Emma: A Modern Retelling

13

It was about this time that Jane Fairfax came to stay with her aunt, the unfortunate Miss Bates, and her grandmother, the even more unfortunate Mrs Bates. The two Bateses lived in the centre of the village, in circumstances that were cramped both physically and financially. It was widely believed that both of them had suffered a serious financial loss at more or less the same time – a loss that obliged them to exchange a comfortable existence for an uncertain life of near-indigence. The financial loss was said to have come about when they had both been persuaded by a helpful relative to become Lloyd’s Names – private backers of insurance syndicates who, in return for standing behind the contracts, took a share of the often very considerable profits. They did this and prospered considerably in the first year of the investment, only to be rudely reminded the following year of the unlimited personal liability that the system entailed should claims paid out exceed premiums paid in. Re-insurance could take the sting out of most losses, but occasionally events just became too much, and the Names had to make good the deficit. People said that the loss of a ship off the Horn of Africa, closely followed by the grounding of a tanker on a reef off Kochi, consumed most of Mrs Bates’s capital. A series of destructive storms in Taiwan and Japan did the same for her daughter’s.

The response of Mrs Bates to this change in her fortunes was to more or less lose the power of speech. From being an enthusiastic conversationalist, she withdrew into a world of brooding silence, rarely opening her mouth other than to make occasional requests of her daughter. Miss Bates may have been upset by what had happened, but did not appear as traumatised as her mother. She had always been optimistic and cheerful, and continued to be so, very rarely, if ever, referring to their reduced circumstances, and bearing the indignities of genteel poverty – turned blouse collars, for instance – with remarkable fortitude.

Jane Fairfax’s own circumstances were similarly straitened. She was an orphan, and her misfortune was therefore twice that of Emma or Frank Churchill, both of whom had lost only one parent. She had, however, been supported by a generous and understanding family, the Campbells, who had made it their business to ensure that she was given a good general education and, most importantly, piano lessons. That, however, was all that they could provide, and Jane was every bit as hard up as Harriet Smith – more so, perhaps, as, unlike Harriet, she had not been working. Teaching English as a foreign language was her destiny too, it seemed, and she would be looking for a suitable job doing that at the end of the summer.

Emma had not met Jane Fairfax before, but had heard a great deal about her from Jane’s aunt. Miss Bates would talk on any topic with an equal degree of pleasure, but when it came to the subject of Jane her enthusiasm seemed to know no bounds. There were no limits, it appeared, to Jane’s talents, and her musical ability, in particular, had always been prodigious. ‘I’m not saying she’s Mozart,’ Miss Bates gushed. ‘I’m not saying that at all.’

But you are, thought Emma. That’s just what you’re saying.

‘Put it this way,’ Miss Bates continued. ‘She has just the sort of ear that Mozart had. And it’s the ear, you know, that counts.’ Miss Bates said this to Emma without any intention of implying that Emma could never approach Jane’s level of accomplishment, but that was the way that Emma, and those who overheard the comment, understood her remark.

‘And do you know something?’ Miss Bates continued, ‘She’s the most amazing cook! Yes, our Jane. As you know, Mother and I are simple eaters and pick at our food.’

Except when you come to dinner with us, thought Emma. Then you make up for it.

‘She’s one of those artistic cooks,’ continued Miss Bates. ‘She transforms a plate – positively transforms it. And it’s not just the look of the food that’s so wonderful – those dribbles of sauce and so on – it’s the flavours too. My dear, the flavours! Do you like truffle oil? I certainly do, although Mother’s a bit suspicious of it – she says that it smells a bit like the socks that she wore at school. I know what she means, although we had nylon, which isn’t terribly comfortable but doesn’t smell quite as bad, although I think it’s something to do with the sort of skin you have. But Jane works wonders with it. She takes the tiniest slice of truffle – a fragment, really – and uses it to infuse olive oil with the most delicate perfume. I can’t imagine where she got this from because I gather that Mrs Campbell keeps a very simple kitchen, just as Mother and I do.’

‘Perhaps she went on a course,’ offered Emma. ‘Or maybe she spends a lot of time watching those cookery programmes on television. Some people watch an awful lot of those, I think.’

If there was any criticism here of those who watched too much cookery television – which there was – it was lost on Miss Bates. ‘Oh, I think she’s been on one of those,’ she said. ‘There was some sort of competition, and Jane won, not surprisingly, I suppose. Mother and I watched her on television. “There’s Jane,” I shouted out, because Jane was far too modest to warn us she would be on. “There’s Jane, Mother!” And Mother, who’s a bit short-sighted at the best of times, tried terribly hard to see Jane, but I think was confused by all those lights on the set – studio lights are so bright. It must be as hot as the Sahara in there, with all those bulbs. Poor Mother thought that one of the cooking pots was Jane, and although one may laugh about it now, I suppose it was a mistake that was made easily enough, with all that glare and the shape of the human head – not Jane’s in particular, but of all heads – being not all that dissimilar to a cooking pot.’

There had been many such conversations, and on several occasions Emma had had to bite her tongue to avoid giving voice to her thoughts about the remarkable Jane Fairfax. If she were so talented, she asked herself, then what was she doing spending three months of summer cooped up with aged relatives in a two-bedroom cottage in Highbury? Why was she not in London, or even New York, impressing people there with her musical and culinary skills? And if she were as brilliant academically as Miss Bates claimed – ‘Jane has not thought it necessary to do any A levels,’ her aunt had boasted. ‘She is well beyond them, you know’ – then why were universities not falling over themselves to offer her a place, fully funded of course? No, thought Emma, this Jane Fairfax is impossible – she simply cannot be.

It was not until Jane had been in Highbury for several days that Emma decided that the time was right to pay Miss Bates a visit. It was not the aunt she wished to see, of course, but the niece, the news of whose arrival had quickly spread through the surrounding area.

It was Miss Taylor who told Emma of Jane’s arrival. ‘I met her,’ she said as she stopped to speak to Emma in the High Street. ‘It was a brief meeting, but …’

Emma was impatient for news. ‘Tell all,’ she urged. ‘Everything.’

Miss Taylor watched her. She knew Emma. ‘She’s fairly attractive,’ she said. ‘Dark hair. High cheekbones. A bit exotic – in a refined sort of way.’

‘Oh,’ said Emma. Her curiosity was now more aroused than ever. This Jane Fairfax, with her high cheekbones, might liven Highbury up a bit.

‘But she has a rather – how shall I put it? – a rather yearning look to her.’

Emma’s eyes widened. ‘I wonder what she’s yearning after. Or who.’ She remembered that she was in the presence of her governess, for whom grammar mattered. ‘Or even whom. Or do you think one can just yearn in general, without any particular object for your yearning?’

Miss Taylor smiled at the thought. ‘Possibly. Perhaps she’s had some disappointment – or more than one.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Emma. ‘It must be fairly disappointing being Miss Bates’s niece, poor girl. One might feel that one could have been allocated a more exciting aunt in life.’

‘I’m sure that she’s very fond of her aunt – and her grandmother.’

‘Possibly.’

‘Not possibly,’ said Miss Taylor firmly. ‘Highly likely.’ She paused. ‘It’s useful to remember that it’s only a matter of chance that we are who we are, you know. You could be Jane Fairfax, for instance. You’re not, as it happens, but that’s only a matter of the purest chance. We do not choose the bed we are born in.’

Emma said nothing. Now Miss Taylor seemed to relent, and softened. ‘There’s something else,’ she said.

With the argument about genetic chance out of the way, an almost conspiratorial tone – the sort of tone that accompanies the revealing of sensitive or surprising information – crept into the conversation.

‘Yesterday,’ began Miss Taylor. ‘Yesterday afternoon, to be precise, a van drew up outside Miss Bates’s cottage.’

‘Her things?’ suggested Emma. ‘Jane’s impedimenta?’

They both smiled. Impedimenta was a word that Miss Taylor had taught Emma and Isabella when they were very small. The playroom is littered with your impedimenta. Please tidy it. They had loved the sound of it, and had named a kitten ‘Impedimenta’.

‘No,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘Not her impedimenta. I imagine that she has not brought a great amount of impedimenta with her – there wouldn’t be room in the cottage. No, it was a piano.’

Emma’s eyes widened. ‘They’ve got hold of a piano just because she’s coming to stay?’

Miss Taylor shook her head. ‘No. That’s what I thought to begin with. But then I happened to meet Miss Bates in the greengrocer’s the following day and I asked her about it. She said that it was a gift that somebody had sent to Jane. That was all. I asked her who had sent it, but she just ignored my question – you know how she can be when she’s prattling away about something. She went straight off the subject and started talking about growing kiwi fruit in Cornwall or some other such nonsense.’

‘What sort of piano was it?’ asked Emma.

‘A Yamaha,’ answered Miss Taylor. ‘I saw it because I was walking past just as the men were unloading it. Two young men covered in tattoos. They brought it out on a sort of trolley thing – pianos can be terribly heavy, even for those with tattoos. It was a spanking new Yamaha.’

‘A Yamaha,’ muttered Emma. ‘Upright?’

‘They’d never get a grand in that place,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘Not even a baby grand.’

‘It doesn’t really matter,’ said Emma. ‘A new Yamaha will sound really good. They do. It’s a bright sound, quite different from my old Collard and Collard.’

‘There is nothing wrong with English pianos,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘They are reticent for a reason – just like the English themselves. But the crucial question we might ask ourselves is this: Who would have bought Jane Fairfax a piano?’

It was the crucial question, and it hung in the air for almost a minute, as crucial questions can do, defeating both Miss Taylor and Emma. Of all the things that one might buy for another, a piano was perhaps the least obvious.

Miss Taylor finally had a suggestion; at least one possibility could be eliminated. ‘Those people who’ve been looking after her? What’s their name again? The Campbells? Are they the sort to buy pianos? As gifts? No, I suspect that they’re the sort of people who have never bought anybody a piano.’

Emma agreed; the Campbells sounded very solid to her. ‘Maybe she has a man. A sugar daddy – the kind of man who goes around buying young women pianos.’ She paused. ‘One reads about such things. And isn’t there a song? “Have a pi-ano, m’dear, m’dear …” ’

‘Pianos, Madeira … it all comes down to the same thing, doesn’t it?’ said Miss Taylor. ‘But I don’t think we should presume anything about sugar daddies.’

‘Why not?’ asked Emma. ‘If it’s a reasonable presumption, then why shouldn’t we presume it?’

‘Because it’s uncharitable,’ said Miss Taylor.

‘Does charity require one to close one’s eyes to the obvious?’ challenged Emma.

‘Maybe,’ said Miss Taylor.

Miss Bates greeted Emma warmly. ‘I must say,’ she enthused, ‘it’s so nice to see you again, Emma. I love it when you pop in like this, even if, as happens to be the case, I haven’t a crumb to offer you. I baked some scones yesterday and there were at least seven in the tin but now … It’s Mother, I’m afraid; when she sees a cheese scone, something comes over her and she doesn’t seem to be able to control herself. She becomes like a woman possessed; like a wild beast, I might go so far as to say. So there are no scones, I’m afraid. Not one.’

‘Please, Miss Bates,’ said Emma. ‘I haven’t come for scones. I’ve come to see you. Scones were the last things on my mind.’

Miss Bates looked pleased. ‘Well, that’s nice to hear. And I must say, I always love having a chat, and today, well, today, I have a special surprise for you.’

From within the house, from beyond the door that led from the small hallway into the cottage’s sitting room, Emma heard the sound of a piano. She knew what to say. ‘The radio’s on,’ she said. ‘Classic FM?’

Miss Bates gave a shriek of laughter. ‘Classic FM! Oh, Jane will be very tickled by that when I tell her. Mind you, it’s not surprising that you should mistake her playing for the radio.’ She paused to take breath before continuing. ‘No, my niece, Jane – I believe I’ve told you about her.’

‘Many times,’ said Emma.

‘Well, Jane is here with us now for a whole three months. Three months! Mother and I are deliriously happy at the thought of all that time with her. We have such plans for the things we’ll do together. We might even go to London for the day – well, Mother obviously can’t go to London, but Jane and I could. We thought that we might give Mother one of her sleeping pills in the morning rather than the evening so she will sleep all the time while we’re away and won’t be anxious. Perhaps two pills would be better, just to make sure.’

Emma wanted to laugh at the thought of Miss Bates drugging her mother, but controlled herself. ‘I didn’t realise you had a piano, Miss Bates,’ she said. ‘And it sounds lovely.’

‘It’s Jane’s piano,’ said Miss Bates. ‘Neither Mother nor I play.’

‘So she brought it with her?’

Miss Bates hesitated. ‘Not exactly. The piano arrived a day or two after she did. She’s been playing a great deal since then – not that she has to practise very much, of course. I must say that I—’

Emma cut her off. ‘So she bought the piano recently?’

Miss Bates blinked. ‘It’s a Yamaha. Do you know that sort? I thought that Yamahas were motorbikes, but apparently they’re pianos as well. They’re very ingenious people, the Japanese. It’s remarkable how they manage to make pianos and motorbikes in the same factory, isn’t it? I do hope they don’t get them mixed up from time to time – it would only be human, after all, to put some of the wrong parts in the wrong place. Good heavens, I’ve done it myself in the kitchen often enough. Do you know The Mikado, Miss Woodhouse? I love Gilbert and Sullivan and The Mikado is one of my absolute favourites. I was in a school production of it, you know – I was Yum-Yum, who, as you’ll know, was engaged to Ko-Ko. It’s such a colourful operetta, I think, and I also believe it teaches us so much about Japan. Perhaps Jane will play us some Mikado on her Yamaha, which will be very appropriate, don’t you think?’

‘Where did she get it?’ asked Emma quickly. ‘Where?’

Miss Bates closed her eyes again. It was as if she had not heard the question. ‘I think we should go through to see Jane now,’ she said. ‘Don’t you?’

Emma, realising she would never get Miss Bates to address the issue, said that she was very much looking forward to meeting Jane. Miss Bates smiled conspiratorially, and moved towards the sitting-room door. Knocking gently, but not waiting for a reply, she pushed it open.

Emma saw Jane seated at the piano, an album of music before her on the stand. As the door opened, Jane stopped playing mid-phrase and turned round on the stool.

‘Look who’s come to see you,’ said Miss Bates triumphantly. ‘Emma Woodhouse herself!’

Emma moved forward to greet Jane. ‘I didn’t want to stop you playing the piano,’ she said. ‘You’re very good.’ Then she added, ‘I’m Emma.’

Jane blushed. ‘Oh no, I’m not all that good. I’m hopeless.’

‘No,’ exclaimed Miss Bates. ‘You are not hopeless, Jane. You are very, very good. Emma here thought that it was Classic FM playing. She really did; didn’t you, Emma? Your very words: Classic FM.’

Emma could not miss Jane’s embarrassment. ‘I’m sure you’re good enough for that,’ she said.

Jane now stood up and Emma, in a single, lingering glance, took in the new arrival. She was about her own height, but with a more boyish figure. She was wearing a pair of blue denim jeans and a creased white linen top of the sort sold in ethnic clothing stores. There were heavy silver bangles on her right wrist – Indian, thought Emma. And as far as her manner was concerned, there was a reserve about her, she felt; a slightly distant air. Was that the yearning that Miss Taylor had mentioned?

Miss Bates suggested tea. ‘Mother has eaten all the scones,’ she said to Jane. ‘We’re going to have to start hiding them.’

‘My grandmother loves cheese scones,’ Jane explained to Emma. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Emma, and then, casually, ‘I love your new piano. I’m a little bit envious. In fact I’m green with envy. Deep green.’

Jane put a finger on one of the keys. ‘It has a lovely tone.’

‘We’ve got an ancient Collard and Collard,’ said Emma. ‘It stays in tune for ages, but it’s a lot quieter than your Yamaha.’

‘I’m sure it’s very nice,’ said Jane.

Emma stepped forward to touch the wood of the casing. ‘I don’t know how they get this deep shine on these things. It’s lovely.’

‘Yes,’ said Jane.

‘Where did you buy it?’ Emma asked. ‘Do you mind my asking?’

She noticed that Jane exchanged a glance with her aunt before she answered. ‘It was a present,’ she said.

‘A present! That’s wonderful. I wish somebody would give me a present of a piano.’

Jane smiled. ‘Perhaps they will.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Emma. Then, after a few moments’ hesitation, she continued, ‘A pretty generous friend.’

Jane reached forward to close the lid on the keyboard. ‘Yes, it was very generous.’

Emma laughed. ‘Where does one find a friend like that, I wonder?’

Jane said nothing.

Emma laughed again. ‘Maybe you could introduce us. My piano is so old.’

Jane hesitated. She had been looking away from Emma, but now she met her gaze. ‘It’s actually very strange,’ she said quietly. ‘I don’t know who gave it to me. It was … how would you describe it? An anonymous gift, I suppose.’ She paused. ‘Look, I’ll go and make the tea.’

‘I’ll do that, dear,’ offered Miss Bates.

‘No, let me,’ Jane insisted.

Emma could tell that Jane wished to avoid any further discussion of the piano, and wondered whether she had been too insistent. But it was perfectly reasonable, she thought, to be interested in the source of another’s good fortune. That was not nosiness – it was sympathy, and that was a very different thing, and nothing to reproach oneself over.

Emma sat and listened to Miss Bates while Jane was out of the room although she did not bother to follow closely the twists and turns of what was said. When Jane came back into the room, Miss Bates was talking about cochineal beetles, although Emma had no idea how that subject had arisen.

‘The interesting thing, Emma,’ said Miss Bates, ‘is that it was the Aztecs who developed cochineal cultivation. They were the ones who raised beetles on cactuses. That’s how the Spaniards got hold of the cochineal for their lovely red dyes. Red dye, you see, was frightfully expensive, which is why red was associated with power. Cardinals wore it. Kings and princes. Charles V of Spain loved it – absolutely loved it – although he had that ridiculous Hapsburg jaw. Apparently he had great difficulty keeping his mouth shut because his jaw was so heavy, poor man.’

‘Some people do find that difficult,’ muttered Emma.

‘What? Having a heavy jaw? Oh yes, these hereditary things can be so difficult. Or they can be good, if it’s a good trait being passed on – like memory. Mountbatten had an amazing memory apparently, and I think Her Majesty herself is pretty good at remembering things. She has all those prime ministers to remember – all those different countries – and she remembers them all apparently. Can you believe it? She talks to all those people and never loses her temper with them, when most of us would be tempted to say, “Oh, do shut up.” I’d never be a good politician, you know, because sooner or later I’d say, “Oh, do shut up,” and it would be all over the press and I’d have to make a public apology. I feel so sorry for politicians, having to control themselves and never being allowed to tell people to shut up, whatever the provocation. They have to say things like: “Thank you for sharing that with me,” when all along they want to say, “Oh, do shut up.” Why, Jane, here you are; that was quick.’

Jane poured the tea.

‘You must come and see me at Hartfield,’ said Emma as she took a sip. There was a small chip on of the rim of her cup, she noticed, and a crack in the saucer had been glued in an amateurish way. This was all a result of being a Lloyd’s Name; perhaps there were former Lloyd’s Names up and down the country drinking tea out of chipped cups, struggling to glue broken saucers, all reduced by the insurance market to such straits.

‘I’d love to come,’ said Jane. ‘I’ve heard a great deal about it.’

‘Do you play tennis?’ asked Emma. ‘We’ve got a tennis court. It’s a bit in need of TLC, I’m afraid, but you can still play on it.’

Jane was polite, but not enthusiastic. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘And I was thinking of having a dinner party,’ Emma went on. ‘I like cooking.’

‘That would be very nice,’ said Jane.

Emma glanced at Miss Bates, who for once seemed to have nothing to say. From a clock on the mantelpiece there came a slow ticking sound.

Emma made an attempt to restart the conversation. ‘I love clocks that sound like clocks,’ she remarked. ‘Tick-tock. That’s what clocks should say, don’t you think? You can believe a clock that goes tick-tock.’

It was a desperate remark, and would normally have drawn comment from Miss Bates, in whose mind it would certainly have triggered some clock association. But this time, she simply nodded her agreement.

The silence stretched out. Then Jane said, ‘My aunt says you went to uni in Bath.’

Emma was relieved. She was intrigued by Jane and wanted to talk to her, but there was something about her that made it difficult. Was it aloofness? Superiority? Now, at least there was something to talk about. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I studied design.’

Jane nodded. ‘That’s what I heard. It sounds … sounds interesting.’

‘Oh, it was,’ said Emma. ‘We did all sorts of things. Architectural history, for instance.’

‘Fascinating.’

‘It was.’

Emma waited. Then she said, ‘Do you know Bath?’

‘I went there once,’ she said. ‘I was in a choir. We sang early music. Byrd, Tallis, that sort of thing. We gave a concert in Bath once. Then we went on to Wells and sang in the cathedral there.’

‘I love Wells. I love … I love the …’ She tried to think what it was about Wells that she loved, but it was difficult to be specific. She loved it, she thought, because it was English.

Jane was less enthusiastic. ‘Yes, there is something special about it, I suppose.’

Miss Bates put down her cup and saucer. ‘More tea, Miss Woodhouse?’

Emma had drunk only half her cup. She thought that milk was slightly off, and she was not sure that she could face the rest. It occurred to her that perhaps Miss Bates might not have a fridge, or that it had broken down and they did not have the money to repair it. She declined the offer of more tea.

‘This choir?’ she said.

‘It was nothing special. There were one or two people in it who had really good voices, but I wasn’t one of them, I’m afraid.’

Miss Bates now found her voice. ‘But you were, Jane, you were. Mr Whitehead always said that you had a lovely voice. He always said that, and he should know.’

‘He was being kind,’ said Jane. ‘I really wasn’t all that good.’

‘Was it a church choir?’ asked Emma.

Jane shook her head, but did not expand, at least at first. Then, after a minute or so, she said, ‘It was when I was at university.’

Emma had assumed that Jane had not been to university; Miss Bates had said that she had not bothered with examinations because she was above them, and one did not get to university without at least some qualifications.

‘I didn’t realise …’ she began, and then tailed off.

Jane looked at her politely. ‘Realise what?’

‘I thought that you didn’t go to university.’

‘But I did,’ said Jane. ‘Not that it’s all that important. I know lots of people who never went to university and who have done just fine afterwards.’

‘Me, for instance,’ said Miss Bates.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Jane.

Emma looked at Miss Bates. She had not done just fine. She had done nothing, as far she could work out, and then she had made matters worse by losing all her money on the insurance market. How could she possibly think that she had done well? She shifted her gaze to Jane. ‘Where were you?’ asked Emma. She imagined that the answer would be some safe, provincial place: Nottingham, perhaps, or even Durham, at a pinch.

‘Not far from here,’ said Jane.

Jane seemed unwilling to expand, and again Emma found that the other young woman’s reticence only served to enflame her curiosity. Proximity suggested that it was the University of East Anglia in Norwich, or possibly the University of Essex at Colchester, which was a little further away.

‘Norwich?’ she asked. ‘I knew quite a few people who went there.’

‘No,’ said Jane. ‘Not Norwich.’

When Emma realised that Jane was not going to offer any further information, she decided to be direct. There was no reason for Jane to be so coy, she thought; it was frustrating for others – surely she understood that.

‘Where then?’ she said.

‘Cambridge,’ said Jane.

Emma had not expected this, and it took her a moment or two to absorb the information. She frowned. You had to have A levels to get into Cambridge – and impressive ones at that; yet Jane, according to Miss Bates, had been above all that.

‘I was under the impression you needed As to get into Cambridge,’ she said.

Jane looked down at the floor. ‘Yes, you generally do.’

Miss Bates was smiling benignly. Emma now turned to her. ‘I thought you said that Jane didn’t take any A levels.’

Miss Bates did not stop smiling. ‘Did I really? Oh, I do get things wrong. I’m sure that Jane got whatever it was she needed for a place at Cambridge – although heaven knows what that is. I thought they took you if you were good at rowing or something like that, but that might just apply to the young men. I suppose they have to make sure that you’ve got plenty of brains as well. It’s all very well knowing how to row, but you must have some idea where to row to. It would be no good at all having a whole lot of nice young men rowing around in circles, would it?’

Emma turned back to Jane. ‘What did you study?’ she asked.

‘Music,’ she said. ‘Mostly the history of music, but quite a bit of theory too.’

‘Bach, and people like that,’ interjected Miss Bates. ‘Jane knows an awful lot about Bach. All I know is that there were several Bachs. There was only one Mozart, of course, but there were any number of Bachs. I’m not sure which one was which; they all sound much the same to me.’

Emma ignored all this. ‘Which college were you at?’ she asked.

‘St John’s.’

Emma swallowed. The University of Bath was below Cambridge in the pecking order of universities, and this disclosure that Jane had been at St John’s, studying Bach and singing in a choir, made her feel that her own experience of the department of design at the University of Bath was distinctly inferior. She was not accustomed to intellectual inferiority, and she felt it keenly. Of course it occurred to her that Jane might not have got to Cambridge solely on the basis of examination results; she was an orphan, and that would count for a lot in the admission process. Cambridge colleges liked orphans, she imagined: there were plenty of meritorious people who had the misfortune to have two parents, but lacking the cachet of being an orphan they could hardly expect to find a place at Cambridge. Perhaps, she thought, there were people who disposed of their parents purely in order to obtain a place at a prestigious university; that was going a bit far, she told herself, and Jane, so thoroughly wholesome-looking in her white linen blouse, would hardly have gone to those lengths to become an orphan and thereby get into St John’s. No, Jane would certainly not have a past like that, although … She hesitated. Somebody had given her a piano – an expensive one at that – and that could only mean that she had a secret; people who received pianos as gifts almost always had something to hide. Somewhere there was a secret, and she decided at that moment that she would find it out. It might take some time, but Jane Fairfax was there for three months and that, surely, was quite enough time to discover the truth, whatever that should turn out to be.