Bert had not intended to speak about what his wife had seen, but now had no alternative. He told Mrs Sid about having seen Harriet Smith with no clothes on, although this time he said nothing about not having seen Emma. Quite reasonably, Mrs Sid concluded that Emma had been naked too. She let out a long low whistle.

‘Shameless!’ she whispered. ‘No clothes!’

‘I’m not saying nothing,’ said Bert. ‘But we can draw our own conclusions.’

Mrs Sid shook her head. ‘I don’t see how Sid will be able to shrug that one off,’ she said. ‘That’ll change his tune.’

In the kitchen, Mrs Firhill laboured over the soup, and then laboured over the main course, the pudding, and the cheese course. Emma appeared a quarter of an hour before the guests were due to arrive, and sampled the soup.

‘That’s really good soup, Mrs Firhill,’ she said brightly. ‘They’ll love that. And what about the venison? Don’t make it too dry. I can’t stand venison when it’s dry.’

‘It’s coming on nicely,’ said Mrs Firhill, tight-lipped.

From the corner of the kitchen, Mr Firhill, peeling off his butler’s gloves, looked sideways at Emma. His glance was intercepted by Mrs Sid, who was cutting slices of stale bread into small squares for croutons. She narrowed her eyes to express shared affront. She was not to know, of course, what Bert was thinking, which is just as well.

Philip Elton was the first to arrive.

‘Oh good,’ said Mr Woodhouse as he looked out of the drawing-room window. ‘Here’s Philip.’

Emma raised an eyebrow. ‘I always thought that one should be at least ten minutes late.’

‘But he is,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘We said seven-thirty, and it’s now seven-forty. Somebody has to arrive first.’

‘Fifteen minutes is better,’ said Emma. ‘Inflation, you know.’

Mr Woodhouse shook a finger in mock reproach. ‘Philip is a man of the cloth, Emma. He may be hungry, for all we know.’

Emma was having none of this. ‘Pah!’ she said. ‘He owns an office block in Ipswich and all those flats in Norwich. And he drives a BMW Something-something. You don’t drive a BMW Something-something if you’re on the bread line.’

Mr Woodhouse had heard of the structural problems in the office block. ‘I hear that he has dampness—’

‘Yes, he’s extremely wet,’ interjected Emma.

‘In his cladding. That is, in the cladding of that office block. The rain gets in behind the façade, you see, and then it doesn’t dry off because it’s behind those prefabricated panels. It’s a serious problem.’

‘He could sell it,’ said Emma. ‘It could be advertised as a building with running water.’

Mr Woodhouse smiled. ‘You don’t like Philip, my dear – I think I can tell that. Try not to show it, will you?’

Bert Firhill had been deputed to open the front door to the guests and to bring them into the drawing room. He had put on the butler’s gloves for the task – he was rather proud of them, even if they did not go with the blazer and tie that he was wearing. Now he brought Philip in and announced him formally, ‘The vicar.’

Philip stepped forward. He looked at Emma as he did so, and so did Bert.

‘It’s very good to see you, Philip,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘This is just a fairly spontaneous little party, but we thought it would be nice to have people over for another dinner. People should try to get back into the habit of giving dinner parties.’

‘They should indeed,’ said Philip. ‘It’s a very civilised practice that seems to be dying out these days. I’m very much in favour of dinner parties.’

‘Yet you don’t give them yourself,’ observed Emma. She said this without apparent malice, in an observational tone of voice. And then she added, ‘As far as I know.’

Mr Woodhouse gave her a warning look. This was not a good start. ‘Philip is very busy, Emma,’ he said. ‘He has his parish work and his …’ He waved a hand in the air. ‘His …’

‘Ph.D.,’ said Philip, smiling at Emma. ‘But you’re right, Emma. I should hold a dinner party, and I shall do so soon. And I hope – I fervently hope – that you will head the list of invitees. You and your father, of course.’

Mr Woodhouse looked slightly flustered. ‘I don’t go out very much,’ he said. ‘So don’t worry about me.’

‘Then please come by yourself,’ said Philip to Emma.

‘Thank you,’ she said. She had just noticed that Bert Firhill was staring at her. Why? ‘I think that’s the bell,’ she said.

‘I don’t think so,’ replied Bert. ‘I didn’t hear it.’

‘Well, if it didn’t ring, then I am sure that it will do so shortly.’ She paused. ‘Would you mind?’

Bert left the room and Emma poured Philip a drink. He had asked for a gin and tonic, and she made sure that it was a good triple measure. She handed this to him, and then made a whisky and soda for her father.

‘It was very good of you to put that sketch through my door the other day,’ said Philip, as he took a sip of his drink. ‘I’m sorry that I wasn’t in when you called. Parish business, you know.’

Emma waited for him to say something further, but he was intent on a second sip of his gin and tonic. ‘I hope you liked it,’ she said. ‘It was just a little sketch – nothing major.’

Philip lowered his glass. ‘But it was wonderful,’ he said. ‘It really was. You captured Harriet’s look just perfectly, if I may give you my opinion. That slightly upturned nose of hers …’

‘Retroussé,’ said Emma.

‘Yes, that retroussé nose. And her hands – they were very delicately painted.’

‘They’re delicate hands,’ said Emma. ‘Hands are often difficult to do.’

‘I’m sure they are. But you did them beautifully.’

‘You’re very kind.’

Philip raised his glass to his lips. Emma noticed that the level was going down rather quickly. At least one gin had been consumed by now; two remained. It would be amusing, she thought, to see him inebriated. He might say something highly entertaining; one never knew. But it would certainly put him in the right frame of mind to make an advance to Harriet; inhibitions never helped romance to flourish.

‘Have you taken the picture to the framers yet?’ she asked.

Philip shook his head. ‘Not yet, no. No. We may have to reconsider that.’

‘Reconsider framing it?’ asked Emma. ‘Why?’

He shifted from foot to foot. He’s embarrassed, thought Emma. Had he perhaps made a rash promise of being able to get good framers to do the job and then found that he could not? Was that the problem?

‘I’m not sure if it’s quite right,’ said Philip, looking nervously at Mr Woodhouse, who was following this conversation although not joining in.

Emma was about to ask why he felt this, but was interrupted by the arrival of the next party of guests. This was James Weston, Miss Taylor, and Frank Churchill. She stepped forward to greet Frank.

‘I last saw you when we were about twelve,’ said Frank. ‘I don’t remember it very well, but I think you ignored me entirely.’

Emma laughed. ‘Children are so rude to one another, aren’t they?’

‘Too true,’ said Frank. ‘But we’re not twelve any more.’

‘I promise I won’t be rude to you,’ said Emma.

‘Good. I couldn’t bear it if you were. We Australians are very sensitive, you know.’

Everybody laughed. It was such a witty thing to say.

‘You and Frank must have a lot of catching up to do,’ Mr Woodhouse remarked to James Weston.

‘Yes,’ said James, looking proudly at his son. ‘We do. But we’ve got Frank for months now, we hope, and so there’ll be plenty of time.’

‘It’s been a very happy few days for all of us,’ said Miss Taylor.

Emma was taking the opportunity to study Frank. Harriet had said to die for, and she was right. She studied his face. It was the regularity of the features that struck her, and again Harriet, for all her naïvety, had been right about that. The classical ideal of beauty required that nose and eyes should bear a certain proportional relationship to the brow, and whatever that proportion was – and perhaps it was that magical Greek figure, phi – then Frank Churchill had it. She looked at his hair: light brown turned golden at the top by exposure to the sun. He was male perfection incarnate: it was as simple as that. And he had a brain, people said. That made a difference. A dumb Adonis would have been tedious; one who thought and could speak in sentences – with subjects and verbs – was infinitely more attractive.

The pre-dinner drinks dispensed, and consumed, Emma led the guests into the dining room.

‘Quite the little hostess,’ whispered Miss Taylor to James.

‘Thanks to you,’ he replied under his voice. ‘Your graduate.’

‘The clay shaped itself,’ said Miss Taylor. ‘I couldn’t have changed Emma had I wanted to. And I fear for her, I’m sorry to say.’

James glanced at Emma, who was taking her seat at the head of the table. ‘You think she’ll come a cropper?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe yes, maybe no. But there’s a danger that she’ll overstep the mark with somebody.’

James nodded. As an old friend of the family he did not want Emma to be hurt; at the same time, though, he felt that a short, sharp shock might be the only way in which she would be brought down a peg or two. That was it, he thought; she needed taking down a peg or two.

With everybody seated, Emma looked down the table at her guests. She had placed Philip next to Harriet Smith, and she noticed, with some satisfaction, that he was already engaging her in what appeared to be animated conversation. The triple gin had done its work, she thought; now all that was needed was a response from Harriet, and the whole scheme would fall into place. How satisfying, she thought; and I have created this. It is all my idea.

Her gaze moved on to Miss Taylor and James. Although they were not seated together, she had seen the look off affection that passed between them as they took their places at the table; such affection as might be felt between a couple who had been together for years, rather than a few weeks; a look of friendship, a look of pleasure, of satisfaction, perhaps, at having found each other. But it was I who found you for each other, she told herself. I am responsible for your happiness.

Then there was Miss Bates. Emma felt a sudden tug of conscience and told herself that she must make more of an effort with Miss Bates; she must give her a bit more of her time. It would be easy enough; all she had to do was to call on her now and then – Miss Bates was always in – and give her a present of those violet creams that she liked so much but obviously could no longer afford. Miss Bates, she assumed, divided her life between the violet-cream days – before she was an unsuccessful Lloyd’s Name – and the days in which violet creams were just a distant memory. Lloyd’s Names had suffered in many different ways – being deprived of violet creams was just one way in which financial disaster brought hardship. Poor Miss Bates – and there she was sitting next to James, who was being so kind to her, as he was to everybody, whatever his or her failings.

But there was no time to take in the rest of the table, as Emma had Frank Churchill on her right, and he had to be talked to.

‘Place of honour,’ said Frank. ‘On the hostess’s right.’

‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘I’ve split up the Randalls party. I assumed that you wouldn’t want to be beside your father and …’ She almost said ‘stepmother’, but remembered that this would be premature. ‘… Miss Taylor,’ she finished.

‘I’m easy,’ said Frank.

She looked at him, noticing his skin, tanned by the sun. She noticed, too, his watch, a Patek Philippe. It was understated and would have been missed by most people. Emma knew just what it was.

‘This must be the first time you’ve met her,’ she said.

‘Yes.’

He was smiling at her in a way that suggested she would get no further information from him. She had the impression, too, that he was thinking about something. It was as if he were weighing her up in some way; and it was disconcerting.

‘She’ll be great for your dad,’ she said. ‘He was so lonely.’

Frank frowned. ‘Was he?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘That’s too bad.’

Mrs Firhill was serving the soup, and was now hovering behind Frank with a tureen. He half turned, and smiled as she ladled the consommé into his plate. Emma thought: He’s paying attention to her. Why? She waited until he turned back. ‘What are you going to do after you leave Randalls?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to travel?’