Emma: A Modern Retelling

18

For Emma, the fine summer weather meant the opportunity for a picnic. She had raised this possibility with Mr Woodhouse, who had listened attentively to her suggestion before he asked, in a deliberate and considered way, ‘Why?’

Emma’s reply was equally considered. ‘Because a picnic is what one has in fine weather. Ask anybody, “What do you do on a fine day?” and they will reply, “Why, we picnic, of course.” That’s why I suggested it.’

The sarcasm with which Emma had clothed her response was lost on Mr Woodhouse. ‘But why, Emma? Why? It’s not enough, my dear, to say that’s what people do. People do all sorts of things. The real question is why do it? You can eat the same food – in fact, rather better food – in your own dining room. You don’t get ants in your own dining room. You aren’t subject to the vagaries of the weather.’

‘The weather is absolutely settled,’ interrupted Emma. ‘Look at the sky.’

‘The sky tells us very little, Emma. The isobaric charts reveal the real truth. And I can tell you that they show things brewing up over Iceland. They’ll be having no picnics over in Iceland, I can assure you.’

Emma sighed. There was no point in arguing with her father, who would always produce some good reason not to do anything. The only way to proceed was to proceed.

‘Well, it’s a great pity,’ she said, ‘but I’ve already invited people. We’re committed.’

It was not a lie in the true sense of the word. Emma had invited Harriet – that was true – but she had not invited anybody else. The issue then was whether having invited one person justified the claim to have invited ‘people’. Emma considered this, but only briefly, and only after she had made the statement. She decided that the grammatical distinction between the singular and the plural was now so weak – they being used as a third person singular pronoun, for instance – that it was quite acceptable to refer to a person as people. That disposed of that; what she had said was true.

Mr Woodhouse looked peeved, but only momentarily. His anxieties could shift very quickly, and what had been an overwhelming problem could within minutes, indeed within seconds, become no more than the background to a greater, more pressing issue.

‘But what will we do about the sandwiches?’ he asked. ‘They become limp and soggy so quickly. Have you thought about that yet, Emma? Have you discussed it with Mrs Firhill?’

‘We don’t have to eat sandwiches, Pops,’ said Emma. ‘There are plenty of other things to eat on a picnic. There are those rather nice pork pies – Melton Mowbray pies. People love those on a picnic.’

This had the desired effect, firmly shifting the conversation to dietary matters and away from picnic issues.

Mr Woodhouse shook his head. ‘Those pies,’ he said gravely, ‘are full of salt. And pork.’

‘Well, they are pork pies …’

‘I know that you like bacon, Emma, but I wish you would eat less of it. I was reading the other day that each slice of bacon you eat takes several minutes off your life.’

‘And years off a pig’s life,’ interjected Emma.

Mr Woodhouse frowned. ‘I don’t see what pigs’ lives have got to do with it.’

Emma did not answer for a while. Then she said, ‘I shall make all the plans. You just attend – that’s all you have to do. You come along and be your usual, cheerful self. That’s what people will want.’

‘Who’s coming?’

Emma composed a quick mental list. ‘The usual suspects,’ she said. ‘The Weston-Taylors, Frank Churchill, la veuve Bates, Miss Bates (yawn), Jane Fairfax (iceberg), George Knightley, Mr Perry (crank) – if you’d like him to come …’

‘Yes, we must invite him,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘He’s very good on wild plants. He knows all their healing properties and he can identify any mushrooms we find.’

‘That will be very useful,’ said Emma. ‘And then there’s Harriet Smith and Mrs Goddard.’

She watched her father’s reaction. ‘Mrs Goddard?’ he said. ‘Do you think she’ll come?’

‘I think she enjoyed that dinner party, and I like her.’ She paused. ‘You like her too, don’t you?’

He looked away. ‘Yes, I like her. She’s … she’s unusual, isn’t she? We don’t get many people like that around here.’

Emma waited for more, but he fell silent. ‘Did you know her quite well?’ she asked.

‘Reasonably well.’

The subject of Mrs Goddard, she judged, was now closed.

Mr Woodhouse suddenly thought of somebody else. ‘What about Philip Elton?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think so. And anyway, I think he’s away.’

Mr Woodhouse shook his head. ‘He was. He’s back now. And I would like to have him there, Emma – I’d like that very much.’

Emma was thinking of the complications of having Philip: she did not want Harriet to be reminded of her attempt at matchmaking, and she did not want to run the risk that the true nature of affairs be revealed. She also felt something to which she was unaccustomed and that was largely unexpected: a niggling sense of guilt. She had given him those large gins and he had subsequently lost his licence and been publicly humiliated. Did he blame her for that?

Mr Woodhouse now explained why he was so keen for Philip to be invited. ‘I feel sorry for that poor man,’ he said. ‘He may not be to everyone’s taste – I’ll admit that I find him a bit on the pompous side – but his heart’s surely in the right place. When Sid had his prostate operation he went to see him in the hospital and offered to pick him up when they discharged him. Sid said that the other patients in his ward didn’t receive any visits from their vicars. They were obviously quite indifferent to their poor parishioners’ prostates.’

‘That’s his job,’ said Emma.

‘Yes, it may be, but remember that he doesn’t get paid for it. He does it out of the goodness of his heart.’

Emma said nothing.

‘And then we have to remember that on the evening in question – the evening when he went into the ditch – he had been at our house, Emma. He had been under our roof. I really don’t know how it happened, and yet poor Philip was quite a bit over the limit when they tested him. How can that be, I wonder?’

Emma looked out of the window.

‘Did you notice what he had beforehand?’ asked Mr Woodhouse. ‘You gave him a drink when we were in the drawing room. What did he have?’

‘He had gin,’ muttered Emma.

‘Just one?’

‘One glass,’ said Emma. ‘I gave it to him. He didn’t get a refill.’

Mr Woodhouse shook his head. ‘Most puzzling,’ he said. ‘But, be that as it may, there is a more important consideration here. The fact of the matter is that Philip has been publicly humiliated. He has been shamed. He owned up – he pled guilty, you know – and he was then punished. We must assume that he is contrite, and in those circumstances it is for us to show that he is not going to be ostracised.’

Emma listened. ‘Maybe I …’ she began, but did not finish.

‘When somebody does wrong, Emma, we must remember that that person is still a human being like the rest of us. We must not rush to throw the first stone. We must remind ourselves that all of us do wrong from time to time, unless we’re saints, which we aren’t.’

‘And neither were half the saints themselves,’ interjected Emma.

‘Possibly. But we mustn’t join the mob of witch-hunters who love to expose and shame people. We mustn’t do that. We must show that Philip has paid for what he did and is not going to be spurned. We need to take the lead here.’

He seemed to be waiting for a response. ‘All right,’ said Emma.

‘And I believe that he has a girlfriend in tow,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘Somebody he met in London. I’m sure she’s very nice. She should be invited too.’

That was welcome news. That Philip had a new girlfriend meant he would not embarrass Emma with any further declarations. So Emma said, ‘Good. It’s really nice to hear that he’s found somebody – at last.’

It was Mr Woodhouse’s picnic now. ‘And I think we should get in touch with Isabella and get her and John and all those children of hers along. It will be good for them to get out of London and get some country air. All those people in London breathing the air in and out; just think of it, Emma. Just think of all that breathing going on in London – it’s a wonder there’s any air left for the rest of us.’

Nobody turned down the invitation. Some of those invited offered to help: Harriet said that she was happy to do anything that Emma felt needed to be done, and Mrs Goddard said that she would bring two, possibly three, cakes that she would bake specially for the occasion. This offer was made by Mrs Goddard directly to Mr Woodhouse, whom she telephoned after she had received the invitation, rather than through Harriet, who would have discouraged it. And it was accepted by Mr Woodhouse, rather than by Emma, who would have heeded Harriet’s warning and declined it.

Miss Bates was particularly excited. ‘My goodness me,’ she enthused, ‘a picnic! You know, I was just thinking the other day: when did I last go on a picnic? And do you know, I couldn’t remember, although it came back to me a little bit later when I was listening to Jane playing an arrangement of Verdi. And I remembered that it was many years ago in Tuscany, when I went there with a friend who was recovering from an operation on her arm, I think it was – or it might have been her hand. I think she had carpal-tunnel syndrome and she had to have surgery more than once; once on the left hand and then again on the right hand, or perhaps it was twice on the left hand: you know, I really can’t for the life of me remember which it was. She obviously couldn’t carry the picnic basket and so I did that, and carried the rug too, and then I slipped – we were on a path that led down into a rather pleasant little gorge – and I tumbled over and over and ended up in an olive grove. I was quite unhurt but my friend was distraught. I remember that quite well now.’

Even Mrs Bates, who had been included in the invitation, appeared to be excited about it: sufficiently so for her to say, ‘Picnic.’

‘There!’ said Miss Bates. ‘Mother’s thinking about picnics. That’s far better than sitting there brooding about Lloyd’s.’

This was a mistake. At the mention of Lloyd’s, Mrs Bates’s brow furrowed and she retreated once again into silence.

Isabella and John Knightley also responded warmly to the invitation, and arrived from London in their Volvo estate, accompanied by their four children, on the day before the picnic was due to take place. They were given the guest wing at Hartfield, where there were corridors down which the children could run without unduly disturbing Mr Woodhouse in his study or Mrs Firhill in her kitchen. The children had been told of the picnic, and had talked of little else since they left London. Would there be cake? Would there be somewhere to swim? What were the chances of meeting a bull while crossing a field, and would Daddy be prepared to draw the bull away with his coat while they climbed over a stile to safety?

‘Whatever you do,’ Isabella warned them, ‘do not mention bulls to your grandfather. Just don’t.’

She was right about that. Although Mr Woodhouse had now become actively involved in the planning of the picnic and was keen for it to take place, his concern had grown over the risks that he felt were an inevitable concomitant of the entire adventure. Foremost among these was the possibility of rain.

‘If it rains,’ he said, ‘and I’m afraid we must accept this as a near certainty, then we shall have to have cover for everybody.’

‘We could always just go back to the cars and come home,’ suggested Emma. ‘That’s the obvious thing to do.’

He shook his head. ‘And what about that journey from the picnic site to the cars? What about that, Emma? That could take a good fifteen minutes; I’ve measured it on the Ordnance Survey map. And during those fifteen minutes we could all get soaked to the skin.’

‘That won’t be the end of the world,’ said Emma. ‘It’s only rain, after all.’

‘Oh, Emma,’ he said, ‘you’re thinking of yourself. You and Isabella and Harriet and that Frank Churchill will all be fine because you’re young and healthy. But what about poor Mrs Bates? She’s in no position to survive a soaking and would be a candidate for pneumonia. And if she went down with pneumonia, we could well lose her, and what a tragedy that would be.’

‘Mrs Bates has to die sometime,’ said Emma. ‘I don’t want anybody to become ill, but surely some things are inevitable.’

‘You heartless girl!’ chided Mr Woodhouse.

She tried to defend herself. ‘But I’m not being heartless. I’m merely saying that we can’t all live forever, and I, for one, don’t want to. Who wants to end up in a hospital bed, unable to do anything for yourself, and stuck full of tubes? What for? For more days and months of lying in bed, feeling miserable. Far better, surely, to go on a picnic and—’

‘Enough!’ shouted Mr Woodhouse.

‘I’m only trying to—’

‘No, I shall not hear any more of your cruel views. Enough! Your problem, Emma, is that you can’t see it from the point of view of those who are old and frightened and unable to speak because of what happened at Lloyd’s.’

They left it at that, and Mr Woodhouse in due course placed a large order for plastic ponchos – one for each guest – that could easily be carried and unfolded in the event of rain. It was, he thought, his gesture against the whole pro-euthanasia movement that talked so glibly of choice without realising the fire with which one played when tinkering with fragile taboos against killing others. Yes, he thought, Mrs Bates’s life did not seem to amount to much, but to her it was all she had.

The spot they had chosen for the picnic was no more than three miles from Hartfield, on land owned by George Knightley. Donwell Abbey had once been one of the largest estates in that part of England but had been considerably reduced by the enthusiasm of George’s great-grandfather for risky investments. Yet even after the sale of several parcels of land in the 1920s and again in the 1950s, the home farm remained, and this was by far the largest holding in the area. It was at one end of this, where a gentle meadow was bounded by slightly rising ground, that the picnic was to take place. This rising ground was wooded, largely with oak, and this would provide a place for Isabella’s four children to play games of concealment and pursuit, and for such adults as wished to do so to take a break from the main picnic site.

Those who had cars offered lifts to those who had none, or whose licence had been suspended. Miss Bates and her mother travelled with George Knightley in his estate car, while Jane Fairfax, Philip, and his new girlfriend were driven by Sid in his old Land Rover. Emma had invited Harriet to accompany her in the Mini Cooper, while Mrs Goddard, along with James Weston and Miss Taylor, joined Mr Woodhouse in his ancient Lea-Francis, which he had taken out of its garage for the occasion. Frank Churchill, who said he was keen on getting some exercise, rode there by bicycle, and arrived several minutes before anybody else.

Sid had been put in charge of spreading the picnic rugs on the ground and unpacking the hampers. By the time that everybody was assembled, a fine lunch had been laid out – enough to feed twice the numbers present, as Mrs Firhill always over-catered.

‘We shall never get through all of this,’ observed Emma. ‘Look at all those sausages and chicken drumsticks.’

‘You never can tell,’ said Harriet. ‘Men eat an awful lot, you know. They have such appetites.’

Emma gritted her teeth. Harriet said such stupid things: Men eat an awful lot. Of course they did. Men did all sorts of … she searched around for a suitable adjective … such gross things. She looked up at the sky. She was not sure that she could face an entire afternoon of Harriet’s company, and she would have to make sure that she created a buffer zone between herself and her friend by placing Harriet firmly next to people who would keep her busy. Not Philip, of course, nor Frank Churchill. Perhaps Harriet could sit between James and Miss Taylor – a safe place to be where the conversation would move along nicely without ever leading to anything untoward.

She clapped her hands to attract everybody’s attention. The buzz of conversation faded. ‘Everybody should sit down,’ she said. ‘Find a place and then we can start with smoked salmon. As you’ll see, there is bags and bags of it, so don’t hold back.’

They sat down. Emma made sure that she had Frank Churchill on one side of her and Isabella on the other. If Frank chose to flirt with her again – as there was every chance he would do – then she would have the satisfaction of having her older sister witness her receiving the attentions of such a handsome young man. Isabella had always tended to condescend to her slightly, and it would do her good, thought Emma, to see that men like Frank thought her worth flirting with.

She smiled at Frank, and she was encouraged when he returned the smile. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what have you been up to?’

‘Planning this,’ said Emma. ‘And you?’

He shrugged. ‘Chilling,’ he said. ‘Talking to the old man. Nothing much.’

She watched him as he spoke. She noticed something that she had not seen before: a small cleft in the middle of his chin, perfectly placed. Harriet had said something about that, she remembered, but she had ignored it because it was only something that Harriet said.

They ate smoked salmon in silence, although it seemed to Emma that they were communicating fully through their eyes. She reached for a bottle of white wine that was standing, in its frozen sleeve, beside a plate of sandwiches. ‘Can I pour you some?’

He nodded, passing her two plastic glasses.

As she poured, she noticed that the plastic sleeve, inflated like the waistcoat of a tiny Michelin man, completely obscured all evidence of the wine’s origins. ‘You must know a bit about wine,’ she said, ‘living on a wine estate.’

‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

She finished pouring. ‘All right. Tell me what this is.’

Frank held up his glass and peered at the contents. The liquid, the colour of straw, refracted the rays of the sun. He lowered the glass to his nose and sniffed at it appreciatively before taking a first sip.

‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘Region, type of grape, or estate?’

‘Could you give me all three?’ asked Emma. ‘Or maybe just two. I’ll settle for region and grape.’

He tasted the wine again. ‘It’s definitely Italian,’ he said. ‘Veneto maybe. Yes, I think I’ll say Veneto and Chardonnay.’

After he had delivered his verdict, he reached for the bottle, and without taking off the sleeve, he poured himself another glass.

‘It’s very nice,’ said Emma. ‘I like it.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Frank. ‘I wouldn’t rate it that highly. But it’s all right for a picnic.’

‘Where did you learn all this?’ asked Emma.

‘At home, mostly. But I’ve been on courses. I blended our last vintage on the estate.’

‘That must be tricky,’ said Emma.

‘You have to know what you’re doing,’ replied Frank. ‘But let’s take a look. Pass me the bottle and I’ll take the sleeve off. All will be revealed. I think I’m right, but we’ll just confirm it.’

Emma reached for the bottle and passed it over the Frank, who began to slip off the sleeve. He stopped halfway and stared at Emma.

‘Is this your idea of a joke?’

Emma had no idea what he was talking about.

‘Come on,’ said Frank. ‘Tell me: is this your idea?’

She was at a complete loss. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

He gestured towards the bottle. ‘That’s our wine. You knew it all along and you tried to show me up.’

She snatched the bottle from him and slipped the sleeve off completely. Churchill’s Ground, Western Australian Riesling. She gasped. ‘Is that your …’

‘Of course it’s us,’ snapped Frank. ‘And are you satisfied now? Satisfied that you’ve shown that I can’t even identify my own wine?’

‘I didn’t know,’ hissed Emma; she did not want anybody to hear their argument. ‘I didn’t choose the wine. Mr Firhill does that – or my father. I had no idea.’

She felt dismayed that the picnic should have started with a row with Frank Churchill. This was not what she had intended; in fact, it was the opposite of what she had anticipated. There would be no flirting now.

Frank was not to be placated. Red with embarrassment, he looked at Emma with undisguised hostility. Then, picking up his plate, he rose to his feet and moved to a neighbouring picnic rug. Emma looked about her in horror. Isabella had been watching, and so, she thought, had George. She realised that they would not have misunderstood the situation, and that the looks of admiration or envy that she had expected were now replaced with looks of pity.

Isabella leaned over towards her. ‘Darling, what on earth did you say to Frankie-boy?’

Emma wanted to cry, but was determined not to. This was Frank’s fault; he was the one who had been rude; he was the one who had taken offence over something that she certainly had not planned. She had had nothing to do with the choice of wine for the picnic; and if Frank could not even identify his own wine, then surely he was the one who should be smarting over his pretentious claim of expertise.

‘He tried to identify this wine,’ she said to Isabella. ‘He got it wrong and then he flounced off.’

Isabella commiserated. ‘Men are so fragile,’ she said. ‘It often comes as a surprise to us girls to discover just how sensitive they are. But they are.’

‘I don’t care about him,’ snorted Emma. ‘He’s seriously pleased with himself.’

‘Good-looking men often are,’ said Isabella. ‘It’s because we let them be like that.’ She reached out and touched her sister’s shoulder. ‘Look, don’t worry about that. Don’t let a little tiff spoil your picnic.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Good for you. Now let’s go and check up on the children. Last seen, they were heading for those woods. John was meant to be keeping an eye on them, but he often forgets.’

While the two sisters made their way from the picnic site to the edge of the woods, Mr Woodhouse, James, and Miss Taylor had been joined on their rug by Philip and his new friend, Hazel. Philip seemed to be in a light-hearted mood, and was wearing a wide-brimmed Panama hat at a jaunty angle; nobody who was unaware of his recent difficulties would have been able to guess that this was a man who had stood in court and been stripped of his driving licence. Hazel was dressed in tightly fitting jeans and a low-cut black top. With a cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, she took alternative sips and puffs; nobody who was unaware of who Philip was would have imagined that this was the girlfriend of a (non-stipendiary) vicar, let alone a Byzantine historian.

‘Do you know Norfolk, Hazel?’ asked Miss Taylor.

‘Can’t say I do,’ said Hazel. ‘Know where it is – yes, vaguely. It’s here, isn’t it? More than that, no chance. Hardly get out of London most of the time, though now that …’ She glanced at Philip, who smiled at her benignly.

‘I hear you’re a singer,’ said Miss Taylor.

‘Quite well known,’ said Philip. ‘Hazel has sung on television. More than once.’

Miss Taylor raised an eyebrow. ‘On television?’

‘Yes,’ said Hazel. ‘I was on a show called Look at Me!’

‘I’m afraid I didn’t,’ said Miss Taylor.

‘It’s a well-known talent show,’ explained Philip. ‘Hazel was very successful. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of her.’

‘It’s for a slightly younger age group,’ said Hazel. ‘No offence, of course.’

Miss Taylor glanced at James, who merely closed his eyes, briefly, and then reopened them. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘So what do you sing?’

Hazel shrugged. ‘How long’s a piece of string?’ she replied.

‘I haven’t heard that one,’ said Mr Woodhouse.

Philip smiled. ‘She means that she sings all sorts of things. But she’s best known for …’

Hazel took over. Blowing the smoke from her cigarette up into the air she said, ‘Piff.’

Mr Woodhouse, James, and Miss Taylor all looked puzzled.

‘What?’ asked James.

‘Piff.’

Philip waved his right hand airily. It was the hand in which he was holding his glass; a small amount of wine slopped out. ‘Edith Piaf,’ he explained. ‘You know – the little sparrow.’

‘Oh,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘I see what you mean.’

‘It’s very atmospheric,’ said James. ‘When I hear Piaf I can almost smell the Gauloises. Cobbled streets. The prospect of freshly baked bread.’

There was more to be said about Piaf, and Mr Woodhouse was preparing to say it when they were interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Goddard, who had come over from one of the other rugs bearing a large open cake tin.

‘This is a nice little party,’ she said. ‘How about a bit of my special cake? I baked it just for today and it’s getting very good reviews over there.’ She nodded in the direction of the rug she had just left, where Miss Bates could be seen holding forth while those seated around her, having finished their cake, looked up at the sky in a somewhat dreamy manner.

They each helped themselves as the cake tin was passed round. ‘Very good,’ said Mr Woodhouse, as he bit into his slice. ‘You’re a marvel, Goddy.’

James smiled at the nickname. He had been called Westy when he was at school, but fortunately it had not stuck. He far preferred to be James Weston.

Isabella and Emma found the children just inside the wood. They had stumbled upon a fallen oak that had been hollowed at its base by rot and the action of the weather. Round this upturned oak they had created a small feast of their own, having brought cup cakes and sandwiches over from the main picnic. The adults checked that all was well and then returned to the main body of the gathering.

When they reached the picnic site they found that people had rearranged themselves. George had now joined the group sitting on the same rug as Miss Bates, while Frank was sitting with Jane and her grandmother. Emma sat down next to George, who cleared a space for her.

‘It’s all going very well,’ he said. ‘I know you did a lot of work to arrange this – well done, Emma.’

‘The weather has held,’ said Emma. ‘That was my greatest fear – that it would rain.’

‘Well, it hasn’t rained,’ said George. ‘And look how happy everybody seems.’

Miss Bates had been speaking about music. ‘I’m not sure,’ she continued, ‘what instrument I’d like to play if I played in an orchestra. I think something …’

‘Something loud,’ said Emma. ‘I think you’d be very good, Miss Bates.’

‘Oh, that’s kind of you, Emma. I’m not so sure about that, though. I used to be able to read music quite well, but then I let it slip. I learned rather a lot of music theory – indeed I did Grade Six in music theory many years ago. I never played in an orchestra, even at school, although I once bumped into Benjamin Britten in Aldeburgh. It was when I was very young, just a girl, really, and I was staying with a cousin and we were in the butcher’s shop when Mr Britten came in and asked for a pound of sausages. The butcher gave them to him – just like that – and didn’t make any remark about music or anything of that sort. He just said, “Here you are, Mr Britten.” And Mr Britten said, “Thanks, Tom,” and that was it. I felt quite shaken.’

It was at this point that two people on the rug seemed to doze off at much the same time. One of these was John Knightley and the other was Mr Woodhouse, who had come over from another rug with Mrs Goddard. John had leaned back and rested his head on the sweater that he had been wearing but had taken off as the afternoon got warmer; Mrs Goddard was still seated, but her head dropped forward in somnolence.

‘My brother appears to be asleep,’ said George.

‘And Mrs Goddard too,’ said Miss Bates. ‘It must be the heat.’

‘Or the company,’ muttered Emma.

Her remark was not uttered loudly, but it was heard. Miss Bates, who had been on the point of saying something, was silenced. She stared down at the rug, and brushed at crumbs, real and imaginary. She looked crestfallen. ‘I can perhaps get a bit carried away with a subject,’ she said quietly. ‘I know it is a fault, and I shall try to do something about it. I know that.’

George placed a reassuring hand on Miss Bates’s shoulder. ‘I don’t think Emma was referring to you, Miss Bates,’ he said. ‘It is very clear to me that it was my own failings that she had in mind.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said Miss Bates. ‘Nobody would accuse you of being boring, George. How could they? No, I think this was a gentle reminder to me not to talk too much.’

George rose to his feet. ‘I must stretch my legs,’ he said. ‘There is always a danger of cramp.’ He did not look at Emma, and he seemed to give her a wide berth when he moved off the picnic rug. She looked up at him, hoping to catch his eye, but he would not make eye contact.

Emma said nothing. It had occurred to her that something very significant had happened, although she was not sure exactly what it was. She felt ashamed. At her own picnic she had been humiliated by Frank and now she had, in turn, insulted poor Miss Bates. Nothing good could come of this occasion now, she thought, nothing good at all.

She looked about her. There was no sign of Frank, or of Jane. And where were her father and Mrs Goddard? At this rate, she thought, I shall be left here by myself, surrounded by the detritus of the picnic, covered in shame.