It did not take them long to reach the entrance to St John’s. There was no sign of Frank and Jane in the street, and the crowd had by that stage thinned out. They had paused in front of Heffers, and Emma had looked in through the open front door. Again there was no sign of the couple, and Emma shook her head when Harriet suggested they might have gone downstairs, or possibly upstairs. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I don’t see Frank in a bookshop.’

‘Well, then maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t him.’

‘No,’ said Emma. ‘I don’t think you were wrong.’

‘Well, we don’t have to find them, do we? You said that you wanted to find some shoes. There was an interesting shoe shop back there.’

Emma looked up at the gate of St John’s, at the elaborate stone-carved arms. Suddenly she remembered the conversation she had had with Jane when she had called to inspect the new piano. She had mentioned that she had been at Cambridge – Emma having dragged the admission out of her – and had said that her college was St John’s. Of course; of course that was it: Jane would be showing Frank Churchill her old college.

‘Let’s go in there,’ said Emma.

Harriet was uncertain. ‘Into that college? Are we allowed?’

‘Of course we are,’ said Emma. ‘We pay for these places. It’s taxpayers’ money that keeps them going.’

‘I don’t pay tax,’ muttered Harriet.

‘I do,’ said Emma. ‘Come on.’

There was something happening at the entrance to the chapel in the First Court. A crowd of people was milling about main door of the chapel, and when this door opened, the people surged forward. Emma’s eye was caught by one of these people. ‘Frank,’ she whispered.

‘Where?’

‘Over there. Going into the chapel.’

Harriet could not see him. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, he’s gone inside.’

‘And Jane? Did you see her?’

‘I think so, but I couldn’t tell.’

They crossed the court. Outside the chapel, there was a small noticeboard announcing a special concert by the choristers in aid of an organisation that supported prisoners of conscience. This was the reason for the crowd, most of which had now been admitted to the chapel.

They went inside. A student was at the door, selling tickets. Emma paid for both of them and put the change into a collecting box on the table. The student thanked her. ‘You can sit anywhere,’ she said. ‘It’ll start in about five minutes.’

Some of those admitted to the chapel had not yet sat down, but were walking about looking up at the stained-glass windows. Emma wanted an unobtrusive seat and so she pointed to a pew towards the back. More people were coming in now, and the chapel was filling up.

They sat down.

‘Can you see them?’ whispered Harriet.

Emma scanned the rows of heads, the backs. ‘Yes,’ she whispered back. ‘They’re there. Right towards the front.’

A man emerged from the side and stood in front of a microphone near the choir stalls. He tapped the mouthpiece with a finger to attract attention.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends,’ he began. ‘The choristers of the college have kindly agreed to perform this concert this afternoon because they support the work of our organisation. As you know, we are concerned with prisoners of conscience – people who are detained not because they have committed crimes as we would understand them, but because they have expressed views that challenge those in power. In most cases, this is because they have simply told the truth, or worked for the truth as they see it.

‘I don’t need to tell you about the suffering of these people and about what your support means to them. I’m sure that you are well aware of that. Here, in this beautiful place, this peaceful sanctuary from the wickedness of the world, it may be hard to imagine the suffering of those who are kept apart from others, locked up in conditions intended to break both body and spirit. But that is what they suffer, day after day – day after day. We can turn away from the suffering of others; we can put it out of our minds. We can say that it has nothing to do with us. But that is always wrong, ladies and gentlemen, because the suffering of others is something that does not go away if we simply turn the other way, if we ignore it. It is still there.’

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!