exchange caused him. He was prepared to have an argument when the occasion called for one, but he did not want to argue with Emma, because … He was not sure why. Because he was fond of her? How fond? he asked himself.

‘And you?’ she retorted. ‘What do you do?’

There was something in her tone that made him want to fight back. ‘I run a farm – quite a successful one, in fact. It provides three people with a job.’ Now there were short, angry phrases. ‘I am responsible for that. I also run the house, which provides two jobs and a lot of work for local tradesmen.’ He knew he sounded pompous, but he could not help himself.

‘I run this house,’ retorted Emma.

‘And Robert Martin, whom I happen to know, is a perfectly decent young man. That girl is nothing out of the ordinary, Emma. She’s not exactly Einstein.’

Emma hesitated, uncertain as to whether or not to mention Harriet’s C in drama. She decided against it. ‘Einstein!’ she retorted. ‘And him?’

‘What makes her so special? Go on, tell me; I’m waiting. What makes her better than him?’

‘She’s gorgeous,’ said Emma. ‘That’s point one. And sweet. That’s point two. And she could do far better than this boring young man from a two-star B&B. Point three.’ She paused. ‘Yes, two-star. I looked it up.’

George moved towards the door. He looked agitated, and his face was flushed red. ‘Has it occurred to you that you’re a snob?’

The insult did not seem to disturb Emma unduly, but it had a surprising effect on him. The effect was erotic, and it was all he could do to prevent himself gasping.

Emma was smiling, as if she were enjoying the affray. ‘Because I want something better for my friend? That makes me a snob, does it?’

He opened the door, struggling to cope with his conflicting – and disturbing – feelings. His Land Rover was outside. Emma noticed that there was mud splashed across the front of the vehicle. ‘You should wash your car,’ she said.

He shot her an injured glance, and walked out of the door. Halfway to the vehicle, he turned and called out to her. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost my temper. I’m very sorry.’

Emma came out of the house towards him. ‘And I’m sorry too. I don’t want to fight with you. I really don’t.’

He swallowed hard. ‘I think sometimes you’re a bit harsh on people – that’s all.’

‘I was just trying to protect Harriet.’

He stared at her. ‘Were you?’ He answered his own question immediately. ‘All right, you were. I just think you’re wrong about Robert Martin. Let’s leave it at that.’

Her relief was evident. ‘Yes, let’s leave it at that.’ She smiled at him. ‘You know, I could wash your poor Land Rover for you. Sid has got one of those high-pressure thingies. I rather like using it. The water goes round and round in a circle, shoots out. I could get the mud off.’

‘Mud sticks,’ said Mr Knightley.

She did not hear him. ‘What?’

‘I said: mud sticks.’

He got into the Land Rover, waved – unenthusiastically, thought Emma – and drove off. She had not felt it during their sparring, but now she felt the rawness that followed from the argument. Disagreements, even with people she knew, made her feel like that – shocked, perhaps, at the animus that can lie behind mere words. She was surprised, though, by the intensity of her dismay over the fact that George had expressed disappointment in her. Why should she care what he thought? Why should she bother if she had somehow fallen short of whatever standards he had mentally created for her? It was as if she had been moved in some way by the encounter, and that made her feel uneasy in a way that she neither expected nor fully understood. It was unease, yes, but it was something else, she thought – and she was not quite sure what that something else was.

Turning round, she went back into the hall. Her father was there, standing under the non-Canaletto, but looking at his daughter rather than at the painting.

‘You look like a Doge, Pops,’ said Emma.

Mr Woodhouse frowned. Doge? ‘Did you and George have some sort of disagreement?’

‘A very small one,’ said Emma. ‘About nothing.’

‘I heard raised voices, you see. I wondered if it was Sid shouting at somebody. You know how he shouts at people sometimes.’

‘We weren’t shouting,’ Emma reassured him. ‘We were having a heated discussion.’

‘About what?’

Emma shrugged. ‘A Chinese restaurant. Nothing important.’

Mr Woodhouse was gazing at her affectionately. ‘You’re a very odd girl, Emma. But you’re my little darling, aren’t you? You’re your daddy’s darling, and I’m really proud of you.’

‘Unlike your other daughter?’ teased Emma. ‘Unlike my fecund sister?’

‘I’m proud of her too.’ The look of satisfaction faded. ‘Although she lives in London.’

‘You never know, Pops. People who live in London often come to their senses and move out. Isabella could do the same.’

Mr Woodhouse shook his head. ‘She won’t. And all my little grandchildren will talk like cockneys. All drop their h’s and swallow the ends of words.’ He shook his head again. ‘So much for education.’

‘That’s nothing to do with education, Pops. It’s the culture. That’s what happens. Isabella herself is losing her h’s. When she comes here for the weekend, I find them all over the place once she leaves. Loads of them. Dropped with utter abandon.’

‘You’re teasing me,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘These things are serious.’

‘You’re right, Pops. Now, how about a little walk round a few of our acres? You need to take more exercise, you know. You have to keep your brain in good shape.’

He crossed the hall and took her arm. ‘You’re right. A little walk would do us both good. Although …’ He stepped aside to allow her through the door first.

‘Although what?’

‘Although when it comes to the brain,’ he said, ‘we would probably be spending our time better if we sat down to a plate of smoked salmon.’

‘Oh come on, Pops, I thought that was an old wives’ tale: fish being good for the brain and all that. It’s the sort of thing you hear Mrs Firhill saying.’

Mr Woodhouse wagged a finger at her. ‘She may be right, you know. Omega-three oils. Has it ever occurred to you that Mrs Firhill might be right?’

‘No,’ said Emma. ‘It hasn’t.’ But then she thought: Listen to me!

She turned to face her father. He was looking at her with amusement in his eyes, but with a trace of sorrow, too, perhaps.

‘No, maybe she is right.’

‘Mrs Firhill?’

‘Yes, maybe she is right … about fish …’ She hesitated, before adding, ‘And other things too.’

He reached out and took her hand, silently.