Emma was gazing up at one of the windows and at the effect of the light from the coloured glass. She looked across the aisle; a man had taken a woman’s hand and had squeezed it in unspoken reassurance. The woman turned to him and smiled, in gratitude for the gesture; she wore glasses with thick lenses. Emma thought: She’s just had bad news. Emma looked back up towards the window, and thought, inconsequentially, The properties of glass. She was still staring up at the window when the choir began to sing ‘Many waters cannot quench love’. She closed her eyes. She had forgotten about Frank and Jane. We can turn away from the suffering of others.

She kept her eyes, closed. The choir was silent for a moment before they began their second song. It was about a turtle dove and love: ‘Though I go ten thousand miles, my dear, though I go ten thousand miles’. The song had the familiarity of something heard before and half-remembered. She opened her eyes. Harriet was staring at her.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You seem sad.’

‘I’m not. I’m thinking.’ She paused. ‘I want to go now. Do you mind?’

‘But they’ve only just started.’

‘I know, but I want to go.’

Harriet was not one to argue. They slipped out before the choir began again. Outside, the light seemed far too intense; it had been muted and diffuse in the chapel.

‘That was them,’ said Harriet. ‘That was definitely them.’

‘Yes,’ said Emma. She was no longer interested in Frank and Jane. They did not matter.

‘Now what?’ asked Harriet.

Emma looked at her watch. ‘I don’t feel like doing anything in particular.’

‘We could go back to where we were due to meet the students,’ suggested Harriet. ‘We’ve got over an hour. We could wait.’

‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘We could sit by the river.’

On the way back, Harriet said to Emma, ‘Are you feeling sad?’

Emma wanted to say no, but said yes instead.

‘Why?’ asked Harriet.

Emma shrugged. She could not describe to Harriet what she felt, for she was not at all sure why she should suddenly and unexpectedly feel saddened. It might have been mourning that lay behind it; it might have been sorrow; it might have been regret for what she had done, for what she had failed to do; for wasted time, for arrogance and unkindness; for everything.

In the bus on the way back, the students were conversing rowdily, in Italian, about their experiences in Cambridge.

‘They’re meant to speak English while they’re here,’ said Harriet. ‘But I can’t make them. Mrs God can, though. If she hears them talking Italian she shouts “English!” at them. It gives them a terrible fright.’

Emma stared out of the window. She thought that she did not mind what the students did, or what Mrs God thought about it, or what Harriet said. But then Harriet remarked, ‘I’m going to wear your dress next week.’

Emma was not particularly interested. ‘Good.’

‘I’ve had a very nice invitation,’ Harriet went on. ‘I’m going to Donwell Abbey. I’ve been invited for lunch.’

Emma froze. ‘Donwell? George Knightley’s house?’

‘Yes,’ said Harriet. ‘He’s so nice. He invited me himself. Mrs God is going to take me over – she won’t stay, of course – she’ll come back and collect me later. I’ll wear my new cashmere and the suede ankle boots.’ There was a pause, before she added, ‘The ones you so generously bought me.’

Emma said nothing. Whatever feelings had come over her while contemplating the stained glass at St John’s, this could not be allowed to happen. This had nothing to do with stained glass or light, or the transporting cadences of ‘The Turtle Dove’ as sung by a college choir; this was altogether different; this could not be ignored.

She looked at Harriet, and for a brief moment their eyes met in what Emma decided was perfect understanding.

21

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

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

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

‘Of course I am. I’m fine.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Any photographs of your previous work?’

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

‘Photographs?’

‘Of islands? I can get some for you.’

‘No, of your work – your kitchens.’

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

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

‘Thank you.’

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

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

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