‘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.’