‘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.’